On the day my parents traveled over a thousand miles to settle the details of our wedding, Caroline’s family didn’t show up. After her phone declined my third call, my mother offered a gentle, strained smile, trying to soothe the quiet panic rising in my chest. “It’s probably just traffic, Ollie. Don’t worry. Your dad and I can wait.” So, we waited. For three hours. In that time, the eager, hopeful light in my parents’ eyes slowly curdled into a quiet, heavy sorrow. My father tugged at the collar of his stiff, cheap suit—bought off a clearance rack in our small Georgia town just for this trip. He couldn’t help himself anymore. His eyes rimmed with red, and his voice trembled when he finally spoke. “Ollie… is it really… does it have to be her?” “We’re country folks. We know we don’t match up to these high-society city people. When they asked you to sign that pre-nuptial agreement and basically live under their thumb, we agreed. We just wanted you to be happy.” “I’m not trying to break you two up, son. I’m just worried. This place is so far from home.” “If you ever get hurt out here, your mother and I… we won’t be close enough to run to you.” My fingernails bit deep into my palms, drawing a sharp, grounding pain. I forced a smile, reached out to steady them, and said, “Dad, Mom, let’s pack up. I don’t want this wedding anymore.” … I brought my parents back to my apartment and got them settled. Only then did Caroline’s call finally come through. The moment I answered, her voice cut in, sharp and defensive. “We’re at the restaurant. Why is the private room empty?” “This is our wedding we’re talking about. Do your parents always show this much disrespect? How could they be late?” I let the silence hang between us for a long, heavy beat before I replied. My voice was entirely flat. “Caroline, my parents and I sat in that room for three hours. You never showed.” “It’s not that my parents don’t care. It’s that you never cared about them to begin with.” A brief, startled pause on her end. Then, her tone softened, shifting into that familiar, reasonable cadence she used whenever she wanted to smooth things over. “Tyler got accepted into his master’s program today with a full fellowship. His parents flew in from upstate to celebrate.” “They don’t know the city, and Tyler is just a student—he couldn’t handle navigating everything on his own. I had to go to the station to help them. You know my family has sponsored Tyler for thirteen years. He’s like a younger brother to me. I couldn’t just leave his parents stranded.” Caroline rarely excused herself, but hearing her reasons now only made the ache in my chest tighten. Yesterday, when my own parents arrived at Penn Station, I was trapped in an all-hands corporate meeting I couldn’t escape. Desperate, I had called Caroline, begging her to pick them up. I still remembered how quickly she had dismissed me: “They’re grown adults, Ollie, not toddlers. They can call an Uber. It’s not like they’re going to vanish into thin air.” “They’ve never left the South,” I had pleaded, my voice tight with anxiety. “They don’t know how to use ride-sharing apps. I had to buy their physical train tickets for them. The station isn’t even far from our place. If you could just drive over…” “I’ve been working all day and I’m exhausted,” she snapped, cutting me off. “Now you’re trying to micromanage my evening. Your parents are your responsibility. Figure it out.” The line went dead before I could say another word. In the end, it was a coworker of mine who drove to the station without a second thought. The woman who was supposed to become my wife had proven less dependable than a casual office friend. The sheer, absurd irony of it hit me, and a dry, humorless laugh escaped my throat. On the other end of the line, Caroline let out a sigh of relief, assuming the sound meant I was softening. “Good, you’re laughing. That means we’re good.” “Ollie, don’t throw these tantrums next time. You know our backgrounds are very different, and my parents were already hesitant about us. I’ll find another date. We’ll have your parents apologize to mine for today, and then we can finally get the wedding details sorted out.” The casual superiority in her voice was breathtaking. It was a command wrapped in a compromise. I gripped the phone tightly, my knuckles turning white. “Don’t worry about it,” I said. “My parents are leaving.” Caroline hummed thoughtfully, entirely unbothered. “Probably for the best. The wedding is going to be done exactly how my parents want it anyway, so your parents wouldn’t really have much to contribute.” In the background, Tyler’s bright, youthful voice drifted through the receiver. “Care! My parents ordered the food. It looks amazing—thanks for treating us. Come inside and eat!” “Coming!” Caroline called out. Then, with the practiced ease of someone who had done it a thousand times, she hung up on me. In the living room, my mother walked over, her movements hesitant and careful. She wrapped her warm, calloused hands around mine. “Ollie,” she said softly, her eyes filled with gentle concern. “Your father and I are fine. Don’t say things you’ll regret just because you’re angry on our behalf.” “As long as that girl treats you right, that’s all that matters. We’ll stay for the ceremony and head straight back. We won’t get in your way.” A lump caught in my throat. I turned, gently squeezing her hands. “Mom, the firm just opened a new branch back home. My transfer request was approved this morning.” “In three days, I’m going back to Georgia with you.” My mother’s eyes widened, a sudden, joyful hope lighting up her tired face. “Really? You’re coming home?” I managed a small, genuine smile. “Really. It’s a done deal.” My parents immediately set to work, quietly packing up the things they had brought—hand-stitched quilts, jars of homemade preserves, gifts they had hoped to give us for our new life. Now, they were packing them away to take right back. Caroline didn’t come home until well past midnight. I was drifting off when I felt her arms wrap around me from behind, her perfume thick and cloying in the quiet room. “Hey,” she murmured, her voice sleepy. “Why didn’t you wait up for me tonight?” I rolled over, pulling myself out of her embrace. “I figured you’d want to spend the night celebrating with Tyler. After all, he’s just a student. He clearly needs you.” The bedroom light clicked on instantly, the sudden, harsh glare stabbing at my eyes. Caroline sat up, throwing the covers aside, her face tight with irritation. “Ollie, do you have to be so incredibly passive-aggressive?” “I’ve explained this to you a million times. Tyler is like a brother to me. There is absolutely nothing going on between us.” Without a word, I unlocked my phone and held up the screen, showing her the post Tyler had uploaded to Instagram an hour ago. It was a photo taken in the exclusive private dining room I had spent a week pulling favors to reserve. Caroline’s parents and Tyler’s parents sat side-by-side, looking like one big, happy family. In the frame, Caroline was leaning in, peeling a shrimp for Tyler, while his hand hovered near her cheek, brushing away a stray lock of hair. They were so close their shoulders overlapped. The caption read: The parents finally met! The gorgeous woman who sponsored my dreams for years is finally going to be my little wife! I stared at her over the glow of the screen. “You really know how to maximize resources, don’t you? I spent weeks scouting locations and planning a menu, only for you to turn it into your own family dinner.” Caroline’s expression flickered, a trace of unease crossing her features before she frowned. “I didn’t know he posted that. I’ll call him right now and tell him to take it down.” “Besides, Tyler probably just heard we were planning our wedding and got excited. He was just playing around. He’s a kid, Ollie. He doesn’t understand how things look. You’re the older one here. Can’t you just be the bigger person instead of keeping score over every little thing?” I let out a soft, tired laugh. “A twenty-three-year-old kid? Why don’t you just buy him a stroller and call him a toddler?” Caroline ran a frustrated hand through her hair, her patience wearing thin. “We are getting married in a few weeks, and I refuse to have this fight again.” “I’m sleeping in the study tonight. When you’re ready to stop acting like a child, let me know.” The heavy oak door slammed shut behind her, the force of it rattling the frames on the wall. A moment later, I heard my parents’ quiet, anxious footsteps in the hallway. I went out to reassure them, telling them everything was fine and coaxing them back to bed. The next morning, I woke up early. As expected, my parents were already in the kitchen, a modest breakfast laid out on the table. At the center sat a small jar of pickled okra—something my mother had put up herself, knowing it was my favorite since childhood. Caroline walked out of the study, her face pale and drawn. My parents hesitated, but my mother still offered a warm, hopeful smile, gesturing to the table. “Good morning, Caroline. Come eat. We made plenty.” Caroline stopped in her tracks. Her brow furrowed instantly. “What are you guys still doing here?” Her eyes drifted to the jar of pickled okra, and she visibly winced, covering her nose with her sleeve. “And what is that awful smell? The whole apartment reeks of vinegar and garlic.” “This is Manhattan, not some backwoods trailer park. Have some decency and stop bringing your country garbage into my home.” The words hung in the air, heavy and cruel. My parents froze, looking utterly small and humiliated, their hands hovering in midair. My mother scrambled frantically to pull the jar away, her voice trembling with panic. “I-I’m so sorry, Caroline. Ollie loved these when he was little, so I just thought… I didn’t think. I’ll put them away right now. Please don’t be angry…” In her haste, her hand slipped. The glass jar slid off the table, shattering against the hardwood floor. My mother flinched, her shoulders hunching as she stole a terrified look at Caroline, completely frozen. My father, silent and weathered, slowly bent his stiff, aching back to pick up the broken glass. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my chest, hot and suffocating. Back in Georgia, my parents held their heads high. When neighbors praised my achievements, my father would beam with quiet pride, always humble but standing tall. But ever since I fell in love with Caroline, they had shrunk. They had spent years walking on eggshells, terrified of doing or saying the wrong thing. They refused the money I tried to send home, telling me to save it to buy nice things for Caroline’s family so they wouldn’t look down on me. During holidays, they wouldn’t let me bring gifts home; instead, they packed heavy crates of Southern preserves for me to carry back to her parents. Even yesterday, after being stood up for three hours, they hadn’t uttered a single word of complaint, solely terrified that their anger might make my life harder. I walked over, gently but firmly pulling my father up, my voice thick with unshed tears. “Dad, Mom, sit down and eat. I’ll clean this up.” “And don’t hide the okra. I like it.” They tried to protest, but I gently pressed them back into their chairs. Caroline watched me, her expression hardening before she offered a defensive, muttered explanation. “I didn’t mean it like that. I have allergies, Ollie. You know how sensitive my nose is to strong smells.” I didn’t answer. I simply swept up the broken glass, threw it in the trash, and wiped down the floor in silence. Caroline hovered nearby, watching me, her mouth opening and closing as if she wanted to say something, but I refused to give her my eyes. After breakfast, I planned to take my parents to see some of the city, but my phone rang. A critical issue had cropped up with the software deployment I was managing, and I had to go into the office immediately. Caroline stepped forward, her tone surprisingly soft. “Go handle your project. I’ll take your parents out. I don’t have much going on at the office today anyway.” I looked at her, searching her face. She looked away, a rare touch of awkwardness in her posture. “Look, I’m sorry about earlier. I was still annoyed about last night.” “Once we’re married, your parents are my parents. I’ll take good care of them. I promise.” Knowing my parents were leaving in three days and deserved to see some of the city, I finally nodded. By the time the deployment was resolved, the moon was high in the night sky. I was about to call my mother to check on them when my phone began to vibrate. I picked up, and my mother’s frantic, weeping voice filled the line. “Ollie… Ollie, you need to get to the hospital… Your father… he’s hurt, he’s unconscious…” A cold dread seized my chest. My legs nearly gave out as I rushed out of the office. When I arrived at the emergency room, I found my mother huddled on a plastic chair in the hallway, weeping silently. I ran to her side and saw my father lying on a gurney nearby, a bloody bandage wrapped around his head. The wound was still actively weeping red. “Where’s the doctor?” I demanded, my voice shaking with fury. “Why isn’t anyone treating him?” My mother choked back a sob, her voice barely a whisper. “There was only one doctor on duty in the ER, and only one trauma bed left… Caroline… Caroline told them to treat someone else first.” My blood ran cold. Before I could process her words, the door to the adjacent private room pushed open. Tyler stepped out, his arms wrapped tightly around Caroline. His eyes were red, his voice thick with tears. “Care, thank you so much. If you hadn’t left Ollie’s parents to come find me, I don’t know what I would’ve done.” Caroline gently stroked his back, her voice a soothing murmur. “Your parents are my parents, Tyler. Don’t say things like that. Don’t cry, your eyes are all swollen.” The sheer, monstrous absurdity of the scene snapped something inside me. I strode forward, grabbing Caroline’s wrist with a force that made her gasp. My entire body was shaking. “Caroline, you swore you’d take care of them. Is this your idea of taking care of my family?” Caroline winced, and Tyler immediately stepped between us, pushing my hand away to shield her. He looked at me, a subtle, challenging glint in his eyes. “Ollie, my mom sprained her ankle. Care was terrified she’d have permanent joint damage, so she asked the doctor to treat her first.” “If you’re angry, blame me. Don’t take it out on Care.” “She was just so frantic to help my mother that she didn’t realize your dad’s coat was caught in her car door. She drove off and… and he was dragged along the asphalt. It was an accident.” Caroline stepped out from behind him, her eyes turning cold as she looked at me. “Ollie, I know you’re upset, so I’m going to let your tone slide.” “But you need to be reasonable. Don’t start acting like a hysterical country bumpkin.” “The doctor looked at your father’s head and said it was just a superficial laceration. That’s why I left him out here. But Tyler’s mother’s ankle was a serious emergency. If we didn’t get it treated immediately, she could have been crippled.” Behind me, my father’s weak, raspy voice broke the tension. “Ollie… son, I’m okay. Don’t… don’t fight with Caroline because of me.” “We’re tough country folks. We heal fast. We aren’t delicate like these city people.” Caroline’s expression softened slightly. She took a step toward me, reaching out to touch my arm. “See? Your dad says he’s fine. It’s really not a big deal.” “Stop throwing a fit. Once the morning shift starts, I’ll pull some strings and get him a private room.” I took a step back, letting her hand fall through empty air. I didn’t say another word to her. I pulled out my phone, called a private transport service, and had my father transferred to another hospital immediately. I stayed by my father’s bedside all night. The next afternoon, I returned to the apartment to pack our things. As I unlocked the door, the sound of bright, easy laughter drifted from the living room, accompanied by the sour, pungent smell of pickled cabbage. Caroline—the woman who had claimed she had a medical sensitivity to strong odors—was sitting at the dining table, happily eating a bowl of homemade sauerkraut that Tyler’s parents had brought. Near the trash can by the entryway sat two battered duffel bags. They were my parents’ luggage. I stared at the bags, then looked up at Caroline. “What is this?” Seeing me, the laughter at the table died down. Caroline stood up, a brief shadow of hesitation crossing her face before she spoke with casual ease. “Tyler’s parents are going to stay with us for a while.” “Since your parents are leaving soon anyway, I had the building staff pack their bags and bring them down here to clear up some space.” I let out a soft, bitter laugh. “Caroline, I never realized what a perfect, accommodating daughter-in-law you could be.” Ignoring the tense, defensive stares of Tyler and his parents, I walked straight past them and into the master bedroom. Caroline followed me inside, her voice dropping into the sweet, coaxing tone she always used when she wanted to play nice. “Ollie, don’t be like this. I already booked your parents a room at a five-star hotel downtown. I’ll drive their bags over myself later.” “Tyler’s family are our guests, after all. We have to show some hospitality.” I didn’t answer. I kept pulling my clothes out of the closet and packing them into my suitcase. Caroline stepped closer, attempting to fold a shirt for me. “Ollie, seriously. You’ve been so distant lately.” “Tyler’s already got his graduate placement. If it really bothers you that much, I promise I’ll limit my time with him from now on, okay?” She reached into the nightstand drawer and pulled out a small black velvet box, holding it out to me like a peace offering. “Look. I bought the wedding ring you kept in your online shopping cart for months. Consider it an apology.” “And I went ahead and finalized the venue for tomorrow’s rehearsal and the welcome dinner. I’ve sent out all the invitations.” “Tomorrow, all you have to do is show up and look handsome.” I froze, slowly turning to look at her. “You finalized the venue? When? Why wasn’t I consulted?” She shrugged, completely dismissive. “You were busy with your project. I figured all guys like the same basic things, so I just had Tyler help me pick everything out.” I repeated her words slowly, letting the weight of them settle in the air. “You had Tyler help you?” “So the location, the aesthetic, the favors, the guest list—you and Tyler handled all of it?” “Caroline, do you have any idea how pathetic this is?” Her face darkened with familiar annoyance, but she forced a tight smile, holding up the ring. “Ollie, I’m not going to argue about this. I love you, and that’s never going to change. Can we just leave it at that?” She took the ring out of the box, reaching for my hand. “Come on, Ollie. Stop playing games.” “I couldn’t even sleep last night without you next to me. Haven’t I been punished enough?” I pulled my hand back, out of her reach. Her smile faded completely. I stared at her for a long moment. “Send me the address of the venue.” A wave of relief washed over her face, and her confident, effortless smile returned. “I knew it. I knew you’d never actually leave me, Ollie. No matter how mad you get, you love me too much to walk away.” She glanced at my packed suitcase, her eyes gleaming with satisfaction. “Alright, now that you’ve got your reassurance, you can stop the packing act. You do this every time we fight, and you never actually go anywhere.” “Besides, Georgia is a long, long way from here. You aren’t going to run back to your parents over a little spat.” I zipped my suitcase, gripped the handle, and walked past her toward the door. She leaned against the doorframe, watching me with absolute certainty, a knowing smile playing on her lips. “Get your anger out tonight. Just make sure you’re on time for the dinner tomorrow.” I paused, looking back at her with a quiet smile of my own. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure it’s unforgettable.” The next morning, I stood on the platform at Penn Station, helping my parents load their heavy bags onto the southbound train. As the warning chimes began to echo through the station, signaling the closing doors, my phone began to vibrate violently in my pocket. It rang three times and went to voicemail. When it began to ring a fourth time, I finally slid the screen to answer. On the other end, Caroline’s mother’s voice broke through—frantic, weeping, and entirely stripped of her usual cold poise. “Ollie! Where are you? Caroline… Caroline’s had an accident, you need to get to the hospital right now…”

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The fire at the Beckett estate was a roaring, monstrous thing, but I broke past the barricades and ran straight into the blistering heat. Through the choking black smoke, ignoring the fresh burns searing my skin, I searched frantically for Beckett. Then, his voice crackled from somewhere outside the burning mansion. “Cass, Amber’s mother’s keepsake is on the desk in my bedroom. Get it out of there.” Through the dancing sheets of flame licking the windows, I saw Beckett. He had his arm wrapped tightly around Amber, his other hand holding a megaphone. “I know you can hear me!” “Bring my pillow out, too. Otherwise, Amber won’t be able to sleep tonight.” Amber’s soft, whimpering cry floated in, grating against my raw, blistering soul as the fire closed in around me. “Is… is that too hard for Cass? The fire looks so big…” “Don’t worry,” Beckett’s voice boomed back. “Cass is the best bodyguard money can buy. Why do you think I tricked her into going in there?” “She’ll get your things and walk out completely unscathed. It’s child’s play for her.” I wanted to tell Beckett that before I even got here, an unmarked car had rammed into me, leaving me with a broken leg and two fractured ribs. I wasn’t walking out of this one. But my throat was scorched, choked with ash. I couldn’t tell him that just this morning, I had heard our baby’s heartbeat for the first time. Thump-thump, thump-thump. It sounded just like the horse hooves racing across the Montana plains when we were kids. … By the time Beckett’s voice echoed through the megaphone, I was already clawing my way across the floor. Flames rose like tidal waves around me. Plaster and burning wood rained down from the ceiling, and just dragging myself up to the second floor had stripped away every last ounce of my strength. “Cass, hurry up! If Amber’s things get burned, don’t bother coming back home.” The smoke stung my eyes, drawing out a prick of moisture that evaporated the second it touched my burning skin. We had fought yesterday. A terrible, exhausting fight. Today, I had gone alone to the orphanage to visit Zoe. An unmarked car had lost control, careening toward her. To shield her, I took the hit. The impact shattered my leg and cracked two of my ribs. Mrs. Albright had tried to rush me to the emergency room, but then the call came: the family estate was on fire, and Beckett was trapped inside. Blinded by pain, I drove like a madwoman, praying to whatever god was listening, offering my life in exchange for his safety. He was safe. He was completely fine. But was I really about to die? “Beck, Cass has never liked me,” Amber’s tear-strained voice wailed through the speaker. “She won’t help me. But that’s my mother’s keepsake. I can’t lose it.” That trembling, helpless sob of hers was always her ultimate weapon. Beckett had told me more than once. “Cass, can’t you be more like Amber? Call me ‘Beck’ with a little warmth for once.” I had always snapped at him, telling him to go to hell. But in secret, I had stood before the mirror and practiced whispering his name a thousand times. Too bad I would never get to say it to his face. “Don’t worry,” Beckett’s voice boomed back. “Cass always does what I say. I’m the only family she has left. She wouldn’t dare make me angry.” “It’s all my fault. I just wanted to cook you dinner, but I started the fire. And now Cass is caught up in it…” “It’s not your fault, sweetheart. That’s literally her job. She’s a bodyguard. Here, drink some water. Calm your nerves.” Their voices drifted in through the broken window, crackling and distorted through the megaphone. I couldn’t afford the luxury of heartbreak. Water. I needed water infinitely more than Amber did. Steeling myself against the excruciating grind of broken bone against muscle, I dragged myself into Beckett’s master bathroom. Ignoring the bloody blisters bursting across my palms, I grabbed a towel and cranked the faucet. If I could just wet it and cover my face, I might survive long enough for the firefighters to reach me. Drip. One single, pathetic drop fell from the spout. The pipes were dry; it didn’t even dampen the lint on the towel. I gasped for air, a crushing wave of despair hitting me. It was so unfair. Beckett didn’t even know our baby was back. “Connect the hoses to the emergency reservoir! Put the fire out! Hurry!” That was Mr. Garrison, the estate manager. A tiny flicker of hope flared in my chest. If the hoses could knock down the flames blocking the doors and windows, I might survive this, even if I was horribly burned. “No! You can’t!” Amber’s high-pitched scream cut through the din. “You can’t use water, Beck! My mother’s keepsake is a carved bone pendant—it has her ashes inside! If the water ruins it, I’ll have nothing left of her. Please!” “If her ashes get soaked, she’ll be gone forever. I’m begging you!” Those final pleading words seemed to echo in my ears, dripping with theatrical desperation. I felt a bitter surge of self-derision. I had never learned how to play the fragile, pleading victim. Maybe that was why I was destined to burn. And predictably, Beckett yielded. “Shh, don’t cry. We’ll let Cass bring your mother’s ashes out first, then we’ll put the fire out. Okay?” “No one touches the hoses!” “Mr. Beckett…” Mr. Garrison tried to protest, but Beckett shut him down instantly. “Remember who you work for, Garrison. This estate is my personal property. If I want to let it burn for fun, that’s my right. It has nothing to do with you.” The usually deferential manager’s voice shook with sudden, uncharacteristic rage. “But Cass is still trapped inside! Are a dead woman’s ashes really worth more than a living person’s life?” “Mr. Beckett, I remember when the two of you actually cared about each other.” The heat was blistering my flesh, and the internal agony of my fractured ribs made my vision blur. Mr. Garrison had asked the very question that was haunting my dying mind. We used to love each other so fiercely. How did we end up here? “My relationship with Cass is none of your business.” “Amber has already lost her mother, Garrison. Have some basic decency. Tell your men to back off with the hoses.” Maybe the searing heat had dried up the very moisture in my body, because my eyes burned fiercely, yet not a single tear would fall. Losing a mother was devastating. But my own Mama was gone, too. Mama and I used to live in the Montana foothills, living a quiet, peaceful life on our small ranch. That was until the day she found a seven-year-old Beckett wandering near the mountains and brought him home. Back then, Beckett was traumatized. He wouldn’t speak, wouldn’t eat. It was Mama’s quiet warmth that brought him back to life. In my oldest memories, Beckett used to call her “Ma” right alongside me. We had one beautiful, happy year. Wanting us to understand the world beyond our valley, Mama bought an old TV and set up a satellite dish. But the very night the screen flickered to life with news broadcasts of the missing Beckett heir, he panicked and rode off into the dark on his colt. Mama went after him. She found him, but she never came back. She was cornered by a pack of timber wolves in the valley. Her death drew the media, and ultimately, she paid with her life to pave Beckett’s way back to his wealthy family. And I was left with nothing. No home, no Ma. Beckett was right when he said he was my only family after she died. But now, it seemed he didn’t want me anymore. “Cass, stop playing games and get out here!” Beckett’s voice crackled through the megaphone again, sharper and more annoyed. “Because of your stubbornness, people are giving Amber a hard time!” The megaphone magnified his irritation, making it sound deafeningly cruel. Suddenly, the floor beneath me groaned. The structure shuddered, followed by a violent, thunderous collapse. Half of the estate caved in. I curled into a tight ball, clinging to survival in the surviving half of the master suite. Beckett’s voice was cut off, buried under the rumble of falling beams. Silence stretched. It felt like an eternity before the distant, wailing sirens of fire trucks finally pierced the smoke. I bit down hard on the inside of my lip, tasting copper. If there was any way out, I wanted to live. I had only just heard our baby’s heartbeat. It was so beautiful, echoing like the rhythmic thud of horses galloping across the Montana grass. The collapse had kicked up fresh waves of embers and blinding ash. I began the agonizing crawl toward the window. The firefighters would know to breach the windows first. That was my only chance. “All units, listen up! Team One, attack the main fire. Team Two, search and rescue breach. Team Three, set up defensive lines!” My entire body was trembling. Every inch I dragged myself left a smudged trail of dark red on the floorboards. The blistered, blackened skin on my knees and stomach tore open, leaving me a bloody mess. I hadn’t shed a single tear, but outside, Amber had already started crying again. “Beck, please! I only want my mother’s ashes! They’re going to use the water hoses—what do we do? What do we do?” Her tears were her ultimate shield, and they never failed. “Who called the station? Who said we needed your help?” Beckett’s voice rang out again. The warmth I had known for years was entirely gone, replaced by a cold, commanding arrogance that sounded like a death knell. “Sir, it’s our duty to respond to active fires. You have no authority to obstruct us.” “Officer, let’s be clear. That brand-new ladder truck your team is using was donated entirely by the Beckett Group. How it’s used, and when it’s used, is up to me.” Having run the Beckett empire for years, he carried himself with an immense, suffocating authority. “We have reports of a civilian trapped inside. Human life comes before property, sir.” “Cass? She’s tough as nails. Trust me, the world could end, and she’d still be standing.” “Two years ago, during that avalanche in the Rockies, she gave me her winter gear and carried me on her back for three straight days. You think a woman like that needs a rescue from a bunch of amateurs?” I finally reached the window. Hope was just inches away, but the moment my hand touched the frame, my heart sank. The window had been boarded up from the outside with heavy steel plates. Ignoring the agony in my hands, I pounded desperately against the metal, praying the sound would carry through. But the reinforced steel was airtight, sealing off my only exit. Suddenly, a blazing piece of the roof collapsed, striking me squarely across my spine. I coughed up a spray of dark blood, and a sharp, tearing pain ripped through my abdomen. During the avalanche Beckett had just mentioned, when I dragged him out of the snow, I hadn’t realized I was pregnant with our first child. By the time I got him to the hospital, that baby was already gone, buried forever in the freezing mountain pass. And now, my second baby was going to die right here, consumed by flames. My vision faded into absolute darkness, and a low, heavy buzzing filled my ears. I knew the end was here. But if I burned to ash, Mama wouldn’t be able to recognize me when we met again. I refused to become a charred, unrecognizable monster. Even in death, I wanted to hold onto some dignity. I turned and dragged myself toward the corner of the room. It was only about fifteen feet away, but it felt like a journey of a hundred years. At least the one thing I had bought for Beckett would allow me to leave this world with a shred of grace. Beckett, this is the last time we play hide-and-seek. I hope you never find me. “The heat in there is high enough to melt stone! How could anyone possibly survive that?” Mr. Garrison’s angry voice echoed from outside. “Sir, based on our assessment, the person inside has likely perished. Please step aside and let us do our job.” Beckett turned back to look at the partially collapsed mansion. For the very first time, a flicker of genuine panic crossed his face. But before he could speak, Amber gasped dramatically. “Are you saying Cass might be dead? Oh my god… I—I have to go save her!” Before Beckett could stop her, she spun around and took two clumsy steps toward the smoke, immediately tripping over her own feet and tumbling to the grass. “Amber! Are you alright?” Terrified, Beckett scooped her into his arms. “I think I sprained my ankle… I’m so stupid, I can’t do anything right…” Without another word, Beckett lifted Amber off the ground. “I’m taking you to the hospital.” She whimpered, but he shushed her gently. “Don’t worry. Cass will bring your mother’s keepsake out. And if she doesn’t, I’ll make her get on her knees and beg for your forgiveness.” I was afraid Beckett was going to be disappointed. My feet were already hovering inches above the ground, weightless. My knees were stiff, and I would never kneel for anyone again. Beckett drove Amber straight to the hospital. Throughout the drive, he kept one hand on the steering wheel while his other fingers remained tightly laced with Amber’s. Just a few weeks ago, while we were watching a movie at home, I had tried to hold his hand like that. He had pulled away. “Cass, your hands are completely calloused. Look at yourself. Is there a single feminine thing about you?” Ever since that night, I had slathered my hands in Vaseline before going to sleep, hoping to soften them. They had finally gotten softer and lighter. But now, they were charred black and melted out of shape. Beckett would probably find them even more repulsive now. But it didn’t matter. I had hidden myself well. He wouldn’t have to look at them. At the hospital, Beckett applied the soothing ointment to Amber’s ankle himself, cradling her leg as if she were made of the finest, most delicate porcelain. “Beck, if Cass got burned in the fire… would you worry about her? Would you take care of her like this?” “She wouldn’t let herself get hurt.” I wasn’t sure if he meant I was too tough to get hurt, or if he simply wouldn’t care enough to tend to me. But there was a time when he had held me like I was his entire world. It was right after I finished my training. My very first assignment as his personal bodyguard was accompanying him to inspect a newly acquired commercial property. Some local thugs had shown up, looking to intimidate the young heir. I fought off a dozen grown men with my bare fists, taking a heavy wooden club directly across my back to shield him. When we got home, Beckett had sat me down, applying the medicine with hands that trembled with concern. “Cass, I regret letting you train with those fighters. I hate seeing you hurt.” I had smiled through the pain to comfort him. “I like being strong enough to keep you safe.” He had wrapped his arms around me then, holding me so tightly it felt like he wanted to fuse my soul into his own bones. Amber’s ankle was barely a minor sprain—just a tiny scrape—but Beckett insisted she stay overnight for observation anyway. “Beck, do you dislike Cass because she’s so… intense?” Beckett toyed with the TV remote in the VIP suite, his expression aloof. “Of course. Who wants to come home to a warrior? Men like a little princess. Someone soft, like you.” So, he thought I was too harsh. But in the fighting gyms, if you weren’t fierce, you got broken. Everyone else had years of martial arts training; I started from absolute scratch. If I wasn’t ruthless, I lost. If I lost, I didn’t eat. If I didn’t master every strike, I couldn’t protect him. I could never forget the day Beckett returned to the city, only to discover his parents had been killed in a brutal corporate betrayal orchestrated by his own uncles. He had wept in my arms. “Cass, I have no one left. My parents are gone. Ma is gone. My grandfather is too old. There’s no one to protect me.” His tears had burned my skin. That was the day I dropped out of school, packed my bags for the training camps, and became the relentless shield he needed. Beckett accidentally clicked a button, and the television screen flared to life. A local news broadcast flashed on, showing live footage of the smoking ruins of the Beckett estate. “…The historic Beckett manor has been devastated by a massive three-alarm fire. Search and rescue crews clearing the debris have reported…” Beckett’s thumb rubbed against his forefinger—a nervous habit he only displayed when he was deeply anxious. So, he was capable of fear after all. “…While several priceless antiquities were lost in the blaze, officials have confirmed there are no casualties. No bodies have been recovered from the scene.” The tension in Beckett’s brow vanished instantly. “I knew it,” he murmured. “A little fire could never stop her.” He pulled out his phone, opened our chat, and sent a voice note in a relaxed, almost bored tone. “Cass, stop throwin’ a tantrum and bring Amber’s things to the hospital. Don’t push it today. I’m not in the mood.” My phone had exploded in the heat hours ago. Obviously, there was no reply. Lacking patience, he called me two minutes later, only to be met with an automated voicemail recording over and over. “Still not answering?” Amber asked, her voice laced with feigned worry. “Do you think something actually happened to her?” I had once promised him that as long as I breathed, I would never let him lose track of me. Beckett’s face darkened, but he glanced back at the news anchor on the screen and shook his head. “No. Not her.” He said the words, but the muscles in his shoulders slowly locked up. Suddenly, his phone blared with an incoming call. “Cass, have you had your fun yet?” he barked into the receiver without even checking the caller ID. “You arrogant brat! I don’t give a damn about the house burning down, but if you don’t bring my granddaughter-in-law to the family dinner next week, I’ll personally break both your legs!” It was the Beckett patriarch. Hearing his booming, gruff voice made my eyes ache with phantom tears. He had always loved me, wanting to officially welcome me into the family years ago. But I had refused, knowing that once I became his fiancée, I could no longer stand by his side as his protector. But this year, now that Beckett had secured full control of the corporation, I had finally promised his grandfather that I would attend the fall gala as his partner. “Is that your grandfather?” Amber asked, pretending to be clueless. “Yeah. He wants to see his future granddaughter-in-law.” “Oh… I’m not even ready yet,” Amber murmured, blushing and looking down. She was too busy acting bashful to notice Beckett’s fingers flying across his screen, typing out a message to my number. Cass, be good. Bring the pendant here. If you keep acting out like this, I’m taking Amber to the family dinner instead. He knew how much I had looked forward to this evening. I had even ordered a custom gown for it. Now, he was threatening to replace me. For the first time, I felt a quiet wave of relief that I was dead. It saved me from having to feel that heartbreak. A soft knock rattled the hospital door. Mrs. Albright stood in the doorway, holding little Zoe’s small hand. “Beckett,” Zoe piped up, her voice small and trembling. “Cass got hit by a car. Is the baby okay?” Beckett froze. “What car? What baby are you talking about?” Mrs. Albright looked at the hospital bed, her face falling when she realized I wasn’t the one lying there. “Mr. Beckett, Cass took the impact of an out-of-control vehicle to save Zoe. She had a shattered leg and two broken ribs. I was trying to bring her to the emergency room, but she got a call about the fire and insisted on leaving.” “I couldn’t reach her afterward, so I brought Zoe here hoping to find her.” Beckett’s hand jerked, knocking his water glass off the nightstand. It shattered against the tile floor. “She… she ran into that fire with a broken leg and fractured ribs?” His chest heaved as he turned his eyes slowly back to the television screen. The news broadcast was showing footage of the items the firefighters had managed to salvage from the wreckage. A scorched vase, a blackened dining table, and then, a badly warped household appliance. Beckett’s pupils dilated. Without a word, he bolted out the door. I couldn’t help but smile bitterly. Was he finally going to find me? But I had lost this game. And Beckett wasn’t going to win either.

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My boyfriend, Jimmy, lived his life by a hyper-rigid, minute-by-minute schedule. Every single second of his day had to align with the chronological rulebook he had built for himself. No exceptions. Ever. The night my stomach ulcer flared up, we were driving home from a dinner party. The pain hit me like a physical blow, curling me over in the passenger seat, gasping for air as cold sweat broke out across my forehead. I begged Jimmy to pull over and take me to the nearest emergency room. Instead, he stared straight ahead, his face like carved stone. “I have a mandatory board meeting in exactly twenty minutes,” he said, his voice entirely devoid of warmth. “Deviating from my schedule to take you to the hospital ruins my entire block for the afternoon. Get out and call an Uber.” And now, here I was again, stranded in a sudden, torrential downpour on a desolate mountain road upstate, unable to get a signal for a ride. Shivering and desperate, I called Jimmy, praying that just this once, he would break his precious rules for me. But the voice on the other end of the line was as cold as the freezing rain soaking through my clothes. “It’s 11:00 PM, Diana. You know my wind-down block starts now. I need to sleep. Find someone else.” “But Jimmy—” Before I could finish, the line went dead. Less than five minutes later, a notification popped up on my phone. It was an Instagram story posted by his new assistant, Amber. “So incredibly grateful for a boss who rescued me tonight, otherwise I’d be a drowned rat right now!” The attached photo showed the passenger seat of Jimmy’s Mercedes. Through the dim dashboard glow, you could clearly see the sharp, aloof profile of his face. Jimmy. A suffocating tightness seized my chest, a sharp, bitter ache spreading through every nerve. I huddled under the dripping wooden eaves of a closed tourist cabin, pulled my knees to my chest, and finally let myself sob. I had spent years believing Jimmy was simply incapable of breaking his rules for another human being. But the truth was brutally simple: he just wouldn’t do it for me. He broke them effortlessly for Amber. Fine. If that’s how it is, I’m done. … In the end, I had to hike down the mountain in the freezing rain. By the time I reached the main highway, my body gave out, and everything went black. I woke up to the sterile smell of bleach and the steady beep of an EKG machine in a hospital room. Jimmy was standing by the foot of the bed, checking his designer watch. His expression was completely detached. “Since you’re awake, I’m heading out. I need to be at my desk by ten to draft tomorrow’s project plan.” I looked at him, my gaze entirely hollow. “Okay,” I said softly. “Go ahead.” I turned my face toward the wall, unable to look at him anymore. Jimmy frowned, his voice dropping into a defensive, cold register. “It’s not that I don’t want to stay, Diana. But you know how I feel about disruptions. Every hour of my day is accounted for. If you really need someone, I can hire a private nurse to watch you.” I turned back to him, staring at him blankly. “No need. I don’t need anyone.” His jaw clenched, a vein pulsing at his temple as his temper flared. “Diana, what is with the attitude? This whole situation is your own fault anyway. Who goes upstate without checking the weather forecast? Who doesn’t prepare for rain? You never plan anything, and then you expect everyone else to pay for your mistakes.” It was almost laughably cruel. He seemed to have completely blocked out the reason I was up on that mountain in the middle of the night in the first place. Jimmy was a perfectionist to the point of tyranny. When the resort managers sent in their monthly audits, he decided the numbers weren’t precise enough. He demanded I go up there and manually re-verify every single data point within twenty-four hours. That was why I had been working myself to the bone on that mountain until midnight. Remembering this, I sat up, pulled my backpack onto my lap, and fished out a waterproof folder. I slid it across the bedside table. “Here is the audit data you wanted.” As a flicker of recognition crossed his face, I added, “And by the way, I quit. We’re over, Jimmy.” Jimmy flared up instantly. “Even if it was for work, your lack of time management is still your own fault! Breaking up over something this trivial? You’re being incredibly dramatic.” I looked up at him, a bitter, mocking smile tugging at my lips. “Trivial? Tell me, Jimmy—did you really go to sleep at eleven last night?” Just then, the door clicked open. Amber walked in, her eyes instantly welling with tears the moment she heard my question. “I’m so sorry, Diana,” she whimpered, her voice trembling. “I couldn’t find a ride and I was terrified. I forced Mr. Bradford to come get me. If I had known you needed him too, I would have never asked. I’m so, so sorry.” Jimmy immediately stepped in front of her, shielding her like a protective barrier. He glared at me as if I were his worst enemy. “If you have an issue, take it out on me. Leave Amber out of this.” I looked at the two of them and chose silence. There was no point. It was just exhausting. “Aren’t you going to be late, Mr. Bradford?” I asked, my voice flat. “Don’t let me ruin your precious calendar. It’s almost ten.” He froze, realizing the time. But before he could step toward the door, Amber let out a soft gasp. “Oh no… Mr. Bradford, I left in such a rush this morning that I forgot my daily vitamins. I absolutely have to take them twice a day, or my immune system…” Jimmy gently patted her hair, his voice softening into a tone he had never used with me. “Don’t worry. I’ll drive you back to your place to grab them before we head to the office.” Suddenly, a profound wave of disgust washed over me. “Get the hell out of my room,” I said. “Both of you. You’re making me sick.” “Fine, Diana,” Jimmy snapped, grabbing Amber’s hand. “Let’s see how long you can last on your own.” The door slammed shut behind them. Three days later, I went back to our shared townhouse to pack the rest of my things, only to find the front door wide open. The living room had been completely ransacked, drawers pulled out and papers scattered everywhere. Panicked, I immediately called the police. To my utter shock, the “intruder” the officers caught inside was Amber. At the precinct, she sat in a chair, her eyes red and puffy, sobbing uncontrollably. The moment Jimmy rushed through the doors, she threw herself into his arms. “Jimmy! Thank God you’re here, I was so scared!” she cried. “Please tell Diana I was just trying to grab that dry-cleaned suit you needed for tomorrow. I’m not a thief!” Jimmy held her close, stroking her back with a tenderness I had never witnessed. “Shh, it’s okay. I’m here.” I looked up at the wall clock. It was exactly 2:15 PM. My mind slipped backward in time. Six months ago, another car had rear-ended me on a desolate stretch of road. The driver was a massive, aggressive man who kept pounding on my driver-side window, screaming threats at me. Terrified, the very first thing I did was call Jimmy. When he answered and heard my shaky voice, he just let out a heavy, irritated sigh. “If you got rear-ended, call the police and your insurance. Why are you calling me?” Outside, the man shattered my side mirror. I started crying, begging him to come. Jimmy heard the chaos through the phone, but his voice remained entirely unmoved. “It’s 2:15 PM, Diana. You know this is my scheduled thirty-minute power nap. If I miss it, my productivity for the rest of the day is ruined. Don’t disrupt my schedule over minor inconveniences.” He hung up. Seconds later, the man smashed my window, unlocked the door, and dragged me out toward the nearby woods. I screamed, fighting with everything I had. If a highway patrol car hadn’t happened to pass by at that exact moment, I don’t want to think about what would have happened to me. When I confronted Jimmy about it later, hoping he would show even a sliver of remorse or a willingness to adjust his rigid rules for my safety, he just looked up from his laptop, completely unfazed. “Why did he target you and not someone else? If your driving skills are that poor, you shouldn’t be on the road. You brought that on yourself.” I remembered the suffocating silence that had trapped me then. But now, at that exact same hour, the person in trouble was Amber, and Jimmy had abandoned his entire afternoon schedule without a second thought. “Diana, you did this on purpose,” Jimmy hissed, turning his glare to me. “You’re using the police to punish Amber for what happened the other night.” “I told you, she was just trying to help me with my wardrobe. Why do you have to be so malicious? You brought her to a police station—do you have any idea how fragile she is?” “Apologize to her right now, or I swear, I will never forgive you.” Amber sniffled against his chest, looking up with wide, innocent eyes. “No, Jimmy, it’s okay. Diana doesn’t need to apologize. If putting me through this helps her blow off some steam so she stops fighting with you, I can take it. I don’t mind.” Jimmy’s face softened with intense pity, and the look he shot me turned ice-cold. “Look at how mature Amber is. And look at you—jealous of a junior assistant.” I didn’t say a word. I quietly finished signing the police report and walked out. Just as Jimmy was about to speak to me outside, I beat him to it. “It’s almost three, Jimmy. Aren’t you going to miss your afternoon focus block? Can your business survive without it?” His face went pale. Before he could reply, I turned on my heel and walked away. Later that afternoon, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Grace, a coworker who had become a close friend of mine at the firm. “Diana, please help me! Jimmy keeps rejecting my proposal, and I’m at my wits’ end.” She sent a string of begging emojis. “If I don’t get this approved by tomorrow, he’s going to fire me. Please.” Grace was one of the few decent people at that toxic company. My heart softened, and I agreed to take a look. When I walked into the office to meet her, I ran straight into Jimmy. He smirked, his posture oozing smug satisfaction. “And here I thought you actually quit. Couldn’t even last three days, could you?” I ignored him completely, walking right past him to Grace’s desk. I reviewed her proposal. It was actually a very solid, well-thought-out piece of marketing strategy. In any normal firm, it would have been approved instantly. But Jimmy’s pathological need for perfection meant he would tear apart any document that didn’t fit his exact, arbitrary templates. I spent an hour restructuring the data, highlighting the specific metrics Jimmy obsessed over, and handed it back to Grace. “This should pass his test. Go ahead and submit it.” She hugged me, nearly in tears. “Diana, you are a literal lifesaver. Let me buy you dinner tonight.” I smiled gently and shook my head. “Thanks, Grace, but I have to go finish packing my things. And yes, I really did quit. This is the last time I can help you with office work.” Grace gasped, her eyes darting over to Amber, who was currently sitting at her desk applying lip gloss. Grace leaned in and whispered, “Is it because of “her”?” When I didn’t answer, she scoffed. “She is such a manipulative snake. If you leave, you’re playing right into her hands. Aren’t you worried she’ll steal him?” “We broke up, Grace. Jimmy is no longer my concern.” “But you built this company with him! You’re letting her reap all the rewards of your hard work. Don’t do this to yourself, Diana.” I began gathering the last of my personal belongings from my desk. “I don’t care anymore.” I left the building and went straight back to the townhouse to pack. An hour later, my phone rang. It was Grace, her voice shaking and thick with tears. “Diana… the marketing proposal is gone. The entire system file was deleted.” When I rushed back to the office, Grace quickly explained what happened. Amber had been tasked with clearing out old project folders and had “accidentally” wiped the master drive. “Since Amber was the one who deleted it, she should be the one to recreate it,” I said, looking directly at Jimmy. “Why are you taking this out on Grace? I thought you prided yourself on being fair, Jimmy.” My defiance clearly hit a nerve. His voice darkened. “Are you trying to tell me how to run my company?” “This proposal is vital for tomorrow’s pitch. If you didn’t explain the file structure properly to Amber, then it’s your management failure, not Grace’s.” Grace wiped her eyes. “I did explain it to her! I told her specifically—” Amber burst into dramatic tears, cutting Grace off. “It’s all my fault! I thought they were just duplicate junk files, so I deleted them. If Diana wants me gone, Jimmy, just fire me. I’ll leave!” I pinched the bridge of my nose, feeling a massive headache coming on. “Even if the digital files are wiped, I printed out a hard copy of the final draft before I left.” Amber pointed a trembling finger at the industrial paper shredder in the corner. “I… I thought they were scrap papers. I already ran them through.” Jimmy immediately stepped in front of Amber again, his gaze ice-cold. “Since you were the one who put the proposal together, Diana, you fix it.” “You expect me to piece together shredded paper by hand overnight? Why should I?” Jimmy let out a cold, sharp laugh. “I haven’t officially processed your resignation yet. Even if you don’t care about your own career record, what about Grace? Do you want her fired and blacklisted from the industry with a gross negligence mark on her record?” My hands clenched into tight fists. He was blackmailing me, and he knew exactly which buttons to push. “Fine,” I spat out. “I’ll do it.” By midnight, the office was entirely empty except for Grace and me. She looked at me, her face pale with guilt. “I am so incredibly sorry, Diana. I brought this on you.” “No, Grace,” I said softly, taping two strips of paper back together. “They wanted to hurt me. You were just the collateral damage.” It took us until dawn to piece together the shredded hard copy and manually re-type the entire document into a new digital file. This time, I didn’t leave it on the shared server. I emailed it directly to Jimmy’s personal inbox. If it disappeared again, there would be no denying who did it. When Jimmy arrived at the office the next morning and saw the reconstructed proposal sitting on his desk, a flicker of something complex and unsettling passed through his eyes. “I’ll overlook your attitude this time,” he said, his voice unusually quiet. “Let’s forget about this whole resignation nonsense.” “No,” I said, picking up my purse. “I only did this to save Grace. Don’t ever expect me to clean up your mess again.” “Suit yourself,” he snapped, his pride instantly flaring back up. “Ungrateful as always.” He brushed past me. I said my final goodbyes to Grace and walked out into the crisp morning air. As I walked to my car, a text message popped up on my phone: “Hi Diana, this is a reminder of your VIP reservation at The Hearth tonight at 6:00 PM…” I stared at the screen, a heavy weight sinking in my chest. It was my birthday. I was about to call and cancel the reservation when my phone rang. It was Jimmy. “Diana, I have to hand it to you,” he said, his tone dripping with patronizing amusement. “This whole ‘quitting’ routine, the silent treatment… it was all just a desperate play to get me to crawl back to you for your birthday, wasn’t it?” The reservation system must have sent an automated duplicate notification to his phone since we had booked it under a joint profile months ago. “Actually, that reservation was made months ago—” “Save it,” he interrupted. “I’m not going. You know my schedule. At six o’clock sharp, I start my daily end-of-day business review. I don’t have time for self-indulgent dinners.” Right. Of course. His precious schedule was a sacred boundary when it came to me. I had made that reservation months ago, foolishly hoping that on my birthday, he would finally break his rules for me. I wanted to feel like I mattered more than his calendar. What a pathetic joke. “However,” Jimmy continued, his voice taking on a magnanimous tone, “if you apologize to me and Amber, maybe—just maybe—I can find a thirty-minute window to stop by after my review.” He sounded like a king tossing crumbs to a beggar. It made me want to throw up. “Don’t bother,” I said, and hung up the phone. I texted the restaurant to cancel, but then I stopped. Why should I ruin my own birthday because of him? Instead, I called Grace and invited her to join me. Ten minutes after we sat down at our beautifully candlelit table, the restaurant door opened. I froze. Jimmy was walking toward us, holding a small, elegant bakery box. “Happy birthday, Diana,” he said. For a split second, my heart did a strange, painful flutter. Five years. In five years of dating, this was the first time he had ever disrupted his evening routine for me. Seeing my stunned expression, he let out a smug chuckle. “See? Amber was right. She said you’d be incredibly touched.” “I decided to give you a break today. Consider this a favor on Amber’s behalf.” My body went entirely numb. Before I could even process his words, Amber slid out from behind his shoulder, sporting a sweet, childish grin. “Oh, Mr. Bradford, don’t say it like that! Diana is going to think I’m intruding!” She turned to me, clasping her hands together. “But seriously, Diana, Jimmy told me how much you wanted him to break his schedule for you. Since I managed to convince him, I hope you’ll accept this as my thank-you for staying up all night to fix the proposal. You’re not mad, are you?” The room seemed to spin. The one time he broke his sacred rules for me, it wasn’t because he loved me. It was because his new assistant had playfully asked him to. It was a performance to show how much influence she had over him. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. Grace immediately reached across the table and held my arm. “Diana, are you okay?” Amber stepped closer, reaching out to grab my hand with a look of pure, manufactured innocence. “You must be so happy, Diana! I knew this would be the perfect—” “Get away from me,” I whispered, pulling my hand back. In her haste to recoil, Amber tripped backward over her own heels, letting out a dramatic shriek. Jimmy caught her by the waist just before she hit the floor. He glared at me, his eyes burning with fury. “Diana, enough! Amber came here out of the goodness of her heart to celebrate your birthday, and you immediately lash out at her like a psycho.” I looked at him, and the sheer, absurd comedy of it all made me laugh. Tears of absolute exhaustion spilled over my eyelashes. “Out of the goodness of her heart? She came here to rub it in my face that she can pull your strings whenever she wants.” “You never—not once—broke your schedule for me. But you did it for her without a second thought. Do you even remember who your girlfriend is, Jimmy?” “I don’t need you here. This birthday is going to be infinitely better without you.” I grabbed my purse, stood up, and walked out of the restaurant, Grace close behind me. Jimmy hesitated for a moment, making a move to follow me. But behind him, Amber let out a soft, starry-eyed sigh. “Wow… I’ve always wanted to eat here. I heard the VIP lounge is impossible to book. I’ve never been to a place this beautiful.” Jimmy stopped in his tracks. “Then we’re staying,” he announced loudly, clearly wanting his voice to carry out to the street. “I’m taking you to dinner here tonight.” He wanted to hurt me, to see me look back in jealousy. But as the cool night air hit my face, all I felt was a profound, liberating sense of nothingness. I was finally free. That very night, I packed the rest of my belongings from the townhouse and moved into a quiet, cozy apartment uptown. The next morning, I walked into the lobby of a sleek, glass-fronted skyscraper. “Welcome to the team, Diana,” the director said, offering a warm handshake.

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Hudson’s first love, Celine, had returned to the country. She was so broke that her family’s historic estate was going up for foreclosure auction. When I asked him if he still loved her, he frowned and told me to stop being ridiculous—he wasn’t that fickle. And I believed him. Until his phone lit up in the middle of the night, showing a wire transfer of two million dollars. I recognized the amount instantly. It was the starting bid for Celine’s family estate. He hadn’t cheated on me. Not technically. He had simply used our joint marital funds to buy back another woman’s childhood home. As I sat in the dark holding his phone, waiting for him to wake up, I saw Celine’s latest social media post pop up: “Some people say goodbye with their lips, but shield you from the storm with their hands.” The photo was of the estate’s sprawling garden. A memory flashed through my mind. The night Hudson proposed, he looked into my eyes and said, “I’m the kind of man who only loves once in a lifetime.” Turns out, he was telling the truth. … His phone lit up again. Another post from Celine. This one was a close-up of a hand-carved mahogany door. Her caption: “Back home.” I stared at that door. Hudson had taken me to see that estate last summer. It was a stunning mid-century colonial passed down through Celine’s family, sitting on three acres of pristine land. He had told me the house had a rich history, expressing regret over how her family had fallen into ruin. I hadn’t thought much of it at the time. Now I understood why he knew every detail so well. The living room was pitch black, the glow from the screen casting a cold blue light over my face. I scrolled through the transfer details. Exactly two million dollars, wired to a commercial auction house. The memo line read: “Celine’s House – Final Payment.” Celine’s House. He hadn’t even been this meticulous when we bought our own home. A rustling sound came from the bedroom. Hudson was awake. I heard his soft footsteps as he walked out into the living room. He froze when he saw me sitting on the sofa. “Why are you still up?” he asked, rubbing his eyes. I turned the screen toward him. Hudson went completely still. He stepped closer, reaching for the phone, but I pulled it back. “Did you buy Celine’s house?” Silence stretched between us. “Answer me, Hudson.” “I did,” he said, his voice dropping an octave. “It was going into foreclosure. I just helped her buy it back. Don’t worry, I’ll transfer money from my personal accounts to cover it. It won’t affect our household finances.” A dry laugh escaped my throat. Our household? We had been married for three years; our lives and accounts had become so tangled that there was no “his” or “hers” anymore. For him to say it “won’t affect us” was a joke. Two million dollars, moved with the click of a button, and he hadn’t even bothered to mention it to his wife. “When did you decide this?” “Just… recently.” “Recently?” I glanced at the date of the transfer. “Ten days ago. For ten days, you’ve eaten dinner with me, slept beside me, and never breathed a single word.” Hudson frowned, a shadow of irritation crossing his face. “I didn’t want you to overthink it.” “Overthink what?” He stared at me for a long moment, then let out a heavy sigh. “Talia, Celine and I are ancient history. She hit rock bottom, and I lent her a hand. That’s all this is. Don’t make a mountain out of a molehill.” That’s all this is. Then why put her name in the memo? Why were you the very first person to like her post? How did you even know her house was up for auction the second she stepped back into the country? None of this happened by accident. It took effort. It took devotion. I didn’t say any of that. Instead, I kept my voice flat. “I don’t care if you want to be a savior, Hudson. But using our joint money to do it without even consulting me? Do you honestly think that’s okay?” Hudson looked uncomfortable. He sat on the coffee table opposite me, leaning forward with his hands clasped between his knees, softening his tone. “I was wrong. I should have talked to you first. I was just in a rush to secure the bid before someone else snatched it up. That house means everything to her family.” “It means a lot to you, too, doesn’t it?” He didn’t answer. Celine posted again—a photo dump this time. The grand living room, the library, the sunlit gardens, and finally, a picture of herself. She wore a simple white sundress, completely makeup-free, looking fragile and poetic in front of that carved door. Her caption read: “Thank you for staying when everyone else walked away.” I almost laughed out loud. That post had an audience of one. “What are the two of you now?” “We are nothing,” Hudson said, looking me dead in the eye. “I told you, I’m just helping her out.” “Then what does her caption mean?” “How should I know what she means?” His patience was wearing thin. “Talia, can you stop being so paranoid?” Paranoid. The first time he called me paranoid was the day Celine left the country years ago. He had drowned himself in whiskey. When I asked him what was wrong, he said nothing. When I asked if it was about Celine, he told me I was being overly sensitive. The second time was when we ran into one of Celine’s friends at a downtown restaurant. The friend had smiled and said, “You know Celine is back, right?” and Hudson had simply nodded. When we got home and I asked him how long they’d been in touch, he shut me down with the same word. This was the third time. I stood up from the sofa and tossed his phone back onto the cushions. “If you want to play her white knight so badly, maybe I should just get out of your way.” Hudson snapped his head up. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Exactly what it sounds like,” I said. “You two were always meant to be. If she hadn’t chosen to move abroad, you never would have married me. Now she’s back, she’s struggling, and you can’t bear to see it. I get it.” “Talia—” “I’m tired, Hudson. Let’s talk tomorrow.” I walked into our bedroom and closed the door behind me. My hands were shaking. Not from anger, but from the crushing realization that I was right. On the night Hudson proposed, I asked him why he chose me. He shrugged and said, “You make sense.” At the time, I thought it was just his practical nature, his aversion to cliché romance. Now I realized he meant it literally. I was a sensible, comfortable choice. I wasn’t Celine—the woman who haunted his every thought. My phone buzzed in my hand. It was a text from Hudson. “She’s just a friend. If it bothers you, I won’t contact her again.” I didn’t reply. Another text followed. “I was wrong about the money. I’ll transfer the two million back to our joint account tomorrow. Treat it as a personal loan.” Still, silence. When the third message came through, I turned my phone off entirely. Outside, a gentle rain began to patter against the windowpane. I lay in bed, staring up at the dark ceiling. When we married three years ago, I genuinely believed I was the luckiest woman alive. Hudson was handsome, incredibly successful, and attentive. He kept flowers out of the house because of my allergies, and despite claiming to hate cats, he gladly helped me care for our three strays. He remembered every little detail of my routine. I thought it was love. Now I realized he was just a man who knew how to go through the motions of devotion. It didn’t actually matter who was on the receiving end. I tossed and turned, sleep completely out of reach. Around two in the morning, I got up to get a glass of water. A sliver of light was still escaping from under the living room door. Hudson hadn’t gone to bed. He was slumped on the sofa, clutching his phone. As I drew closer, I could see the glowing screen. It was an open chat window with Celine. The last message was from her, sent just a minute ago: “Thank you so much for today, Hudson. When can I drop off the keys to the estate?” He hadn’t replied yet. I stood behind him in the shadows for a long time, but he was too absorbed to notice. Finally, I broke the silence. “If you want to go see her, just go. You don’t have to sneak around.” Hudson jumped, the phone slipping from his fingers and clattering onto the hardwood floor. “How long have you been standing there?” he asked, scrambling to pick it up. His hands were clumsy, anxious. He immediately hit the power button, plunging the screen into darkness. “I wasn’t planning on seeing her.” “Then why aren’t you replying?” “I was trying to figure out what to say.” “Trying to figure out how to lie to me?” Hudson looked up at me, his eyes bloodshot and weary. “Talia, do you have to be so hostile?” “How do you want me to be?” I set my water glass down on the coffee table with a sharp clink. “You tell me she’s nothing, yet you’re hiding in the dark at 2:00 AM, afraid to reply to her in front of me. You claim the two million dollars was just a favor, but every single thing she posts online is a public tribute to you. What am I supposed to think?” Hudson stood up, keeping his voice low so it wouldn’t carry. “I’ve been married to you for three years, Talia. Have I ever lied to you?” “You’re lying to me right now.” He went silent. I stared deep into his eyes. “Hudson. Do you still love her?” The silence stretched between us, heavy and suffocating. I thought he wasn’t going to answer at all. “I’m not that careless with my heart,” he finally said. I let out a bitter laugh. What a carefully crafted response. Not a simple no, but a defense of his own character. I’m not that careless. It was his way of saying he had loved her, maybe still did, but was too disciplined to act on it fully. Yet, spending two million dollars on a woman you supposedly don’t love, and losing sleep over her texts, was the definition of careless. I didn’t press him. I grabbed my glass and walked back to the bedroom. Lying in the dark, I heard the faint murmur of his voice from the living room. He was making a call, keeping his tone hushed, but the quiet of the night carried his words through the door. “…Keep the keys. I won’t be coming over.” “It’s fine. Don’t worry about it.” “Get some sleep.” After he hung up, a profound silence settled over the apartment. A few minutes later, I heard his quiet footsteps approach our bedroom door. He paused outside, hovering for a long, agonizing moment, before turning back around. He didn’t come in. I barely slept. Just as the sky was turning a bruised shade of grey, the front door clicked shut. I got up and looked out the window. Hudson’s sedan was gone from the driveway. Where could he possibly be going at this hour? I checked my phone. Celine had updated her story with an audio clip. I tapped it. Her voice was thick with tears, trembling: “Hudson, are you really not coming? Please, I just need to see you.” It had been posted fifteen minutes ago. Hudson had been gone for exactly fifteen minutes. I sat on the edge of the mattress, a wave of pure absurdity washing over me. In three years of marriage, he had never once left the house without kissing me goodbye or leaving a note. Every rule he lived by was broken the moment Celine whistled. A vibration startled me. It wasn’t my phone—it was Hudson’s work phone, left behind on his nightstand. I picked it up. The lock screen was flooded with over twenty unread notifications, all from Celine. The latest was a voice note. I tapped play. “Hudson, I’m so sorry about the past. I never should have left for Europe. I regret it every single day. You still care about me, don’t you? Otherwise, you wouldn’t have saved my home.” As soon as the audio ended, a text popped up: “You told me once that your biggest regret in life was letting me walk away. Well, I’m back now. Can you… give us another chance?” I set the phone down carefully. His biggest regret. On our wedding day, during the toasts, Hudson had raised his glass, looked at me, and smiled. “I have absolutely no regrets,” he’d said. It turned out to be a lie. The doorbell rang. I walked over and opened it. A woman was standing on the porch, wearing a white dress, her long hair slightly damp from the mist, her eyes rimmed with red. Celine. She froze when she saw me, then managed a fragile, watery smile. “Hi, Talia. Is Hudson here?” “No.” “Oh. He promised he’d help me look over some restoration plans this morning, but I couldn’t reach him.” She peered past my shoulder into the foyer. “Do you mind if I wait inside?” I stepped aside, letting her pass. As she walked in, her eyes swept over the entryway, taking in his slippers, his coat, and his spare set of keys. “Did Hudson go out?” “Yes.” “But his keys are right here…” I didn’t offer an explanation. I watched her walk into the living room and sit down on the sofa—in the exact spot Hudson had been sitting just hours ago. Celine seemed to sense the tension. She lowered her head, nervously picking at her cuticles. “Talia, please don’t misunderstand. Hudson and I are just friends. He’s only helping me secure my family’s estate.” “I know.” “It’s just… I’ve been away for so long, and I feel so lost here. He’s the only one I can turn to.” “Mhm.” She looked up, a subtle, unreadable glint in her eyes. “Hudson has always been so good to me. Sometimes I wish I’d never left.” The words were delivered with a soft, wistful sigh, but the underlying message was loud and clear: If I hadn’t left, you wouldn’t be wearing that ring. I kept my expression blank. The sound of the front door opening broke the silence. Hudson walked in. The moment he spotted Celine sitting in our living room, he froze in his tracks. Celine stood up instantly, her eyes welling with fresh tears. “Hudson.” Hudson shot a tense glance at me before looking back at her. “What are you doing here?” “I couldn’t reach you, so I thought I’d stop by,” she said, her voice dropping into a soft pout. “I wanted to look over the restoration blueprints we talked about.” Hudson reached into his leather briefcase and pulled out a thick manila folder, handing it over to her. “Here are the blueprints. You can take them with you.” Celine took the folder but didn’t make a move to leave. She stood between us, looking from Hudson to me, biting her lip. “Did you two… have a fight? Is it because of me?” Before Hudson could find his voice, I spoke up. “No. We don’t fight.” It was the absolute truth. In three years, we had never raised our voices at each other. I used to think it was a sign of a perfect, mature relationship. Now I realized it was simply because he didn’t care enough to argue. After Celine finally left, the silence in the apartment became deafening. Hudson stood by the door, his hands shoved deep into his pockets, motionless. Finally, I broke the silence. “You left your work phone on the nightstand. Celine sent a few messages. I happened to see them.” I saw his knuckles tighten inside his pockets, but he said nothing. “Why did you two break up in the first place?” A long, agonizing pause followed. “Her parents didn’t approve of me back then,” he muttered. “They sent her to Europe.” “Did she say anything before she left?” “Yes,” Hudson’s voice was barely a whisper. “She told me to wait for her.” “But you didn’t.” “I did. I waited two years. She never came back.” So you settled for me. I kept the thought to myself, though the bitterness of it burned in my chest. Hudson looked up, trying to catch my gaze. “Talia, what we had is in the past. I’ll make it clear to her. I won’t contact her again.” “Have you actually thought this through?” I asked, searching his eyes. “Yes. I have.” “Then tell me, when you bought that estate, were you really just helping a friend? Or were you trying to buy back a piece of the past you never let go of?” Hudson opened his mouth to speak, but no sound came out. That was all the answer I needed. “I want a divorce.” Hudson went rigid. “What did you say?” “I want a divorce.” He stared at me for a few seconds, a disbelieving laugh escaping his lips. “Are you kidding me?” “Do I look like I’m joking?” Hudson tossed his briefcase onto the table and stepped closer, his brow furrowed. “Because of Celine? You’re throwing away our marriage over this?” “It’s not because of her,” I said, looking up to meet his eyes. “It’s because of you.” “What did I do?” “You never let her go.” Hudson scoffed. “I told you, I’ll set boundaries—” “You said that last night,” I interrupted. “And you said it again this morning. But you still stayed up waiting for her texts, you still drove out to see her at dawn, and you still kept her name on a multi-million-dollar wire transfer. How am I supposed to believe a single word you say, Hudson?” His jaw clenched, a muscle feathering under his skin. “I’ll handle it.” “Handle what?” I asked quietly. “Her? Or me?” He had no reply. I turned on my heel, went into the bedroom, and pulled a suitcase out from the back of the closet. In three years of marriage, my footprint in this apartment had remained surprisingly small. A few clothes, my everyday essentials. They barely filled half the bag. Hudson followed me inside, watching in silence as I packed. “Where are you going?” “My mother’s.” “Talia, please. Don’t do this. Don’t be impulsive.” I ignored him and zipped the suitcase shut. He reached out, his hand firmly gripping the handle to stop me. “We need to talk.” “About what?” “About us.” “There is no ‘us’ to talk about,” I said, looking at his hand on my bag. “You don’t love me, Hudson. You love Celine. You married me because she was a ghost across the ocean. Now that she’s back, I’m stepping aside. Isn’t that what you want?” Hudson’s grip tightened, his knuckles turning stark white. “I told you, there is nothing going on between her and me.” “Then prove it. Call her right now, in front of me, and tell her that you love me, and that she needs to stay out of our lives.” He didn’t move. I waited. Ten seconds. Twenty. A full minute of suffocating silence. “That’s what I thought,” I said, peeling his fingers off the suitcase. “Don’t stand in my way.” I wheeled the suitcase toward the front door, but Hudson rushed ahead, blocking the exit. “Talia, listen to me—” “Move, Hudson.” “No. I’m not letting you leave like this.” I looked up at him. His eyes were bloodshot, his voice cracking with emotion. “I know I messed up. I know I should have told you. But you can’t just walk away. We have three years of marriage. You can’t just throw that away.” “For three years of marriage, you’ve kept another woman in your heart, and I never said a word,” I whispered. Hudson opened his mouth, but the words died in his throat. I pushed past him and threw the door open. Celine was standing right outside. She still had the blueprints in her hands. It was obvious she hadn’t left the building at all. She looked at my suitcase, then glanced at Hudson behind me, a look of deep concern washing over her delicate features. “Talia, what’s going on? Where are you going?” I ignored her completely and dragged my suitcase down the hall. Celine turned to Hudson, her voice trembling. “Hudson, did something happen? Is this because of me?” “It has nothing to do with you,” Hudson said. But his eyes betrayed him. I saw the way he looked at her—there was a protective, intense spark in his gaze. It was a look he had never, not once, given to me. The elevator doors slid open, and I stepped inside. Hudson lunged forward, thrusting his hand between the closing doors at the very last second. “Talia, give me three days. Just three days to fix this.” “Don’t bother.”

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Fay had been suffering from severe emotional detachment for seven years, and in all that time, she never once initiated a conversation with me. Whenever I brought up anything—whether it was a major life decision or a minor household chore—she would only text back a “1” for yes, or a “2” for no. Even when I laid my diagnosis of end-stage kidney failure right in front of her, she merely offered a flat, distracted “Oh,” before turning on her heel to leave for work. My best friend, Connor, once tried to talk some sense into me. “That woman has less warmth than an air conditioner. No hot, no cold, just sterile. What are you even doing with her, Luke?” I just rubbed the silver band on my ring finger and forced a small smile. “She’s just sick. She doesn’t know how to express it. But she loves me.” Until a month later, on my birthday. I was running late to the restaurant. From a distance, I saw Fay sitting next to Connor, their shoulders pressed tightly together. The woman who had been cold as ice to me for seven years was laughing, her face radiant. She was gently wiping the rainwater from Connor’s forehead with a napkin. Connor was wearing Fay’s coat over his shoulders. I looked away, my eyes falling to my phone screen. I stared at the text I had sent her just minutes ago. [Fay, it’s pouring out here and I don’t have an umbrella. Can you pick me up?] [2] I stood frozen in the rain. Suddenly, it hit me. I was the one who was sick. Blind, deaf, and hopelessly stupid. … Connor spotted me and waved, a bright grin on his face. I walked over. Fay didn’t even look up. This was a woman who never lifted a finger at home, yet here she was, carefully rinsing Connor’s silverware with hot water. “Man, it’s a monsoon out there!” Connor said excitedly. “Tough drive, huh?” I nodded, my throat tight. He kept rambling, practically beaming. “I didn’t think I’d make it. When I walked out of the office, I was totally stranded. Thank God Fay had an umbrella and gave me a ride, or I would’ve been hopelessly late!” “Oh, really?” I managed a hollow smile, looking down at the woman sitting before me. “Since you had an umbrella, why didn’t you swing by to pick me up?” Fay didn’t stop what she was doing. She neatly set the polished utensils in front of Connor and said flatly, “Only had one umbrella.” Short, clipped, and final. As if that explained everything. One umbrella meant she could save Connor, but not me. But we worked at the same firm. We shared the exact same commute. The server brought out our entrees. The soup was topped with a thick, vibrant layer of chopped cilantro. “Here you go, ma’am. Extra cilantro, just like you requested in the notes.” “Perfect. Thank you,” Fay said, offering the server a rare, genuine smile. Connor took a sip, his eyes lighting up. “Wow, this is amazing! You always know exactly what I like.” Fay’s lips curved upward for a fleeting second. She was in a remarkably good mood. She shot me a silent, pointed look, gesturing for me to eat. I held my spoon, but my hand wouldn’t move. I can’t stand cilantro. Seven years together, and she still couldn’t remember. Or maybe she did, and she just didn’t care. Since my kidneys started failing, my senses had become hyper-sensitive. The pungent smell of the herb hit me, and a wave of nausea forced a dry heave out of my throat. Fay frowned at me. She didn’t say a word, but the cold irritation in her eyes spoke volumes. Connor stared at me. “Hey, Luke, if you don’t want yours, pass it over. I’ll eat it!” He winked, playfully scooping the cilantro out of my bowl and into his own. Fay looked at him with quiet approval, using her own chopsticks to place a tender piece of meat into his bowl. I watched in numb silence. At home, Fay’s germaphobia was so intense we had to use serving utensils for everything. I had no idea she was capable of sharing food so intimately with another man. Even though it was my birthday, not a single person at the table wished me a happy birthday. When the bill came, the restaurant offered a complimentary birthday dessert. Fay accepted it naturally and slid it right over to Connor. On our way out, she held the heavy glass door open for Connor. But the moment he passed through, she let go. The heavy door swung back violently, striking me right in the face. A sharp pain bloomed across my nose, forcing tears to my eyes. By the time I recovered and pushed my way outside, they were already thirty feet ahead, walking shoulder to shoulder, so close their sleeves brushed. It was as if I didn’t exist. They rounded the corner and vanished into the gray sheets of rain. Not once did either of them look back. I stood there in the cold, damp air for a long time, then turned and walked in the opposite direction. I went back to the office and buried myself in work until midnight. A colleague passing by my desk teased, “Still grinding, Luke? You’ve been sick—you should go home. Isn’t Fay worried?” I forced a smile and checked my phone. No missed calls. No texts. Just a single question mark Fay had sent two hours ago. Every time we had a disagreement, she would freeze me out. And every single time, I was the one who broke the silence, crawling back to apologize. I stared at that question mark until my vision blurred. Suddenly, the endless cycle felt incredibly exhausting. I opened the keyboard and typed out six words: [Fay, let’s break up.] Five minutes later, she replied: [2] No questions. No concern. Just a “2,” her standard code for refusal. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. I took a deep breath, trying to steady my racing heart. If it was over, I needed to cut every remaining tie. I opened the hospital patient portal, my fingers trembling as I clicked the button to schedule my transplant surgery. It was past midnight when I got back to the apartment. The place was pitch-black and silent. Fay was already asleep. I remembered all those nights she worked late. I had always stayed up, waiting for her. Even when my eyes were heavy with sleep, I’d leave the entryway light on so she wouldn’t walk into a dark home. I switched on my phone flashlight and walked quietly toward my bedroom. It was a small room, originally a study. Fay kept the master bedroom to herself, claiming my breathing kept her awake at night. The only times she ever stepped into my room were when she wanted physical intimacy. It was always mechanical, transactional. She would finish, get up, and leave without a single lingering touch. Since my diagnosis, she hadn’t crossed this threshold once. The next morning, I found Fay sitting at the dining table. She had made breakfast—only for herself—while listening to a financial podcast on her iPad. I walked past her, but her gaze remained fixed on the screen. Out on the balcony sat a pot of blue hydrangeas. I had bought them the day I got my diagnosis. After just two days of neglect, the vibrant petals had withered into dry, papery brown spheres. A sudden, sharp ache bloomed in my chest. I grabbed a watering can, carrying it back and forth, desperately soaking the dry soil, praying for a miracle. But the dead leaves simply floated to the top, lifeless and rotting. My strength dissolved. I collapsed onto the cold tile floor, tears streaming down my face. I was crying for the dying plant, but mostly, I was mourning myself—mourning seven years of a love that had rotted from the inside out. From the dining room, Fay didn’t even turn her head. She simply tapped her screen, turning up the volume of her podcast to drown out the sound of my crying. I wiped my face, stood up, and walked over to her. “We need to talk.” She paused the audio. She crossed her arms, her pinky finger tapping rhythmically against her elbow. It was her classic tell. Whenever I tried to talk to her, she would adopt this posture—her eyes unfocused, her mind completely elsewhere. I forced myself to speak anyway. “Did you see my text about breaking up?” She nodded slowly. The quiet pain flared up again. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?” I pleaded. She only stared at me, her brow furrowing slightly. Her lips parted, but no sound came out. Her phone alarm chimed. She picked up her bag and walked past me to the door. No hesitation. No second look. I was completely invisible. When she opened the front door, a familiar male voice drifted inside. “Hey, Luke!” Connor waved from the hallway, offering a bright smile. “Fay’s driving me to work today. You want a ride?” We had worked at the same company for seven years. Fay had always insisted on a strict boundary between our professional and personal lives. No matter how hard it rained or how cold it got, she had never once let me carpool with her. But today was Connor’s first day, and she was already playing chauffeur. A draft swept in from the balcony, sending a violent shiver through me. I reached out to close the glass door, but my foot caught on the heavy watering can. It tipped over, soaking my jeans with cold water. I quickly righted the can. By the time I looked up, they were gone. Down in the driveway, the engine roared to life and faded into the distance. An hour later, I dragged myself into the office. The moment I stepped into the bullpen, low whispers rippled through the desks. “Hey, did you see? That new guy got out of Fay’s passenger side. He tripped on his way in, and Fay literally carried him up the stairs on her back!” “Wait, is she finally dumping Luke?” “Has to be. In all these years, have you ever seen her drive Luke to work even once?” “Oof. The difference between who she loves and who she tolerates is brutal.” Seeing me approach, the group quickly scattered, coughing awkwardly. I walked toward my desk, only to find Connor sitting in my chair. “What are you doing here?” I asked, my voice tight. Connor pointed innocently to the brass nameplate on the desk. “Fay told me to sit here.” Underneath my old title, my name had been replaced with “Connor Webb”. Fay handed Connor an employee handbook, turning on her heel to leave. “Fay!” I called out, stepping into her path. “Don’t you think you owe me an explanation?” She didn’t look back. “I’ve told you before, Luke. In the office, you address me by my title.” Connor stood up quickly, his face a mask of concern. “Fay, maybe you should explain. I don’t want Luke getting the wrong idea.” The air went dead silent for a beat. Fay turned to look at me, pointing toward a cramped desk tucked near the restrooms. “Your new station is over there.” Out in the hallway, the crowd of onlookers grew larger. Swallowing the hot lump of humiliation in my throat, I managed to squeeze out, “Why?” Perhaps she just couldn’t be burdened with an explanation. Fay glanced at the department manager, who immediately pushed his way through the crowd, looking anxious. “Luke, let’s not get emotional,” the manager said quickly. “Connor’s portfolio was selected to represent the firm in the international showcase, and he just took home the Grand Prize. You’ve been here a long time, but at the end of the day, this role belongs to the top talent.” What portfolio? A cold dread seized my chest. I snatched the catalog from the manager’s hands and flipped through the pages. It was my work. Every line, every shadow—the result of a grueling month of sleepless nights and endless cups of coffee. But there, printed in clean, crisp lettering in the bottom-right corner, was the name: “Connor Webb”. I stared at Fay, my eyes wide with disbelief. “You did this?” She was the only one who had the keys to my study. The only one who could have taken my sketchbooks. “You took my designs and gave them to Connor? Under his name?” Facing my accusation, Fay stood beside Connor, her expression utterly unchanged. “Does it matter? The outcome is the same.” Her voice was flat, devoid of any warmth or remorse. My anger was a stone dropped into a bottomless well. It didn’t even make a splash, because she simply didn’t care. “But I care!” I screamed, the tears finally spilling over. “That was my life’s work! It matters to me!” The manager looked down, refusing to meet my eyes. Pitiful glances shot toward me from the hallway. Fay remained unfazed. She turned to the manager. “He’s too unstable right now. He’s not fit to work. Place him on administrative leave.” A bitter laugh escaped my lips. “Leave? Don’t bother, Fay. I quit.” I unclipped my ID badge and slammed it onto the desk. Then, I walked out. Outside, the sky was a bruised charcoal grey as I hailed a cab. The humid summer wind felt cold against my damp face. I remembered the day I confessed my feelings to Fay. It had been raining just like this. We had been dancing around each other for months, but she would never make a move. Unable to keep my feelings bottled up, I finally gathered the courage to tell her I loved her. But after my confession, Fay vanished. For three days, her phone was dead. Just as I was preparing to pack up my heart and move on, she showed up at my doorstep, completely drenched. She told me about her childhood, how her parents’ bitter divorce had left her emotionally crippled, terrified of intimacy. But for me, she said, she wanted to try. I would never forget the look in her eyes when she slipped a simple silver band onto my ring finger. “Luke, I don’t know how to say beautiful things,” she had whispered, her eyes shining with tears. “But I will show you every single day how much I love you. One day, I’ll replace this cheap silver with a diamond, and I’ll give you the life you deserve.” Believing every word, I quit my secure job to pour all my energy into helping her start her own firm. Back then, Connor had been outraged on my behalf. “Luke, you have an Ivy League degree and a killer resume. Why are you wasting your potential in her tiny, unestablished startup?” I had just laughed, feeling like the luckiest man alive to have both a fiercely loyal best friend and a devoted partner. I had no idea when, or how, the two of them had started drifting together. A stray drop of rain caught my cheek. I slid the silver band off my finger—the metal worn smooth from years of my anxious touching—and tossed it out the open window of the cab. “Driver, change of plans,” I said quietly. “Take me to St. Jude’s Hospital.” Sitting in the examination room, the doctor reviewed my chart. “Conservative therapy can keep you stable for a while longer, Luke. A transplant is high-risk, especially in your current state. Are you sure you don’t want to discuss this with your family first?” I looked out the window. The storm had finally broken, blurring the city into streaks of grey. I picked up my phone. My thumb hovered over Fay’s contact. Her profile picture sat right next to Connor’s in my recent messages. For the first time, I noticed how matching their profile aesthetics were—like a couple’s set. I clicked on her social media feed. Fay, who only ever posted industry articles and forgot our anniversaries, had actually posted a photo. It was a shot of her and Connor from behind, walking close together. The caption read: “He wanted to take a picture.] I set the phone down. Tears pricked the corners of my eyes, but I swallowed them down. I took a deep breath. “I’ve made up my mind,” I whispered to the doctor. “It’s time to end this.” As they prepped me for the procedure, the cold metal of the instruments felt like a relief. A clean break. On the day of my discharge, the older doctor handed me a bag of supplements. He gave my shoulder a reassuring squeeze. “You’ve been coming to this hospital all alone since the day you were diagnosed, Luke,” he said softly. “Just remember—before you can take care of anyone else, you have to take care of yourself.” I nodded, my throat too tight for words. When I unlocked the apartment door, the first thing I saw was Fay and Connor. They were tangled together on the living room sofa, completely naked. The woman who acted like a cold, unresponsive machine around me was suddenly alive, pouring out years of pent-up passion. “Connor, I love you so much…” “How much?” “Enough to bring you the stars. I want you to be the first thing I see when I open my eyes every single day…” She ran her hands hungrily over his bare back, her voice thick with emotion. She said it so effortlessly, as if she had rehearsed those lines a thousand times in her head. Even though I had prepared myself for the worst, the physical sight of it felt like a thousand tiny needles piercing my heart. But I didn’t scream. I didn’t ask for explanations. I simply turned around to walk away. Fay finally reacted. She scrambled to pull up her clothes, running out into the hallway after me. “Luke! Wait! I can explain!” I stopped and looked at her, finding the situation almost comical. “Fine. Explain.” Fay bit her lip, touching the bridge of her nose. She couldn’t look me in the eye. It was her classic nervous tic whenever she lied. “Connor and I… we both grew up in broken homes. I just wanted to look out for him. Are you hungry? Let me make you some dinner.” Deflection. Whenever she faced a question she didn’t want to answer, she pretended nothing had happened. With a dramatic thud, Connor dropped to his knees in front of me, tears welling in his eyes. “Luke, blame me. Don’t blame Fay. I was the one who initiated it. You always told me how cold and distant she was, and I… I guess I just got curious if she was actually incapable of love.” I leaned down, looking closely at the man I had called my brother for twenty years. I had truly believed our friendship was indestructible. “Was it curiosity that made you steal my designs and take my job, too?” “Luke! Watch your mouth!” Fay snapped, stepping defensively in front of Connor. The woman who had frozen me out for seven years was now glaring at me with raw hostility to protect another man. I couldn’t stand the sight of them for another second. I picked up my suitcase and turned toward the door. Fay took a step to follow me, but Connor clung to her leg, sobbing hysterically, pinning her in place. By the time she finally calmed him down, I was gone. She searched every coffee shop, park, and grocery store I frequented, but there was no sign of me. Seeing her look so hollowed out, Connor tried to soothe her. “Don’t sweat it. You guys have been together for seven years. Luke’s not going anywhere. Besides, with his kidney condition, where could he possibly go? Just relax.” A sudden knock on the door made Fay jump. She ran to open it. “Luke, where were—” But it was just a courier holding a sealed plastic bag. “Delivery from St. Jude’s Hospital. They said a Mr. Luke Davis left his discharge papers behind.” Fay opened the packet. Inside, printed in bold black letters, was the cover sheet: “Post-Operative Recovery Guidelines for Kidney Transplant Recipients.] Late that night, I sat in the boarding lounge of the international terminal. Just before the flight crew announced final boarding, my phone buzzed with a text from Fay: [Luke, don’t do anything reckless. Please, let’s just sit down and talk this through.] I stared at the screen, a quiet peace settling over me. I typed a single number back: [2] I hit send, popped the SIM card out of my phone, threw it in the trash, and boarded my flight.

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I pulled three consecutive all-nighters to finish my research project early. I wanted to clear my schedule to celebrate Oliver’s birthday. But instead of a text from him, my sister Zora’s Instagram DM popped up first: “Oh my god, Chicago is so much fun!” The photo showed her and Oliver, heads tilted together, smiling. My smile froze. “You’re in Chicago?” “Yeah! Got here three days ago. Wanted to surprise Oliver for his birthday!” I stared at the screen, then calmly called Oliver. “Isn’t your defense in two days? I thought you said you were drowning in prep work and couldn’t make time for anything?” Oliver’s voice was perfectly level. “It’s not that hard for me, Lydia. But Zora rarely gets to travel. I knew you were buried in your lab work these past few days, so I figured I’d take care of her for you.” My eyes stung. A wave of bone-deep exhaustion finally crashed over me. To keep up with Oliver, I had never allowed myself to stop. What took him a day to master took me five. I thought if I just kept my head down and ran fast enough, I would eventually catch up and find a place in his heart. But the truth is, you don’t have to run for someone who actually wants you. I remembered the way he used to ruffle Zora’s hair, calling her “silly but cute” with a gentle warmth in his eyes that he had never, not once, shown me. I fell silent for a moment. Then, I opened my inbox and replied to the offer letter from Los Angeles that had been sitting there for three days. 01 I turned off my phone and crashed. The research project had been brutal. Starting from scratch, I had poured my heart and soul into getting these results. The deadline wasn’t even until tomorrow, but my lab partners knew I had planned a birthday surprise for Oliver. They had pushed themselves to help me wrap up early. When I finally woke up, my phone was blown up with over a dozen missed calls. From Zora, from Oliver, and from my mother. I only called my mother back. “What is wrong with you?” her voice boomed through the receiver. “Your sister rarely visits Chicago, and you’re throwing a tantrum? Call them back right now.” I blinked rapidly, trying to swallow down the sudden lump of hurt in my throat. “Mom, I didn’t even know Zora was coming. I just pulled three all-nighters. Am I really expected to drop everything and cater to her mood right now?” “She didn’t want to disturb you because she knew you were busy! She told Oliver, didn’t she? Why are you being so difficult today, Lydia?” “Difficult.” Growing up, “easy” and “mature” were the only words anyone used to describe me. I studied hard—I was mature. I got straight A’s—I was mature. I never fought for anything, never demanded attention—I was just so mature… But no one ever stopped to ask me if I actually wanted to be. My mother kept talking, but her words blurred into static. Except for the last sentence—the one I knew by heart. “Zora’s health isn’t great, you know that. Just look after her.” I calmly hung up. “I’ve looked after her enough.” My mom always said Zora was an unexpected miracle. She had been born sick, a constant visitor to hospitals. Naturally, my parents’ entire world revolved around her. And I, very early on, had learned to live in the quiet corners of their neglect. I opened Instagram. It was a photo dump. Nine photos, and Zora looked stunning in every single one. Right in the middle of the grid was her and Oliver. She was radiant, her smile splitting her face; his eyes were filled with soft, indulgent warmth. Underneath, a neighbor had commented: “Zora, your boyfriend is so handsome!” Zora had replied: “Oh stop, Mrs. Davis! That’s my sister’s boyfriend—my future brother-in-law!” To which the neighbor replied: “Ah, my bad… my eyes must be failing me.” I let out a soft, humorless laugh. Her eyes weren’t failing her. Mine were. 02 When did Oliver start looking after Zora like it was his job? Probably around the same time everyone else decided she was the only one who needed taking care of. Her name was Zora—meaning “life”. My mother used to say they didn’t expect Zora to achieve greatness; they just wanted her to stay healthy and be happy by their side. At first, I felt the same way. I worked twice as hard, trying to give her the best of everything. But gradually, everyone forgot that I had needs, too. Our birthdays were only two days apart, but the family always celebrated them as one. When we were kids, I didn’t mind. Until the year Oliver brought over two gifts. Zora immediately grabbed the pink cashmere gloves. “I love these! Thank you, Oliver!” I froze. Oliver had promised me those exact gloves weeks ago. I looked at him. For a second, he seemed taken aback, too. But then he simply smiled, ruffling Zora’s hair. “If you like them, they’re yours, Zora.” I blinked back the sting in my eyes and lowered my head. “That’s fine,” I whispered. “I actually like the blue ones anyway.” A tear slipped down my cheek, splashing onto my phone screen. Just then, my screen lit up with a text. It was from Henry, my senior in the lab. Henry: “I ran that dataset one more time for you. You can use it directly—no errors.” I stared at the message, a bit stunned. It was the set of data I had rushed through without double-checking in my hurry to finish. I hadn’t realized Henry had caught it. I bit my lip, and on a strange, sudden impulse, I typed back: “Thank you, Henry. Can I buy you lunch tomorrow to make up for it?” 03 My screen went quiet. Then, the bubble popped up: “Henry is typing…” It took him a long moment to reply. “Tomorrow? Aren’t you supposed to be celebrating Oliver’s birthday?” I smiled sadly. “No need.” As soon as I sent it, I felt a wave of guilt. It felt cheap, like I was using Henry as some sort of shield. I was about to unsend the message and explain, when his reply flashed on the screen. “Sure.” Now I was the one left speechless. Oh well. It was just a lunch. No big deal. Besides… Oliver probably wouldn’t bother reaching out to me tomorrow anyway. The next morning, I woke up with a bad case of cold feet. I wanted to back out. But before I could text him, Henry beat me to it: “What are we eating? Meet at noon?” Locked in, I had no choice but to get ready. I washed my hair, put on some makeup, and arrived on time. Henry was already there. When he looked up and saw me, he paused. “You look beautiful today.” “Thanks, Henry.” I felt a sudden flutter of awkwardness and avoided his eyes. But he caught me off guard by asking, “Is the look for Oliver?” I opened my mouth, surprised. Henry was our advisor’s star student, the golden boy of the department. He was one of those naturally gifted geniuses I could never hope to compete with. We weren’t particularly close. I honestly hadn’t expected him to accept my invitation, let alone ask such personal questions. Usually, I was too intimidated to even speak to him. “Not really…” I mumbled. Seeing my discomfort, Henry didn’t push. We ate in comfortable silence. But when the dishes arrived, I realized they were all my favorites—spicy, bold flavors. “How did you know…?” Henry smiled gently. “I noticed during our lab dinners. I tend to observe people.” It didn’t feel invasive. Instead, a quiet warmth bloomed in my chest. It had been a very long time since anyone had remembered what I liked. “Thank you,” I said, my voice suddenly thick. Henry noticed my glassy eyes but didn’t pry. He simply placed a piece of chili-seared beef onto my plate. Just then, the restaurant doors opened, and a familiar burst of laughter echoed through the space. I froze. I turned my head. It was Zora and Oliver. They stopped dead in their tracks when they saw me. “Lydia!” Zora squealed, running over to wrap her arms around my shoulder. “What are you doing here? You didn’t answer my calls, I was so worried!” Oliver’s eyes narrowed slightly as he looked at Henry. A flash of something like hostility crossed his face before vanishing. He stepped closer, his voice cool and measured. “Lydia, what’s going on with your phone?” I forced a small smile. “Must be broken.” It was a terrible excuse, but it was a way out. Zora gasped, looking at Henry. “Wow, hello! You’re gorgeous. Are you my sister’s friend?” Henry ignored her outstretched hand, giving her a polite, distant nod. “Nice to meet you.” Zora looked momentarily embarrassed, but she quickly bounced back, turning to me with a bright smile. “Lydia, isn’t this place amazing? Oliver brought me here specifically! If we’re eating this for lunch, what are the plans for tonight?!” “Specifically.” I looked at Oliver. I knew he hated spicy food. He was highly disciplined, preferred bland, healthy meals, and couldn’t stand Sichuan cuisine. But Zora loved it. And so did I. But what I liked had never really mattered. 04 “I’m treating Henry to thank him for his help,” I said, trying to diffuse the sudden chill in the air. “Since you’re here, why don’t you join us? Henry, do you mind?” Henry smiled warmly at me. “Not at all.” The four of us sat down. Zora immediately took over the conversation, chatting animatedly about her sightseeing over the last few days. She was like a hyperactive puppy. That description wasn’t mine, of course. It was Oliver’s. It’s funny how, once your eyes finally open, all the ignored details of the past start rushing back to hit you. How had Oliver ever described me? “Lydia, you’re always so sensible.” That was it. Nothing more. They ordered more dishes, none of which were things I liked. Actually, I used to like them, but once Zora claimed them as her favorites, I stopped. Maybe it was just a pathetic, unspoken rebellion of mine—declaring I didn’t care for them until I actually believed my own lie. Take the sweet and sour ribs, for instance. I always claimed they were too greasy. But suddenly, a golden-brown rib was placed gently in my bowl. I looked up. It was Henry. As Henry served me, I saw Oliver’s jaw tighten. But why should he care? He had been busy putting food on Zora’s plate the entire time. The lunch ended on an awkward, strained note. I was the one to cut it short. “Thank you for coming, Henry,” I said. My words were polite, but my eyes carried a deep apology. Henry smiled, his gaze soft. “My pleasure. See you around, Lydia.” He didn’t bother saying goodbye to the other two. “Lydia, is he…” As soon as Henry walked out, Zora leaned in with a sly grin, nudging my shoulder. She knew Oliver was standing right there. Oliver, who was supposed to be my boyfriend. But Oliver wouldn’t care. I could see it in his eyes. He had never once lost his composure because of me. That evening, I dragged myself through dinner with them, followed by a walk and a movie. By the end of the night, Zora insisted she wanted a drink. I frowned. Even Oliver said, “Zora, don’t be reckless. Your heart.” “Oh, come on, Oliver! Just a little bit. I’m so happy today!” Oliver glanced at me, then sighed. “Fine. Just a sip.” I turned and walked away without a word. I didn’t touch a drop of alcohol. Zora didn’t have to face the consequences of a hangover, but our master’s defense was tomorrow. I couldn’t afford to mess up, and I assumed Oliver couldn’t either. But he drank with her anyway. And he drank a lot. By the end of the night, my job of “looking after Zora” morphed into dragging both of them back to the hotel. I was angry. I threw Oliver onto his bed, ready to leave. But as I turned toward the door, I heard him mumble. “Zora…” I froze, cold dread seeping into my bones. I didn’t play the part of the tragic heroine who runs away crying. Instead, I marched back to the bed and grabbed Oliver by his collar. “Oliver. Who did you just call?” Oliver was too drunk to answer. I had never checked his phone before. I had always thought it was beneath me. But tonight, I chose to be cheap. His text logs were clean. Everything looked normal. Until— I found a hidden album in his gallery. There were only two photos in it. I recognized the first one instantly. It was from when we were ten, playing in the snow. Zora was wearing a bright orange puffer jacket, looking like a little burst of sunshine against the white winter. The camera was centered entirely on her. I was barely visible, a blurry shoulder in the far corner of the frame. The second photo was a digital note. The top line was written in Zora’s messy, childish handwriting. The line beneath it was in a young Oliver’s sharp, elegant script. The background was decorated with cute, childish doodles. But to me, it looked like a knife. “Zora Loves Oliver.” “Oliver & Zora.” I let out a quiet laugh. It was so incredibly pathetic. But as I laughed, tears began to stream down my face. I didn’t close the album. I dropped his phone onto the mattress beside him. Then, I pulled out my own phone and sent him one last text. “Oliver, let’s break up.” 05 The brutal reality of adulthood is that even if you spend the night crying until your chest aches, you still have to wake up, put on a professional outfit, and deliver a flawless master’s defense the next morning. I channeled all my grief and anger into my presentation. The sheer adrenaline made my delivery sharper than ever, earning a round of thunderous applause from the committee. Down in the auditorium, my lab mates were waiting with a bouquet of flowers. Henry stood near the back, giving me a quiet, reassuring nod. I had never been the star student, but today, I had outdone myself. Oliver, on the other hand—the boy who was supposed to breeze through his defense—faltered. He was visibly unprepared, his voice flat and distracted. When he finished, the applause was sparse and polite. He apologized to the panel, his eyes scanning the crowd until they locked onto me. But I had already turned my back, walking out to get ready for our department’s celebratory dinner. By the time I changed and walked down to the lobby, Oliver was waiting for me. He looked exhausted, a cigarette burning between his fingers—a habit he rarely indulged in. “Can we talk?” I kept my eyes forward. “There’s nothing to say.” Oliver looked down at his shoes. “About the photos… I can explain.” “Explain what? We grew up together, Oliver. Do you think I don’t recognize Zora’s handwriting? Or did you just think I was too stupid to care?” “Lydia, do you have to be so hostile? Zora rarely gets to visit. You’re ruining everything over a tantrum—” “Ruining everything?” I let out a harsh laugh, the dam inside me finally breaking. “I’m throwing a tantrum? Oliver, are you serious? Did Zora even bother to tell me she was coming to Chicago? I pulled three all-nighters just to clear my schedule for your birthday, and you think I’m the one throwing a tantrum? Did you mention to me, even once, that you were spending all your time with her? And those photos—did I hidden-archive them on your phone, or did you?” All the resentment I had buried for years spilled out in a bitter rush. Oliver stared at me, stunned. He had never seen me like this. He didn’t know what to do with a Lydia who wasn’t compliant. Then, he muttered, “She’s your sister. How can you be jealous of her?” “How can I be jealous?” I wiped a tear from my cheek, a cold, empty smile spreading across my face. The years I had spent chasing him suddenly felt like a massive joke. “I am jealous, Oliver. Go ahead and call the cops on me. To be honest, I’ve been jealous for a very long time.” I turned on my heel, ready to walk away. But then I stopped and looked back. “Oh, and don’t lay the blame for your terrible defense today on our breakup. You got cocky and lazy. That’s on you. And one more thing—I used to think you were brilliant. Today? You were mediocre.” I walked away, leaving him standing there in the cold wind. 06 I hurried away, only to collide with someone around the corner. I looked up. It was Henry. The bravado I had shown Oliver crumbled instantly. My mascara was running, and I was a total mess. Embarrassed, I tried to push past him, but his hand gently caught my wrist. “Where are you running? You looked so fierce a second ago.” He pulled out a tissue and gently dabbed at the tears on my cheeks. I stared at him, frozen. “Henry, do I look hideous right now?” I asked, the words slipping out before I could stop them. Henry’s gaze held mine, his expression intensely serious. “No. You’ve always been beautiful. And I don’t just mean your face. You were beautiful during your defense today, you were beautiful when you were angry just now, and the way you work so hard… that’s the most beautiful thing of all.” I stared at him, my mouth slightly open, completely speechless.

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Ever since I was diagnosed with narcolepsy—or what the doctors could only call a bizarre, daylight-onset coma—I would lose consciousness the moment the sun came up. We consulted endless specialists, flew to clinics across the country, but every diagnostic test came back frustratingly normal. Then, on the eve of my son’s birthday, I had a dream. A strange woman stood before me, her silhouette stark against a blinding white background. “You don’t actually believe you’re sick, do you? That a medical condition is what keeps you asleep all day?” I stared at her, paralyzed with confusion. She leaned in, a sharp, knowing smile on her lips. “It’s because my soul is fused with yours. We split this body. Twelve hours each. I get the day; you get the night.” “And the best part? Your husband and your son know all about it. In fact, to keep me around, they ran the only spiritual medium who could separate us right out of the city.” My mind went entirely blank. My hands, hanging at my sides, began to shake violently. She looked thoroughly satisfied with my horror. As the dreamscape began to fade with the rising sun, she whispered mockingly: “Don’t believe me? I’ll step back for the next few days. See for yourself.” … For three years, this was the first time I had ever opened my eyes during the day. Sunlight streamed through the blinds, casting golden stripes across our bedroom. The alarm on the nightstand buzzed. Elliott, who had been heading toward the master bath, stopped. Seeing me wide awake, his eyes softened, and he slid back into bed, wrapping his arms around me from behind. “Morning, beautiful,” he murmured, his voice thick with sleep. “Do I get a reward? I did exactly what you asked last night—I didn’t touch Naomi once.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. Ever since the daylight sleeping started, Elliott and I hadn’t been intimate. Not once. At first, he was too consumed by worry to even think about it. But at some point, the late nights started. Every evening when I woke up at dusk, the house was dark, empty, and silent. Unaware of my sudden terror, Elliott buried his face in the crook of my neck, breathing me in. His voice was low, teasing, and intimate. “Melanie, I’m skipping the office today. Let me just drop Toby off at school, and when I get back…” Before he could finish, our five-year-old, Toby, burst through the door. “Daddy! You’re hogging Mommy again!” “You broke our promise! You don’t have to work during the day, so you get her all the time. We agreed mornings belong to me!” I stared blankly at the scene playing out in front of me, feeling as if I’d been doused in freezing water. It all made sense now. Why Elliott, the CEO of his firm, worked so late every night. He wasn’t working. He was saving all his daylight hours to spend with Melanie, leaving only the dark, exhausting nights to Naomi. Elliott pecked Toby on the forehead, then leaned in to kiss my lips. I turned my head away sharply, a bitter lump rising in my throat. “Go help Toby brush his teeth first,” I said, struggling to keep my voice steady. “You know he always gets his collar soaked when he does it himself.” Without waiting for a response, I threw off the duvet, practically bolted out of bed, and locked myself in the bathroom. By the time I unlocked the door and stepped out, Toby was already dressed in his preschool uniform, sitting at the kitchen island. Elliott emerged from the kitchen holding a warm skillet. “Here we go, sweetheart. Sunny-side up eggs and avocado toast, just the way you like them.” I stared at the plate. I had always preferred a simple bowl of warm oatmeal, but Melanie must have craved this instead. My chest felt heavy, as if a lead weight were crushing my lungs. Yet, in some twisted form of self-torture, I picked up the fork under Elliott’s expectant gaze and took a bite. It tasted like cardboard. “It’s good,” I lied. I needed to see how far they had gone for Melanie over the last three years. I needed to witness the full depth of their betrayal. Before they left, Toby wrapped his little arms tightly around my waist. “Mommy, can you bring me two lunchboxes today?” “I want to save one for dinner. I’ll ask the teacher to heat it up for me. I don’t want to eat the food the “other” mommy makes.” I stood frozen as Toby clung to me, my fingertips turning numb with cold. No wonder. Every night, I would wake up and pour my heart into preparing a beautiful dinner, only for Toby to take two bites, drop his fork, and run to his room. I thought he was just a picky eater. It wasn’t that. He had already eaten the dinner prepared by his “real” mother during the day. Elliott scooped Toby up into his arms, his brow furrowing slightly. “Toby, we’ve talked about this.” I snapped my gaze to Elliott, my fingernails biting hard into my palms. A tiny, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. “Naomi is still your mother. You need to respect her enough to finish the dinner she makes you.” Seeing Toby pout, Elliott chuckled softly and pinched his cheek. “Besides, Daddy has found a way to let Mommy Melanie stay with us for much longer.” “Remember that spiritual medium who almost let Naomi find out the truth last year?” “He knows how to bind her soul so Naomi only wakes up once every seven days. Daddy’s assistant is already tracking him down.” A sharp, agonizing pain pierced my heart. The rest of Elliott’s words faded into a loud, ringing silence. I managed to whisper, “I’m going back to sleep,” before retreating inside and shutting the door on them. I sat alone in the quiet, echoing house. When the tears finally stopped flowing, there was nothing left inside me but an empty hollow. I pulled out my phone, scrolled to the very bottom of my contacts, and found the number I had saved months ago. To: Alistair “I will pay you triple your fee.” “But when you bind my soul, I need you to do one more thing.” … Later that morning, an emergency cropped up at Elliott’s firm. He went in to resolve it, wrapping up his other meetings while he was there. For the first time in years, he didn’t have to “work late” that evening. But when he and Toby returned at twilight, their warm, affectionate behavior from the morning had vanished completely. They looked at me as if I were a stranger occupying their space. “Hi, Mom,” Toby mumbled, skirting past me to head straight to his room. And Elliott, facing the wife he hadn’t seen all day, offered only a cold, practiced indifference. “Oh, you’re awake.” If this had been the past, I would have run to him, excited to ask about his day and share whatever little things had happened in my quiet hours. Today, I merely nodded. I turned my back on him and walked into the kitchen. At dinner, Toby pushed his food around, took two reluctant bites, and dropped his napkin. “Can I go to my room?” But with Elliott actually at the table tonight, he couldn’t let it slide. He cleared his throat, his tone firm. “Toby, sit back down. You don’t disrespect the effort your mother put into making this dinner.” I stared at them, finding the irony almost comical. Only hours ago, I had lovingly packed leftover roasted chicken and vegetables into two bento boxes and brought them to Toby’s preschool. He had devoured every bite with a massive smile on his face. Yet here we were, with the exact same ingredients, cooked the exact same way, and he refused to even touch it. It wasn’t the food. He just hated that the woman who cooked it was me. I stood up abruptly, snatched Toby’s plate from the table, and walked over to the sink, dumping it with a loud clatter. “If you don’t want to eat, go to your room. Don’t ruin everyone else’s appetite.” It was the first time I had ever spoken to Toby like that. No matter how difficult or spoiled he had been, I had always met him with infinite patience. Startled, Toby burst into tears. He cried loudly, casting covert glances at me, clearly expecting me to fold, to rush over and pull him into my lap the way I always did. But I only frowned. I turned around, went into the master bedroom, and shut the door, letting the wood block out his escalating wails. It took half an hour for the crying to stop, dying down as Toby cried himself to sleep. Shortly after, Elliott stepped into the room. He slid his arms around my waist from behind, pulling a small velvet jewelry box from his pocket and draping a diamond tennis bracelet over my wrist. My chest tightened. Earlier today, shortly after Elliott texted that he was heading to the office, his personal assistant had arrived at our house with several luxury boutique couriers in tow. “Mrs. Ward, Mr. Ward said he’s tied up today. Should we leave these apology gifts upstairs as usual?” Curiosity—or perhaps a grim desire for truth—led me to follow the assistant up to the 25th-floor penthouse closet. The first thing I saw on the wall was a massive portrait of Elliott, Toby, and me at Disneyland. Or rather, Melanie in my body, looking radiant. Inside the walk-in closet were rows of designer handbags, couture dresses, and three custom-built jewelry islands. When Elliott and I married, his startup was on the verge of bankruptcy. I remembered the night he proposed on one knee with a cheap silver band, swearing that one day he would buy me enough diamonds to fill an entire vault. But as his business grew, his time dwindled. His promises were deferred, year after year. And yet, another woman had stepped into my skin and claimed the life he had promised to build for me. I violently shook my arm, knocking the tennis bracelet from Elliott’s hand. It clattered onto the hardwood floor. I had seen the receipt for this exact bracelet in the boutique bags delivered this morning. It wasn’t a gift of love; it was a companion piece bought to meet a minimum spending limit for one of Melanie’s designer bags. Elliott stared at the fallen jewelry, his eyes shifting from confusion to a cold, familiar annoyance. Looking at him, I finally spoke. “Elliott, I want a divorce.” He froze, the word registering slowly. “No way. Absolutely not!” The panic in his eyes was real as he reached out to grab my hand. I saw my own reflection in his pupils, but I knew with absolute certainty that he wasn’t looking at me. He was desperate to keep the body that housed Melanie. “You love someone else, Elliott. I’m stepping aside so you can be with her. Isn’t that what you want?” Elliott blinked, stunned. “What?” Then, a harsh, dismissive laugh escaped him. “I wondered why you’ve been acting like this all day. You think I have a mistress?” I realized then that he had no idea I knew about Melanie. To him, the concept of two souls sharing one body was too bizarre to ever be discovered. If Melanie hadn’t revealed herself to me, I would have spent my entire life in the dark. I didn’t bother explaining. “Believe whatever you want.” My silence only hardened his contempt. He stepped closer, his voice dripping with condescension. “Naomi, be realistic. Do you really think you can walk away from this?” “You’re twenty-eight, not eighteen. You’re a mother who hasn’t worked a day in years. Without me, how are you going to afford a life like this?” “Go to bed. We have Toby’s birthday party tomorrow.” With that, he turned on his heel and walked out, heading to Toby’s room. I watched his back disappear, feeling nothing but a profound, exhausting emptiness. When I woke up the next morning, the atmosphere in the house had shifted completely. It was as if they were entirely different people. The impatience and irritation that usually shadowed Elliott’s face when he looked at me were gone, replaced by a soft, attentive warmth. Toby crawled into bed with me, snuggling close and whispering about how much he hated the “bad mommy” from last night who wouldn’t let him eat. He was talking to Melanie, of course, but his words only made my chest ache with a dull, hollow throb. Because they had both slept in, we had to rush to get dressed and drive over to the private dining club where Toby’s birthday lunch was being held. The moment we stepped into the private room, family members swarmed us. “Toby looks more and more like Elliott every day!” “Melanie, sweetheart, thank you so much for the plum wine you had Elliott send over. Your father-in-law and I absolutely loved it.” “She sent me some too! Oh, it was divine!” As Elliott’s mother and aunt chatted, none of the other relatives batted an eye. It was clear as day: Elliott had already introduced Melanie to his entire family under my name, or perhaps they simply knew and accepted her. They had built an entire life around her, while I, the actual wife, was treated like a ghost who had finally decided to show up. After lunch came the cake. Toby proudly cut the first slice and brought it directly to me. “For you, Mommy Melanie!” His eyes were bright with adoration. I looked down at the perfectly iced slice of cake. In the three years since Melanie had taken over my days, I hadn’t attended a single one of Toby’s birthday parties. The first year, I woke up in the evening to a smashed plate of half-eaten frosting and squished fruit. After that, they simply stopped saving any for me. After pressing the paper plate into my hand, Toby tugged on my sleeve, gesturing for me to lean down. He leaned in close and whispered in my ear: “Mommy Melanie, my birthday wish this year was for the bad mommy to go away forever. I only want you.” I stared at this little boy. When I was in labor with him, the doctors had told Elliott that my life was in severe danger and they might only be able to save one of us. I had begged them to save my baby. I endured forty-eight hours of excruciating labor just to bring him into this world. A bitter smile touched my lips as I reached out to ruffle his hair one last time. “Okay,” I whispered. “Mommy will make your wish come true.” “If you don’t want me, I won’t want you either.” Elliott walked over, joining us. He put a hand on Toby’s shoulder, then wrapped his other arm around my waist, pressing a kiss to my cheek. “What secrets are you two whispering about? Share with—” Before he could finish, a sudden, violent wave of nausea surged up my throat. I pushed him away and began to gag uncontrollably. The smell of his cologne, his touch, his breath—it all made my stomach heave. The room erupted into worried murmurs as relatives gathered around. Without answering their questions, Elliott scooped me into his arms, ushered Toby out, and drove at breakneck speed to the hospital. In the exam room, the doctor handed us the results. “Pregnancy: Five weeks.” Elliott’s hands shook with sheer joy as he read the paper. “Melanie, what do you want to eat? Tell me, I’ll get it right now.” “I’ll have my assistant order some top-tier organic supplements. And I’ll slice some fruit for you—how about I make those little apple bunnies you like?” I watched him, his eyes filled with a tenderness I hadn’t seen in years. When I was pregnant with Toby, Elliott’s company was failing. We were so poor we lived on instant ramen and stale bread. He was never home, always running from meeting to meeting, too exhausted to even ask how I felt. Now, carrying a child in the exact same body, I was receiving the care I had desperately craved back then. But it wasn’t for me. It was for Melanie. I looked away, my heart entirely cold. Elliott’s phone buzzed. It was his assistant. “Mr. Ward, the spiritual medium, Alistair, has just arrived in the city. Should I bring him to the house now?” Before Elliott could speak, I cut in, mimicking Melanie’s soft, breathy cadence: “Elliott, let’s go home. I don’t want to only have twelve hours with you anymore. I want us to be together for good.” When we got back, Alistair was already waiting in the living room, surrounded by his bags of herbs and candles. Yet, Elliott, who had been so eager to initiate this, suddenly fell silent. His eyes drifted to the cheap, framed wedding photo hanging on the wall—a photo of me in a simple white dress, taken back when we had nothing. Alistair didn’t rush him, patiently waiting. After a long pause, Elliott spoke up, his voice tense. “If we do this… can we change it back later?” “Of course,” Alistair replied smoothly. “But my energy is limited. I can only perform the ritual once a year.” “Then do it,” Elliott decided. “If Naomi learns to accept Melanie’s presence, we can always switch back to sharing the days later.” Alistair began setting up his brass bowls and lighting the sage. Toby danced around me excitedly. “Yay! Mommy Melanie is going to put me to sleep tonight!” Elliott walked over, taking my hand in his. “Melanie, soon we’ll have all the time in the world.” I pulled my hand back gently and smiled at him. “Yes. I can’t wait.” I was smiling, but for some reason, the moment my hand left his, Elliott’s heart seemed to skip a beat. A sudden, cold dread flashed through his eyes. The ritual began. I could feel my soul being forcibly peeled away from my body. It was an agonizing, shredding pain, like a thousand tiny knives slicing through my consciousness. I collapsed onto the floor, screaming and writhing. Alistair hadn’t lied to Elliott. If it were a simple binding ritual, it could be undone in a year. But I hadn’t paid him to bind me. I had paid him to sever my soul completely. Once a soul is fully severed, it can never, ever return to the host body. A brilliant white light engulfed my vision, and I plunged into absolute darkness. At that exact moment, Melanie took full possession of the physical body. She opened her eyes, gasping, and immediately threw her arms around a stunned Elliott. “Elliott, it’s me!” “That idiot Naomi was the one playing tricks the last few days. But she just had the medium perform a full soul severance. She’s gone, Elliott! She’s never coming back!”

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Ever since my father-in-law moved into my house, I’ve been afraid to even open my own refrigerator. He had taped a note onto the crisper drawer where the Bing cherries were kept: Bought by Dad. For daughter only. Others, buy your own. Until last week, when my four-year-old son, Max, reached in and took one. My father-in-law slapped the back of his tiny hand so hard the cherry flew out of his grip and rolled across the hardwood floor. “Just like your father,” he sneered. “Always looking for a free handout.” Then he turned to my wife and said, “While you’re still young, you need to have a daughter. Send this boy to his father’s parents. Let them raise him.” And my wife? She just hummed in agreement. A quiet, dismissive, “Mmhmm.” That was it. I knelt down, picked up the cherry, wiped the dust off, and popped it into my son’s mouth. Then I walked over to the fridge, ripped down my father-in-law’s note, and taped a new one in its place. It read: This refrigerator, along with this entire property, belongs to Darren. Anyone not listed on the deed must vacate within three days. … “Darren, what the hell is wrong with you? Take this ridiculous note down right now!” Rae slammed the bedroom door open. She was clutching the note I had taped to the fridge the night before, her knuckles white. I was sitting on the edge of the bed, bending down to pull a pair of dinosaur socks onto Max’s tiny feet. At the sound of her voice, Max’s small shoulders flinched. He instinctively tried to tuck his hand—the one with the red, swollen bruise on the back of it—behind his back. I reached out, gently pressing his shoulder to keep him steady, trying to offer what little comfort I could. Only then did I look up, my gaze cool as I met my wife’s furious eyes. Rae marched across the room in three sharp strides and slapped the crumpled paper onto my dresser. “Do you have any idea how upset my father is? He couldn’t even eat breakfast!” “His blood pressure is already sky-high, and you’re in here trying to tear this family apart!” I stood up, stepping deliberately between her and my son. “Whether he eats breakfast or starves is none of my concern.” Rae stared at me, her mouth slightly open in disbelief. “Darren, listen to yourself. When did you become so utterly unreasonable?” “It was a single cherry! My dad was just teaching him a lesson. You don’t take things that don’t belong to you!” “And you? You write a note telling him to pack up and leave in three days?” “Are you trying to humiliate him? Or are you trying to humiliate me?” Her voice rose, turning shrill. My voice remained perfectly level. “This house is solely in my name. I paid the down payment, and I’ve paid every single mortgage payment. If I want someone out of my house, I don’t need your permission.” Rae froze, her voice cracking as anger hid her sudden embarrassment. “You… don’t you dare hold this house over my head! We’re married! What’s mine is yours, and what’s yours is mine. It is a daughter’s duty to take care of her father!” “Go to the living room and apologize to him right now, and we can forget this ever happened.” I didn’t answer her. Instead, I turned to the closet, pulled out Max’s small winter coat, and carefully zipped him into it. “Daddy, is Grandpa going to hit me again?” Max whispered, tugging weakly at my sleeve. I knelt down and pressed a soft kiss to his forehead. “I promise you, buddy. No one is ever going to hurt you again.” I took his small hand in mine, brushed past Rae, and walked out. Rae grabbed my arm, her nails digging in. “Darren! Are you listening to me?” “If you walk out that door today, don’t bother coming back tonight!” I stopped and turned my head slowly to look at her. “Rae.” I said her name quietly. “You have two and a half days left.” She blinked, caught off guard. “What?” “The deadline on that note. Two and a half days.” I peeled her fingers off my arm, one by one. “When the clock runs out, if he’s still here, I will personally throw his things onto the curb.” With that, I walked out of the bedroom, leading my son. In the living room, my father-in-law, Richard, was sprawled on the sofa, cracking sunflower seeds and spitting the shells onto the hardwood floor. When he saw me, he rolled his eyes and practically screamed toward the back of the house. “Oh, Rae! Come look at this wonderful husband of yours!” “He hasn’t even made a name for himself, and he’s already throwing me out!” “What a miserable life I have! I raised you with my own sweat and blood, and now I don’t even have a corner to lay my head!” He wailed dramatically, though his shifty eyes kept darting to see my reaction. Rae stormed out of the bedroom, her face pale with frustration. “Dad, stop crying. He’s just throwing a tantrum. He won’t actually kick you out.” She glared at me. “Darren, if you dare go to work today, we’re getting a divorce!” I reached the entryway and slipped on my shoes. I opened the door. “Fine,” I said, without looking back. “See you at the courthouse tomorrow morning.” The door clicked shut behind us. After dropping Max off at his preschool, I didn’t head to the office. Instead, I pulled into the parking lot of a quiet coffee shop I frequent, took a seat by the window, and ordered a black coffee. When I unlocked my phone, my screen was flooded with notifications. Rae had sent over a dozen voice messages. I tapped the speech-to-text option, and the screen filled with defensive, angry text. Are you losing your mind, Darren? You want a divorce over a single cherry? My dad is an old man. Can’t you just show some respect for once? I’ll buy a whole carton of cherries tonight for you and Max. Just come home. I stared at the promise of a carton of cherries and let out a cold, humorless laugh. That was always Rae’s logic. She genuinely believed that throwing a little material comfort at a problem could erase the terror my son felt, or the years of humiliation I had endured. But the cherries were never the point. What broke me was the cold, indifferent “Mmhmm” she uttered while our son’s hand was being struck. That single sound had severed the last remaining thread of our marriage. I swiped out of messages and opened our smart home security app. When I bought the house, I had installed a camera in the living room to keep an eye on Max when he was playing. The feed buffered for a few seconds before the room appeared in sharp high-definition. Rae had already left for work. Richard was home alone, humming a cheerful, off-key tune as he wandered around the living room with a pair of heavy kitchen shears in his hand. He stepped out onto the balcony, his eyes settling on the potted orchid I had kept alive for four years. I had bought that rare orchid to celebrate the day Max was born. Richard sneered, raised the shears, and snipped off every single blooming bud. “Pointless weed,” he muttered, tossing the delicate white petals into the trash can. “Taking up space where my granddaughter’s toys should go.” Then, he walked into the master bedroom. The camera couldn’t see inside the bedroom, but the audio was crystal clear. I heard drawers being violently yanked open and slammed shut, followed by the heavy, hollow sound of glass bottles hitting the bottom of a wastebasket. “Buying all this expensive skincare… spending my daughter’s hard-earned money!” Richard grumbled. “Once we get rid of that useless boy, I’ll make sure Rae finds a real man who can give her a proper daughter.” His venomous muttering spilled out of my phone’s speaker. I watched the screen, my face entirely numb. I downloaded the footage, merged it with the recording of him striking Max from the night before, and backed it up to my secure cloud storage. Then, I called my old college friend, Matt, who was now a senior partner at a divorce law firm. “Hey, Matt. It’s Darren.” “Yeah. I’ve made up my mind. I need a divorce.” Half an hour later, I was sitting in Matt’s high-rise office. I slid a folder across his mahogany desk. Inside was a copy of the deed, the pre-marital purchase agreement, and four years of bank statements. Matt adjusted his glasses, scanning the documents. “You bought this property in full before the marriage. There’s no dispute here—it’s solely your personal asset.” “But what if she claims she contributed to the mortgage after you got married?” Matt asked, looking up. I pointed to the stack of bank statements. “There is no mortgage. I paid the full amount upfront to save on interest.” “As for our living expenses over the last four years, every single utility bill, grocery run, and repair came directly out of my checking account.” “Rae’s paychecks? The day after she gets paid, her entire salary is transferred straight into her father’s bank account.” Matt paused, his fingers resting on the paper. He looked at me, a flicker of genuine pity in his eyes. “So you’re telling me that for four years, she lived rent-free in your home and didn’t contribute a single dime to your lives?” “It gets worse.” I unlocked my phone and slid it over, playing the security footage. “She enabled her father’s physical abuse of my son, and they’ve openly discussed abandoning him.” As the video played, Matt’s expression hardened. “This is crucial evidence. It’s more than enough to secure you sole custody and ensure she leaves with absolutely nothing.” Matt closed the folder with a heavy thud. “But Darren, prepare yourself. Women who are used to treating their husbands like a personal piggy bank don’t react well when the card gets declined. She’s going to get ugly.” I took a slow sip of my water. “I don’t care how ugly she gets.” “I just want her out of my life.” I pulled a draft of a divorce agreement from my bag—one I had quietly prepared weeks ago. “Help me finalize this, Matt. I want her to sign it in forty-eight hours.” After leaving the law firm, I drove straight to our building’s management office. I placed my deed on the manager’s desk. “Mr. Isaac, could you check how many key fobs are currently registered to my unit?” Mr. Isaac tapped away at his keyboard. “You have three active fobs, Darren.” “Deactivate two of them,” I said without hesitation. “Only keep mine active. And please schedule a locksmith to come to my unit. Two days from now. Eight o’clock sharp. I want the locks changed.” Mr. Isaac blinked, taken aback by my cold tone, but he nodded. “Understood, Darren. We’ll have them there.” I walked out of the office and looked up at the sky. The afternoon sun was blindingly bright, but for the first time in years, the suffocating fog in my mind had completely cleared. For the next two days, I didn’t go back to the apartment. I checked Max and myself into a clean business hotel near my office. Initially, Rae bombarded my phone with calls and texts. When I didn’t reply, she must have assumed I was just sulking. But by the second night, her tone shifted. She sent a long, breathless voicemail. “Darren, seriously, stop throwing a tantrum. Do you have any idea how much money you’re wasting staying at a hotel? You think money grows on trees?” “My dad already said that if you just come home and apologize to him, he’ll drop the whole cherry thing. Let’s just move on.” I listened to the message, felt absolutely nothing, and blocked her number. Sitting at the hotel desk, I spent the evening organizing a spreadsheet of our finances from the last four years. The columns of numbers were a stark record of our marriage: everything from high-end kitchen appliances to the imported joint supplements my father-in-law insisted on taking. I had paid for all of it. Rae had spent years systematically draining my savings to fund her birth family. On the afternoon of the third day, I left work early to pick Max up from preschool. “Daddy, are we going home today?” Max asked quietly from the backseat, his large eyes reflecting a quiet fear. “Yes, buddy,” I said, reaching back to squeeze his hand. “But first, we’re going to meet a few nice uncles who are going to help us.” I parked my car along the curb outside our building. A few minutes later, a large moving truck pulled up behind us. Four broad-shouldered movers jumped out of the cab. The foreman walked over and tapped on my window. “Mr. Scott? You called for the clean-out service?” I nodded and stepped out of the car. “Yes. Thank you for coming. Just follow my lead.” Right then, my phone buzzed in my palm. It was a motion-alert notification from my home security app. I tapped the live stream. The living room was crowded. Aside from Richard, Rae’s younger sister, Emily, was there along with her husband, Greg, and their five-year-old daughter, Zoe. They had clearly just arrived. Massive duffel bags and cardboard boxes blocked the entire entryway. Greg was lounging on my sofa, laughing as he watched Zoe bounce up and down on the premium white leather cushions. “Wow, Dad, Rae’s place is amazing. It’s so spacious,” Emily said, biting into an apple as she paced the room. Richard sat in my armchair like a king on his throne. “Of course it is! My eldest daughter is a success. This house is the new foundation for our family.” “I already told Rae to have you guys move in.” “Darren and that useless boy are occupying the second bedroom anyway. It’s a total waste of space. We’ll clear them out so Zoe can have her own room.” Richard’s loud, boastful voice echoed through my phone speaker. I stared at the screen, and felt a sudden, icy surge of laughter bubble up in my throat. Rae really was something else. Instead of taking my three-day warning seriously, she had invited her entire parasitic family over to claim my home as their own. I locked my phone and looked at the movers. “Gentlemen, no matter how much they scream or cry, I want you to carry every single item that doesn’t belong to me out of that apartment.” “If there are any issues, I will take full responsibility.” The foreman cracked his knuckles with a grin. “Don’t worry, boss. We’re professionals. As long as you’ve got the deed, we’ll clear ’em out even if the President himself is sitting in there.” I took a deep, steadying breath and took Max’s hand. “Come on, Max. Let’s go clean up our house.” With four movers and two building security guards behind me, we stepped into the elevator. The floor numbers ticked up slowly, but my heart rate remained perfectly, beautifully calm. The doors opened on the sixteenth floor. I walked up to my front door, bypassed my keys, and pressed the doorbell. From inside the apartment, a chaotic rush of footsteps scrambled toward the door. The lock clicked, and the door swung open. Emily’s smug grin instantly froze when she saw me. She took a step back, her eyes darting nervously from me to the four towering movers and the two uniformed security guards standing behind me. “Darren…?” she stammered. I didn’t answer. I simply guided Max past her and stepped into the living room. The air in the apartment was thick and rancid. A portable electric stove sat on the coffee table, a greasy hot pot bubbling away, splattering red chili oil everywhere. The hardwood floor was littered with empty beer bottles, used napkins, and sunflower seed shells. My three-thousand-dollar white leather sofa was covered in dark, greasy footprints from where Zoe had been jumping. Richard was in the middle of dipping a piece of beef into the pot. When he saw me enter, he paused, then slammed his chopsticks down onto the table. “Oh, look who decided to crawl back!” Richard sneered, his eyes narrowing. “I thought you’d starved to death out there!” “Well, don’t just stand there. Go to the kitchen, wash the dishes, and slice some fruit for us.” He completely ignored the small army standing behind me, still expecting me to play the submissive servant. At that moment, the master bedroom door opened. Rae walked out, wearing her silk bathrobe and yawning. When she saw me, her brow furrowed, but then a triumphant smile spread across her face. “What’s the matter? Couldn’t afford the hotel bill, so you finally came crawling back?” She walked over to the sofa, sat down, and crossed her legs. “I hate to break it to you, Darren, but you’re too late.” “My sister and her family moved in today. They’ve already taken the second bedroom.” “You and the boy can sleep on the living room couch tonight.” She pointed lazily to the oil-stained leather sofa, her voice dripping with venomous satisfaction. I stood in the center of the room, quietly watching her little performance—watching the smug, ugly entitlement written all over her face. “Rae,” I said. My voice was very quiet, very cold, cutting straight through the noisy bubbling of the hot pot. “Can you not read?” “My note said to vacate within three days.” “Today is the third day.” Rae snapped, jumping to her feet and pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Darren, have you completely lost your mind?” “My entire family is here today. I dare you to try and lay a single finger on my father!” “You think bringing a couple of security guards is going to scare us?” Richard slammed his hand on the table, joining in. “Exactly! This is my daughter’s home! Who the hell are you to throw us out, you outsider?” “Greg, get up and throw this trash out!” Greg looked uneasy, but with his father-in-law watching, he took a hesitant step forward. “Come on, Darren, don’t make a scene. We’re family, there’s no need to make things so ugly…” I didn’t take a single step back. I reached into my bag, pulled out a document, and threw it down onto the table right next to the boiling hot pot. “Look closely,” I said, my voice deadpan. “That is a certified copy of the deed. This house belongs to me.” “The ground you are standing on is my private property.” Rae’s eyes fell on the paper. The smugness on her face instantly shattered. She stared at the words Sole Owner: Darren, her lips trembling as she tried to form a sentence. “You… why do you have this?” Her voice shook, all her previous bravado evaporating in an instant. I didn’t bother answering her. I turned to the movers and security guards behind me. “Gentlemen, begin.” “Take every single piece of property that doesn’t belong to me and throw it out.” “Officers, please monitor them. If anyone tries to interfere, call the police immediately and have them arrested for trespassing.” The moment the words left my mouth, the four movers charged into the living room and the second bedroom. “Hey! What are you doing? Stop! That’s my bag!” Richard shrieked, lunging forward to grab a duffel bag from one of the movers. But he was no match for a grown man half his age. With a gentle nudge, the mover sent him tumbling back onto the floor. Emily and Greg clutched each other and their daughter, too terrified to utter a single sound. Rae completely panicked. She rushed toward me, trying to grab my hand. “Darren! You’ve gone mad! We can talk about this! Why are you letting strangers ruin our home?” I violently slapped her hand away. I reached into my bag one last time, pulled out another document, and threw it directly into her face. “Our home?” I stared at her face, which had gone entirely bloodless. “Look closely, Rae. Those are divorce papers.” “Now, take your father, take your sister, and get the hell out of my house.”

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During the wedding rehearsal, when the celebrant called the best man, Oliver, the groom for the third consecutive time, I was still clutching the wedding itinerary I’d stayed up until 3:00 a.m. revising for the seventh time. Victoria only offered a soft, dismissive laugh, her fingers casually reaching up to straighten the silk bowtie on Oliver’s tuxedo. “Let’s just have Oliver walk through it with me first,” she said, her voice smooth and practical. “His memory is sharper than yours, Henry. Let’s not waste everyone’s afternoon.” From the front pews, a few of her childhood friends and corporate colleagues laughed, murmuring about how striking they looked together—the brilliant Victoria Albright and the golden boy, side-by-side like they were born for it. I stood at the edge of the altar, waiting for Victoria to speak up. To correct them. Instead, she tilted her head to look down at me, her eyes carrying that familiar, quiet arrogance that usually silenced boardrooms. “Henry, be the bigger man here,” she murmured, her voice barely carrying past the first row. “We have guests here today. Don’t make a scene and turn us into a joke.” Oliver, wearing a bespoke white tuxedo identical to mine down to the Italian stitching, toyed with his cufflink, a faint, mocking smile playing on his lips. “Henry, maybe I shouldn’t have agreed to stand in,” Oliver said, his voice dripping with soft contrition. “But Victoria insisted you were the most generous man she knew, that you wouldn’t mind. Besides, when we played house as kids, I was always the one waiting for her at the altar…” I didn’t answer him. I just looked down at the first page of the itinerary in my hands. Under the section marked Processional, in the slot reserved for the groom, my name had been casually struck through in gray pencil. Next to the smudge, Victoria’s elegant, precise handwriting had filled in his name instead: Oliver. In that quiet beat, the last seven years of our relationship shriveled into a grotesque punchline. I didn’t even have the energy to utter the words: This is my wedding. … I closed the folder and handed it back to the wedding coordinator standing beside me. “Run it exactly how Victoria laid it out,” I said. Victoria turned back, a look of cool satisfaction washing over her features. “I knew you’d understand,” she said, her tone softening with a patronizing warmth. “Oliver’s health has been so fragile lately, and since he’s still single, he was just curious about how a real ceremony feels. Let him have his fun. I know you’re exhausted from your night shift at the hospital anyway. Go home, get some rest, and tonight I’ll take you to that little sushi place you love downtown.” Oliver’s eyes pooled with theatrical gratitude. “Thank you, Henry. Victoria always tells me what an incredible doctor you are—so selfless, always putting everyone else’s feelings first.” “Enjoy the rehearsal,” I said softly, stepping back from the stage lights into the shadows of the empty cathedral. Victoria’s brow furrowed. Her heels clicked to a halt on the marble. “Henry, what is it now?” The irritation in her voice was a sharp edge. “It’s just a rehearsal. Do you really have to ruin the mood? If it bothers you that much, I’ll tell Oliver to step down right now.” But her feet didn’t move. In fact, her hand instinctively shifted to shield Oliver’s elbow, a protective gesture so natural she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it. “I’m not upset,” I replied, my voice flat. “The hospital called. I have a shift to cover. I’m leaving.” Before she could piece together an argument, I turned toward the heavy mahogany exit doors. Behind me, Oliver’s soft, fragile voice drifted through the vaulted hall. “Victoria, the floor is so slick here… I think I twisted my ankle…” “Oh, honey, be careful.” The clicking of Victoria’s heels hurried in the opposite direction. There was a sudden, frantic tenderness in her voice that she never used with me anymore. I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the hotel. A freezing Boston wind whipped against my neck. I pulled my coat tight and hailed an Uber. When I unlocked the door to the apartment we’d spent three years decorating, the living room smelled faintly of lavender and cardboard. On the coffee table lay the unfinished wedding favors. They were custom-made wax seal kits I’d spent weeks designing with a boutique in Back Bay. The brass stamp was supposed to bear our initials: V & H. I walked over, picked up one of the heavy brass seals, and turned it over. V & O. Victoria and Oliver. My fingernails dug into my palms, but I felt nothing but a dull, hollow absurdity. I pulled out my phone and called the boutique. “Mr. Henry. Did they arrive safely?” the owner asked warmly. “Ms. Albright’s assistant called yesterday in a panic. She said she needed a last-minute adjustment for a special set of favors for a dear friend. We had to work through the night to change the initials.” “Yes,” I said, my throat dry. “They’re here. Thank you for your hard work.” After hanging up, I sat on the edge of the sofa, staring at the polished brass V & O for a long time. She had always been this way. In her mind, as long as she handed me a signed marriage certificate at the end of the day, any private concession she made to Oliver was harmless. She thought changing a few letters on a wax stamp was just a harmless indulgence for her childhood friend, something my family would never notice. My phone buzzed. A text from Victoria. Oliver’s ankle is badly swollen. Taking him to the ER for X-rays. We’ll do sushi tomorrow. Be good. I didn’t reply. I walked into the study, pulled open the bottom drawer of my desk, and retrieved the printed confirmation for our marriage license appointment at City Hall. I tore it down the middle, then into quarters, and let the white scraps flutter into the wastebasket. Then, I opened my laptop and created a group chat with only my family and closest friends. I’m sorry to inform you all that the wedding scheduled for this Sunday has been canceled. Thank you for your understanding, and I apologize for any inconvenience. — Henry. I clicked send. Instantly, the screen lit up with a barrage of questions. I set my phone to Do Not Disturb. The electronic lock beeped at the front door. Victoria was home. She kicked off her heels in the foyer, holding a grease-stained paper bag. “Henry, I grabbed you those lamb gyros from the food truck on the corner,” she said, rubbing her temples as she set the box on the kitchen island. “Oliver wanted them because his stomach was acting up, and the line was wrapped around the block. I made sure to grab an extra order for you.” She pulled the container out, and the pungent, heavy aroma of roasted lamb immediately filled the kitchen. I stood three feet away, staring at the container. “Victoria, I don’t eat lamb,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I’m severely allergic. It triggers immediate hives, and last time, I went into anaphylactic shock. Did you forget?” Victoria’s hand froze on the button of her trench coat. She looked at the gyros, then at me, a flicker of defensiveness and irritation crossing her face. “I’ve had a million things on my mind today, Henry. It slipped my mind. Oliver said they were delicious, so I just grabbed them. If you don’t want them, I’ll throw them out. There’s no need to interrogate me like I did it on purpose.” The next morning, I walked back to the hotel’s events wing. As I approached the double doors of the grand ballroom, Oliver’s voice drifted out. “Victoria, what if we used yellow orchids for the head table? White roses look so sterile, almost like a funeral.” Inside, Victoria stood with her arms crossed, studying a floor plan. Behind her, the massive LED screens were looping our engagement photos. “Henry wants white roses,” she muttered, not looking up. Oliver immediately stepped closer, slipping his hand casually onto her waist. “But Victoria, I’m terribly allergic to rose pollen. Have you forgotten? And I’m the one bringing up the rings tomorrow. What if I have an asthma attack on stage? Henry is a grown man, surely he wouldn’t want me to suffer over a few flowers?” Victoria’s hand hovered over the blueprints. She glanced up at the screen displaying my face, then sighed. “Fine. Swap them for the yellow orchids,” she told the event coordinator. The coordinator looked uneasy. “Ms. Albright, the white roses were imported from Ecuador. Mr. Henry spent six months securing this specific batch. Changing them now means forfeiting the deposit…” “Put the fee on my corporate account,” Victoria interrupted coldly. “And let’s reconfigure the seating arrangements for the head table.” From the doorway, I watched Oliver hand a slip of paper to the coordinator. “Please put my parents in these two seats,” he said with a sweet, innocent smile. “They drove all the way from upstate, and Victoria promised them the best view. As for Henry’s parents… just put them at one of the side tables. They’re from a small town anyway; they won’t really care about formal seating etiquette.” I took a slow breath and pushed the doors open. “There’s no need to change anything.” Victoria spun around. When she saw me, her brow snapped together in an immediate scowl. “What are you doing here?” she snapped. “I told you to rest. My assistant has this covered. Why are you here making a fuss?” Oliver flinched, stepping slightly behind Victoria like a frightened child. “Henry, please don’t be mad! I just thought since there were empty seats at the head table, my parents…” “It doesn’t matter,” I said. I didn’t even look at him. I walked past them and handed a document to the coordinator. “Mr. Jenkins, please cancel the fifteen tables reserved for my guests.” The ballroom went dead silent. Mr. Jenkins froze, looking between the document in his hands and Victoria’s tightening expression. Victoria lunged forward, her hand slamming onto the paper, her manicured nail leaving a deep crease across the page. “Henry, have you lost your mind?” she hissed under her breath. “The wedding is tomorrow. If you cancel fifteen tables now, where is your family supposed to sit? You’re thirty years old—are you really going to throw a tantrum over table settings and humiliate us?” “They aren’t coming,” I said, pulling the paper from under her palm. I pulled a tissue from my pocket and casually wiped the back of my hand where her fingers had brushed mine. “They aren’t coming?” Victoria let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Fifteen tables of guests just decided not to show up? Henry, pick your battles! If this is about the flowers, I’ll buy you that sports car you looked at last month. Just stop this nonsense!” She turned back to Mr. Jenkins. “Ignore him. Proceed with the original plan. Swap the flowers to orchids, and add two seats to the head table!” I didn’t bother arguing with her. I simply slid the signed cancellation form back to Jenkins. “I paid the deposit from my personal bank account, and my signature is on the contract,” I told him. “Per the cancellation policy, refund the remaining balance to the card on file. If this isn’t processed within the hour, my hospital’s legal counsel will be here to handle it.” Jenkins wiped a bead of sweat from his forehead. He looked at Victoria’s frozen, icy glare, then reluctantly picked up his pen and signed. Victoria watched him sign, her face hardening into a mask of pure, absolute cold. “Fine, Henry. Have it your way,” she sneered, stepping back with a bitter laugh. “If your family shows up tomorrow with nowhere to sit, that’s on you. Don’t expect me to save face for you.” She was entirely convinced this was just a desperate bid to make her crawl back. For seven years, no matter how much I protested her behavior, she always assumed a firm hand would bring me to my knees because of how deeply I loved her. Oliver reached out, gently tugging the sleeve of Victoria’s blazer. “Victoria, is Henry mad at me? I’m so sorry… I shouldn’t have asked for the head table. I’ll leave…” “You’re not going anywhere,” Victoria snapped, her fingers closing tightly around his wrist. “You aren’t the one who needs to leave.” She glared at me, her eyes flashing with the cold authority of an executive delivering a final warning: “Henry, I am giving you one last chance. Withdraw the cancellation. Put the tables back. Don’t humiliate me tomorrow. You know exactly where my boundary lies.” I looked down at her hand wrapped around Oliver’s wrist, and a wave of pure nausea washed over me. “No thank you,” I said, tucking the signed copy into my coat pocket. “Carry on.” As I walked away, Victoria’s furious voice echoed through the vaulted space behind me: “Henry! If you walk out that door, don’t you dare think I’ll come crawling after you!” I didn’t look back. Outside, the autumn sun was blinding, but it held absolutely no warmth. I pulled out my phone and sent a message to my department head. Dr. Weaver, is the opening for the East Africa medical relief mission still available? He replied almost immediately. It is, Henry. But pre-deployment training begins in forty-eight hours, and it’s a strict two-year commitment. Aren’t you getting married tomorrow? The wedding is off, I typed back. I’ll report to the training facility tomorrow morning. By 9:00 p.m., I was folding my last two white coats and packing them into my suitcase. The closet was mostly empty now. I’d left behind all the designer suits and luxury items Victoria had bought me over the years—expensive, ill-fitting armor meant to make me look presentable at her corporate galas. The front door beeped, and Victoria walked into the bedroom. She froze at the sight of the suitcase on the floor. “What is this?” her voice rose, her eyes scanning the bare closet. “Henry, when is this tantrum going to end? First you cancel the reception, and now you’re playing the runaway? This little act was old yesterday.” I zipped the suitcase and wheeled it to the corner. “I’m just clearing out the things I don’t need.” Victoria stared at me, a flicker of unease finally breaking through her irritation. She stepped closer, reaching up to squeeze the back of my neck in that familiar, placating gesture of hers. “Look,” she said, her voice dropping into a softer, patronizing tone. “I lost my temper this afternoon. I should have considered your feelings. I already called the manager back. Your parents can have the head table, and I told them to use the white roses. Are we good now?” It was her signature move: a slap followed by a hollow peace offering. Three years ago, I would have been so incredibly grateful for the crumb of affection. But this time, I stepped back, letting her hand fall through empty air. “Victoria, my parents aren’t coming,” I said plainly. “Why do you have to be so stubborn?” The softness vanished, her eyes hardening again. “I’ve already compromised. What else do you want from me? Do you expect me to completely banish Oliver from my life? You know how fragile his mental health is. I’m not leaving him to sit alone in a corner tomorrow.” I looked away. “Do whatever you want.” Right then, her phone lit up. Oliver was flashing on the screen. She shot me a quick look before picking up, her voice softening instantly. “What’s wrong?” Oliver’s panicked voice spilled from the receiver, loud enough for me to hear. “Victoria… the rings are gone. I had them in my bag, but they’re not there! I’m so sorry… if we don’t have them tomorrow, you’re going to hate me, aren’t you?” Victoria’s face went pale. “Don’t panic, honey. Where are you? I’m coming to help you look.” She hung up and grabbed her car keys. “Oliver lost the rings. I have to go help him search.” “Get some sleep,” she added hurriedly as she rushed toward the door. “The stylist will be here at seven sharp. Don’t be late.” She didn’t even stop to explain why our wedding bands were in another man’s bag in the first place. The door slammed shut. The silence returned. I logged into the hospital portal on my phone. Under Emergency Contact, I stared at Victoria’s name. I had entered it there seven years ago, on my first day of residency. With a single tap, I cleared her name and phone number, replacing them with Dr. Weaver’s details. I used to think she was my anchor. Now, I realized I’d just been chained to a sinking ship. A text from her came through: The rings might have slipped out near the hotel. I’m going to the precinct with Oliver to check the street cameras. It might take all night. Don’t overthink it, get some sleep. I stared at the screen and let out a dry laugh. I unpinned her contact and muted her thread. After tomorrow, she would have all the time in the world to search for whatever she wanted. At 6:00 a.m., the sky was a pale, icy blue. I stood in front of the full-length mirror in the foyer, dressed not in a tailored tuxedo, but in a simple black windbreaker and jeans. I looked exactly like the twenty-three-year-old Henry who had graduated from medical school seven years ago. I took the spare keys and the keycard to the apartment. Victoria had bought this place with cash, promising it would be our home. But for the past three years, I had been little more than an on-call housekeeper. I slid the keys and keycard into a plain manila envelope, along with the wrinkled wedding itinerary with my name crossed out. I left it on the console table by the door. I took one last look at the apartment, stepped out, and let the lock click shut behind me. By 7:30 a.m., I arrived at the specialized training facility outside the city. The shuttle buses were lined up on the tarmac. Dr. Caroline Foster, the chief medical officer and team lead, walked over to help me with my bags. She was dressed in crisp, black tactical gear, her eyes sharp but warm. “Henry, are you absolutely sure about this?” she asked. “Two years in East Africa is no joke. The conditions are grueling, and the medical risks are real. And wasn’t your wedding scheduled for today? I can’t imagine your fiancée letting you go without a fight.” “I’m sure,” I replied, hoisting my suitcase into the bay. My voice was as steady as if I were discussing a routine chart. “The wedding is off.” Caroline paused, studying my face for a moment before nodding respectfully. “Understood. Go grab your training gear. Welcome to the team, Dr. Henry.” At 8:00 a.m., the overhead speakers chimed, instructing all personnel to surrender their personal communication devices. The training period was strictly closed-door. I handed my phone to the coordinator at the desk. “Just a reminder, Dr. Henry,” she said as she logged it. “Once this is turned in, there is no outside contact for the next three months, barring extreme family emergencies.” “I know,” I said, signing the non-disclosure and deployment agreement without a second thought.

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At the party, my girlfriend lost a game of Truth or Dare. Someone in the crowd jeered, daring her to list ten things she loved about my best friend, Jared. Lauren didn’t even hesitate. “He’s outgoing. Extremely handsome. In great shape. He knows exactly how to charm people.” “He’s always smiling, highly intuitive, driven, and he has incredible taste.” “Oh, and… he’s really good with his hands.” The room erupted into hoots and catcalls, with a few stray, pitying glances darting toward me. For the next round, Jared grinned, throwing the question right back at her. “So, what about Connor? What are his best qualities?” Lauren looked at me. She froze for a few seconds. Finally, she managed just one word. “Steady.” Someone laughed nervously, trying to ease the tension. “And? What else?” Lauren frowned, appearing to search her mind in earnest. But she couldn’t find a second thing to say. In that excruciating silence, a profound exhaustion settled over me. Lauren and I had been together for seven years. Our wedding was next week. Yet, after searching her mind so desperately, the only virtue she could find in me was that I was “steady”. This time, I didn’t want to be the steady one anymore. … I was about to slip out when someone slammed a hand on the table. “Don’t go yet, Connor! Last round.” “Let’s do something messy. Let’s see who has the most text exchanges on their phone.” Jared slid his phone onto the table with a lighthearted laugh. “Sure, why not? I’ve got nothing to hide.” But when the screen compiled the results, the private room fell dead silent. The contact Lauren texted the most wasn’t me. It was Jared. A couple of people let out awkward, forced chuckles. “Well… looks like Lauren and Jared have a lot to talk about.” Jared blinked, his tone breezy and effortless. “Hey, it’s not what you think. Connor is always so swamped, you know? He carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Lauren gets stressed sometimes, and she just needs someone to vent to.” As he spoke, his finger accidentally—or perhaps intentionally—tapped into one of their chat threads. A message Lauren had sent him popped up on the screen. “Connor is obsessing over the wedding itinerary again.” “He’s taking this way too seriously.” Jared’s reply: “He’s just wound too tight. Unlike me—getting married should actually be fun.” Lauren: “Exactly. Talking to you is so much easier than talking to him.” My chest tightened, a slow, cold ache spreading through my ribs. Then, the screen scrolled to another thread. Lauren: “Connor is wearing that white suit again today.” “Does he actually think he looks good in white?” Jared: “Aww, don’t be mean to him.” “But yeah, it’s not really his look. A bit stiff.” Lauren: “Right? You’d look way better in it.” The room went entirely quiet. I stood frozen, a thick lump forming in my throat. A quiet, searing humiliation washed over me, making even the act of breathing feel heavy. All my quiet anticipation, the nervous excitement I felt when trying on my wedding suit… to Lauren, it was nothing more than cheap gossip to share with Jared over a laugh. Jared walked over, throwing a familiar arm around my shoulder. “Hey, Connor, don’t be mad. If she were talking to anyone else like this, I’d kick her butt for you. But I’m your best friend.” He tilted his head, giving me a look of pure innocence. “I’m just looking out for her for you. Isn’t that a good thing?” I stared at the hand resting on my shoulder. On his wrist was a watch. It looked incredibly familiar. A few days ago, Lauren had sent me a photo of it while she was away on a business trip, asking if I liked it. I had stared at that photo for a long time, my heart racing with quiet joy as I typed back: “I love it.” I thought it was a surprise she was bringing home for me. I had even planned to act surprised, to playfully ask if she’d brought me anything back. But I had waited for days, and the surprise never came. Now, it was strapped to Jared’s wrist. I slowly pulled my shoulder out of his grip. Jared’s face flushed, a look of wounded disbelief taking over. “Connor, do you seriously not even trust me?” Lauren finally creased her brow. “Connor. Everyone is just playing a game. Don’t be so sensitive.” Hearing those words, the anger drained right out of me, leaving behind only a hollow emptiness. I stood up, my voice barely a whisper. “I’m tired. I’m going home.” I made it to the door before realizing I’d left my coat on the back of the sofa. When I turned back to retrieve it, the heavy wooden door of the private room wasn’t shut completely. Through the crack, I heard a hushed voice advising her. “Lauren, are you seriously not going after him? Connor looked ghost-white.” Lauren paused for a second, her voice carrying an infuriating certainty. “He won’t actually stay mad. He’s too sensible. He just needs a night to sleep it off.” My hand froze on the brass handle. Then she added, “Jared, on the other hand, looked so uncomfortable with everyone teasing him. I need to go cheer him up.” My fingers went entirely numb against the cold metal. “Sensible.” A word that felt like a blunt knife. No blood, just a dull, agonizing sawing against my heart. I didn’t go back inside. My phone buzzed in my pocket. It was our wedding coordinator. “Mr. Davis, are you sure you want to cancel the wedding? You’ve spent over six months curating this entire plan. From the floral arrangements to the lighting, the invitations to the seating cards, you hand-selected every single detail. It would be such a shame to let it all go.” I stared at the digital renderings he had sent. I remembered how, in the beginning, I had wanted a wedding filled with white camellias. But Lauren had taken one look at the design and said, “Jared says camellias look too washed out. A wedding should feel alive.” So, the camellias were replaced with red roses—Jared’s favorite. I had wanted soft, warm gold lighting. Lauren had countered, “Jared says sunset orange photographs better.” I had wanted minimalist, textured paper for the invitations. Lauren had said, “Let’s just trust Jared on this. He has incredible taste.” Only now did the truth finally settle in. The wedding I had spent half a year meticulously planning had been slowly, systematically reshaped into Jared’s dream. And I, the groom, was nothing more than a placeholder name on the invitation. The coordinator sent another text. “Are you absolutely sure you want to cancel?” I looked at the rendering of a wedding that no longer belonged to me, and a dry laugh escaped my throat. I typed back: “Yes. Cancel it. I will cover any cancellation fees.” When I got back to the apartment, I started packing. We had chosen this place together. Lauren had promised me that after a long day at work, the entryway light would always be on, a hot pot of soup would be waiting on the stove, and we would grow my beloved camellias on the balcony. It had sounded like a dream. But standing in the quiet of the living room, I realized the space was already saturated with Jared. The fridge was packed with his favorite peach seltzers. His discarded jacket lay draped over our sofa. Even the best man’s suit hanging next to mine in the closet looked more bespoke, more cared-for, than my own wedding tuxedo. I stood in the closet, staring at the two garments hanging side by side. A bitter ache swelled in my chest. The wedding hadn’t even happened yet, but Lauren had already systematically replaced me with Jared in every corner of her life. I didn’t cry. I simply retrieved my suitcase and began packing my documents, my passport, and a few essential clothes. Halfway through, the front door clicked open. Lauren was home. She was carrying a small boutique bag, her tone carrying a gentle, placating warmth. “Hey, baby. Don’t be mad anymore, okay? I was passing by the store and saw these. I remembered you saying you liked obsidian.” She opened a small velvet box to reveal a pair of obsidian cufflinks. I did love obsidian. Years ago, I had stared at a pair through a shop window for a long time, ultimately walking away because they were far too expensive for our budget back then. Lauren had squeezed my hand and laughed, promising, “When we get married, I’ll buy you an even better pair.” Now she had bought them. But she had bought cufflinks. I never wore French cuff shirts. Jared did. She wrapped her arms around me from behind. “Let’s just put tonight behind us, okay?” I stared down at the cufflinks. Before I could speak, a small slip of paper drifted out of the shopping bag. The receipt. The total on it was staggering. It was for a designer tie, priced at ten times the cost of the cufflinks. I recognized the brand instantly. Only thirty minutes ago, Jared had posted a photo on his Instagram feed. He was wearing that exact tie, a brilliant, cocky smile on his face. The caption read: “Complimentary wedding gift from a very special sponsor. Going to be the best-looking best man next week.” I stared at the receipt, and a single, hot tear spilled over my lashes, dripping onto the paper. The patience on Lauren’s face instantly evaporated. “Why are you crying again? Connor, honestly, dealing with you is so exhausting.” I froze, her words echoing in the quiet room. There was a time when my tears would panic her. She used to clumsily wipe them away, pulling me into her arms and murmuring over and over, “Connor, please don’t cry. My heart breaks when you cry.” Once, after a terrible nightmare in the middle of the night, she had driven across three neighborhoods just to buy me a bowl of hot soup to calm me down. She had said, “My Connor didn’t have anyone to comfort him when he was a kid. But from now on, every time you cry, I’ll be here to dry your tears.” Back then, she truly cared. Now, my grief was merely “exhausting.” When your tears no longer touch a person’s heart, it is time to dry them yourself. I wiped my face, my voice quiet and flat. “I’m fine.” Lauren seemed to breathe a sigh of relief. She leaned in, attempting to kiss my cheek, but I instinctively turned my face away. Her expression hardened into cold irritation. She ran a frustrated hand through her hair. “Whatever. Cool off.” She turned on her heel and walked into the study, slamming the door behind her. Later that night, as I was turning off the lights, the iPad on the nightstand lit up. Lauren’s messages were synced to it. I only intended to turn off the screen, but the name flashing on the display made my chest tighten with a sharp, familiar pain. It was Jared. Jared: “Did you smooth things over?” Lauren: “No. He’s getting harder and harder to deal with lately.” Jared sent a smirk emoji. Jared: “Did you make it up to him in bed tonight, then?” A few seconds passed before her reply appeared. Lauren: “Please. He turned me down.” Lauren: “Honestly, it’s fine. It’s been seven years; I don’t really feel anything for his body anymore. It’s a relief he pushed me away. Otherwise, I would have had to force myself to get intimate.” I stared at those lines. My eyes burned, but the tears had run completely dry. So even touch had become a chore she had to steel herself to perform. I shut down the iPad. I took the obsidian cufflinks, placed them back inside the boutique box, and set them on the entryway table. Beside them, I laid my wedding band. It felt like returning the remnants of a dream I had finally woken up from. Right then, my phone buzzed with a notification. My ticket was confirmed. A 3:00 AM flight to Iceland. From this moment on, whichever city I flew to, I would never again land by her side. The next morning, as I rolled my suitcase past the study, the door was slightly ajar. From inside came the sound of Lauren’s soft, amused laughter. She was on a video call. Jared, dressed in his pajamas, was leaning back against his headboard, holding a printout of our wedding vows. “Lauren, this part is way too formal,” he read aloud, chuckling. “‘Connor, thank you for seven years of companionship.’ It sounds like a corporate speech from a CEO.” Lauren laughed softly. “I’m terrible at writing that kind of stuff.” Jared rested his chin on his hand, looking at the screen. “You should write something like: You’re like springtime, you make me feel light. Isn’t that more romantic?” The line fell into a quiet, heavy silence. “That sounds more like you,” Lauren said, her voice dropping to a murmur. A beat of silence stretched through the speaker. “Are you sure you want to say that to Connor, then?” Jared asked quietly. Lauren didn’t answer immediately. After a long pause, she spoke. “It’s a wedding. It doesn’t really matter who I’m reading them to. Just pretend I’m secretly saying them to you.” Standing in the hallway, I felt something tear quietly inside my chest. For those vows, I had spent nights drafting three pages of text. Writing, revising, erasing. Removing anything that sounded too cliché, leaving only the rawest, most honest pieces of my heart. I had once asked her, “Should we write our vows together?” She had brushed it off: “There’s no need for that kind of empty performance.” It wasn’t that she found it empty. It was just that performing it with me wasn’t worth the effort. On the screen, Jared leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Come closer.” Lauren creased her brow. “What?” He didn’t answer. He simply leaned forward and pressed his lips gently against his camera lens. An absurd, lingering kiss. And Lauren didn’t pull away. She only sighed softly after a brief silence. “Jared. Don’t do that anymore. I’m getting married.” Jared lowered his eyes, his voice laced with practiced vulnerability. “I know. That’s why I wanted to be selfish one last time before you belong to someone else.” Lauren didn’t reprimand him. Her silence was a quiet permission. My fingers grew cold. If she truly felt a line had been crossed, why hadn’t she hung up immediately? Jared quickly flipped to another file on his screen—the layout for our wedding photo wall. “Do we really have to display all these old couple photos? Honestly, seeing how happy you two used to be… it hurts a little.” Lauren looked at the screen, silent for a moment. Finally, she spoke. “We can just take them down, then.” “Connor is easygoing anyway. He won’t mind.” A sudden, sharp heat pressed behind my eyes. That photo wall was the one part of the wedding I had fought to keep. Seven years of memories. The first snow we watched together. Our very first road trip, holding hands in the car. The slightly lopsided cake she had baked for my birthday. I had spent hours choosing those photographs because I believed they were the physical proof of our love. Yet, with a single complaint from Jared, Lauren discarded them without a second thought. The moments I had treasured for seven years were nothing more than an inconvenience. I suppose when you reach the absolute limit of heartbreak, you no longer feel the pain. It turns into a deep, hollow numbness. I quietly turned around, pulling my suitcase behind me. My phone lit up. It was the wedding coordinator. “Mr. Davis, Ms. Lauren just confirmed the removal of the photo wall. Additionally, the wedding vows have been modified by Mr. Jared. Are you absolutely certain you wish to cancel?” I stared at the words and let out a small, tired smile. I typed back: “Yes. Cancel it.” The chill of the early morning wind swept through the stairwell as I walked out, the wheels of my suitcase clicking softly against the concrete. Seven years of photos, erased in a single sentence by Lauren. And so, I left Lauren behind in those seven years, too. As I handed my boarding pass to the gate agent, the automated cancellation notification finally made its way to Lauren’s phone. She immediately dialed the coordinator, her voice tight and panicked. “What is the meaning of this?” The coordinator sounded more bewildered than she was. “The cancellation was requested by Mr. Davis himself. He mentioned he accepted a position in Iceland and likely won’t be returning. Ms. Lauren… did you not know?”

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