The day the System departed, my husband, whose affection meter had been completely filled, brought his new lover home. He sneered, a dismissive glance thrown my way. “Let me guess? You finished your quest, you could have gone back to your original world.” “But you chose to stay, for me and for our children?” “Laughable. A broken toy played by ninety-nine men, do you really think I’m madly in love with you? Do you even deserve it?” I froze. My twin son and daughter spat at me. “Stop pretending! We’ve seen all the comments. You’re just a shameless quest-completer! We’re disgusted to have been born by you!” “Auntie Julianna should be our mother!” My husband, Vance, held his lover close, his expression full of contempt. “Julianna and I will marry, and she will raise the children.” “As for you, serve Julianna like a loyal dog, and I might just throw you a bone.” My thoughts: Huh? The System had merely gone ahead to arrange my reward for completing a hundred quests. In a week, I’d be back to living a lavish life as a wealthy socialite. What on earth were they yapping about? … I kept a poker face. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” My son, Jake, pointed at me, his face twisted in disgust. “The comments told us everything!” My daughter, Clara, was even more direct: “You make money by seducing men! You’re disgusting! We don’t want a mother like you!” Vance stared at me, a cold chuckle escaping his lips. “Hear that?” “You think you’re a great actress?” “Your petty schemes and tricks only worked on those other men, and a few foolish fans in your stream.” Stream? Fans? It took me a moment to process, then I raised a hand and lightly tapped the air. The stream’s comment section materialized before me. In my world, transmigration quests had become a form of entertainment. And I was a professional transmigration streamer, the fastest and most popular one on the entire network. Fame brought trouble; the comments section was constantly filled with people accusing me of being a cheap hustler. I’d long since blocked their hateful remarks, focusing solely on my quests. A cascade of dense comments scrolled rapidly before my eyes. [Got played! Serves her right! The b-tch finally got what’s coming to her!] [If you say it now, she’ll see it!] [So what if she sees it? The System’s gone, where can she run? Stay in this transmigration world and be a bitter old hag, hahaha!] It seemed my stream’s audience couldn’t see my conversations with the System. Otherwise, how could they not know the System was just off arranging my rewards? I immediately sent feedback to the System. [System! There’s a bug! How can people in the quest world see the comments??] The System’s automated reply came. [Feedback received!] I tapped the “connect to human operator” button dozens of times. [I was supposed to have perfectly completed the quest. How do you explain this situation? And I have to stay in this world for another week. What if they hurt me?!] The System took a while to respond. [The waiting period will not affect the final quest outcome.] [During this time, any harm you receive will not affect your physical condition in real life.] [Furthermore, additional quest rewards will be added as compensation upon your return to the real world!] My eyes fixated on the word “compensation.” Wasn’t this the universe practically showering me with money? I immediately switched on my acting skills, my eyes welling up instantly as I grabbed Vance’s sleeve. “Those others were tasks, but with you, I was sincere!” Vance’s face was etched with revulsion. “Your sincerity is worth a fortune?” “Do you know how many showers I had to take after every time I forced myself to have physical contact with you? I was terrified of getting sick!” Vance finished speaking, then, as if disgusted, he violently flung my hand away. The force was so strong I staggered, my head hitting the corner of the table. Julianna gasped dramatically, “Oh dear!” “Vance, you mustn’t be so harsh with Evelyn. She’s a pitiful soul, after all, having to… with so many men to complete her tasks… tsk, tsk, tsk…” I lay on the floor, looking utterly heartbroken. But in reality, I was arguing with the System in my head. [Because of your screw-up, the male lead, the third party, and the children are all humiliating me! He even laid hands on me! How will you settle this score?!] The System glitched for a moment. […Detecting sustained malicious behavior.] [Compensation multiplier in the real world increased by five percent.] The base reward for one hundred perfect quests was ten million, multiplied by five percent. In just a few minutes, I’d earned an extra five hundred thousand. I almost couldn’t keep my grin in check. I had to lower my head, playing the part of a sycophant. “…Alright.” “Just don’t cast me out.” “I’ll do anything you ask.” The comments section exploded. [Holy cow, no way, she actually fell in love?] [She can’t go back, so now the male lead can do whatever he wants to her?] [Typical h-e, cheap to the bone!] Vance looked a little surprised. The two children immediately shouted, “Daddy, don’t let her trick you!” “The comments said she knows she can’t go back, so she’s just putting on a sweet act!” The flicker of pity in Vance’s eyes vanished, replaced by even greater disgust. He pulled out divorce papers. I signed them without even a glance. Then a second document was tossed at my feet. It was a servitude agreement. Julianna leaned over to look, her smile barely contained. “Vance, you’re too direct. What if Evelyn can’t handle it?” Vance sneered. “Then she can get lost.” “Didn’t she say she’d do anything to stay?” “Evelyn Hayes, from today onwards, you are a house servant of the Thorne family.” I immediately activated the live stream’s recording function. I recorded this inhumane, unequal contract in its entirety and sent it to the System to demand compensation. Only then did I theatrically sign it with trembling hands. Julianna smiled sweetly, then immediately ordered me to make her coffee. I brought it to her, and she barely glanced at it before deliberately splashing the scalding hot coffee onto my face. She then acted as if she was startled. “Oh, I’m so sorry, Evelyn! This coffee was so bitter, I just lost my grip for a moment.” Vance’s gaze lingered on my reddened face for less than a second before moving away. “Julianna, you’re still too kind. You’re the lady of the Thorne house; you don’t need to apologize to anyone.” His words gave Julianna all the confidence she needed. From that day on, if a meal wasn’t to her taste, I had to remake it. If there was a speck of dust on the floor, I had to kneel and scrub it. Clothes had to be hand-washed. She even made me kneel in a corner for two hours with a simple phrase like, “You’re an eyesore.” And I played along perfectly. I bowed my head, apologized, and knelt. Then, in my mind, the System’s notification of accumulated compensation would chime precisely. The notifications were frequent, but the increase was slow. Four days passed. I looked at the compensation multiplier floating in my vision. [Twenty percent.] I frowned slightly. …That’s it? Come on! I only have one week to earn extra money! Time is tight, and the task is heavy. I really don’t have time to play these games with you! Just then, the door was suddenly kicked open. “Can’t you see the water stain on the floor!? Hiding here to slack off without cleaning it properly?” Vance dragged me out directly. The two children threw a dirty rag into my face. Julianna stood by, looking down at me. “Evelyn, how can you not even do such a small thing well?” “Perhaps… go kneel for half an hour first? Will that help you clean better?” I looked at the blatant malice in her eyes. A plan suddenly formed. I slowly got up, my eyes red, and looked at Vance. “Do you really think… no matter what I do, I’m stuck here?” Vance sneered. “Or what?” I rushed to the kitchen, pulled out a fruit knife, and held it to my throat. “Don’t push me!” “If I die in this world, I can go back too!” The comments went wild. [Suicide to return to the original world? I don’t remember that being a rule??] [This is a new sob story tactic, clearly an act!] [Who knows what happens if she dies in the quest world? Does she dare to gamble? Who’s she trying to scare?!] Vance instinctively softened his tone. “Evelyn, don’t get agitated, put the knife down.” Even if he found me dirty, thought I was manipulative, he had, after all, had his affection meter filled by me. In a moment like this, he couldn’t help but worry. I watched Julianna’s face twist with jealousy. She’s hooked. She shrieked and rushed over to grab the knife. “Hasn’t Vance been tricked enough by you?! Why are you still trying to force him like this?” Then she deliberately grabbed the blade, slashing a deep cut into her palm. “Ah—!” A short, sharp scream. Julianna clutched her hand, crying pitifully. “Evelyn, I just wanted to persuade you not to do anything foolish, how could you…” Vance saw the blood gushing from her palm, his attention immediately diverted. “Julianna!” Julianna shook her head at him, then turned to the children, her voice hesitant and innocent. “Jake, Clara…” “Did you see the comments just now?” “Is what she said true? Is she trying to force your father again…” Jake immediately chimed in, his tone firm. “She’s lying! There’s no such mechanism at all!” Clara also nodded vigorously, “The comments said she doesn’t dare to die!” “She’s just faking pity, trying to use death to make Daddy soften!” The last shred of wavering in Vance’s eyes completely vanished. “Evelyn Hayes.” “If you want to die, go die far away! Don’t involve others!” With that, he raised his hand and struck my knife-wielding hand. The blade twisted, leaving a cut from my lower jaw all the way to my cheek. Blood dripped onto the floor from my chin. But Vance didn’t even look at me. He scooped Julianna into his arms. “Let’s go, to the hospital.” Julianna, nestled in his arms, didn’t forget to glance back at me, her eyes full of triumph. The two children immediately followed. I raised a hand and casually wiped it. Dying to return to my original world? Of course, I made that up. And whatever injuries I sustained here would be perfectly healed upon my return. Such a golden opportunity—wouldn’t it be a waste not to take full advantage? The next second, the System’s notification arrived as promised— [Detecting severe physical harm maliciously inflicted by the male lead.] [Compensation multiplier significantly increased.] The number jumped. Directly to thirty percent. That’s three million. A smile spread across my lips. Now this is the right rate of increase. I looked up at the tightly closed door. “Julianna… you really need to push Vance harder.” “After all, you only have three days left to torment me.” Julianna didn’t disappoint me. That day, Vance’s wavering under my ‘death threat’ left her seething. The next day, she suddenly dragged me out of the utility room. She stripped off my pants and shoes and left me to stand in the heavy snow as punishment. The reason? I had nudged her wedding ring while wiping the table. My legs were frozen solid in the cold wind, losing all sensation. By the time she finally dragged me back inside, I was unconscious from hypothermia. Vance merely glanced at me. “Just don’t kill her. Wouldn’t want her to get off easy.” I lay on the bed, suffering from hypothermia, unable to feel my legs. The System detected irreversible damage to my legs. The compensation multiplier shot up by several tens of percent. Julianna smiled as she brought me a bowl of black soup. “Evelyn, I was worried you caught a chill, so I made you something to warm up.” The black soup reeked of decay and was steaming hot. She smiled sinisterly. “Don’t worry, you won’t die.” Then she force-fed it down my throat. My throat was so scalded that even swallowing saliva hurt. My stomach churned with nausea, burning as if on fire. I vomited blood all over the floor. I curled up on the ground, my consciousness blurring. It truly hurt. For the endless money I’d have back home, I was pushing myself to the limit. Fortunately, the System’s compensation multiplier didn’t disappoint, already reaching seventy percent. Seven million. But I was greedy. I still felt it wasn’t enough. The basement was dark and sunless; I could only tell how much time had passed by the System’s countdown to my return. Until the last day, Julianna and Vance’s wedding day. I was dragged out and shoved into a car. Then dragged out again. I paused, realizing this was the back-office storage room of their wedding venue. Julianna stood before me in her wedding dress. “You really are tough as nails.” I smiled, casually spouting nonsense, and even flipped her off. “That’s because I have the System.” “I’m the female lead of this world. Whatever you do, you’re just a trashy side character.” No sooner had the words left my mouth than I was violently seized by several people and bound inside a giant transparent tank. Julianna’s eyes were brimming with hatred. “Originally, I wanted to keep you by my side and slowly torture you.” “But now, it seems you must die.” “If you die, no one will steal my Vance! And Vance and I can be happy forever.” As soon as she finished speaking, the tank slowly began to fill with water. A screen was placed in front of me. On it, the wedding ceremony was about to begin. Julianna resumed her gentle smile. “I’m really curious, can the System save your life?” “Oh dear, imagine watching Vance marry me, this ‘trashy side character,’ then slowly dying yourself. Wouldn’t that make you die with regret?” She leaned in, her voice dripping with venom. “Evelyn Hayes.” “If you can go back after you die, then consider it my parting gift to you.” “But if you truly die—then you deserve it!” She left. The warehouse door closed. The water level began to rise, slowly covering my calves, knees, thighs. I was fixed in the center of the tank, unable to even turn my head, forced to watch the screen. When the wedding began, the water had already reached my chin. Yet, my return countdown still had a few minutes left. The comments in the corner scrolled wildly. [This b-tch deserves it, hahaha!] [What happens if a quest-completer dies in the quest world? I heard they become a vegetable!] [Die quickly! This awful woman tricked so many men, and she still gets to live it up? Why? She should just die!] At the wedding venue, Jake and Clara suddenly changed their expressions. “Daddy! What’s a vegetable…?” “The comments say Mommy is about to become a vegetable…” Vance’s heart plummeted. Julianna’s eyes flashed with hatred. She quickly grabbed Vance’s hand, soothing him. “I merely locked her up for a small punishment, how could she become a vegetable?” “She knows the children can see the comments now, she might just be acting, deliberately making the comments send messages to trick you!” Vance hesitated for a moment, then finally nodded. He took the wedding ring, ready to place it on Julianna’s finger. In the tank, the water had completely covered my nose. I could no longer draw a single breath of air. My lungs convulsed frantically, my body shaking uncontrollably. For the first time, I felt a clear panic. If my return was delayed by even one second, I might truly die here. In this life-or-death situation, my compensation multiplier soared almost every second. [Return Countdown: One minute] My vision began to darken. A buzzing filled my ears. Just as my consciousness was about to snap— My stream’s light screen suddenly flared to life. A golden banner stretched across my entire vision. [Congratulations, Evelyn Hayes, on becoming the first streamer to complete one hundred consecutive quest challenges!] [Pre-allocated bonus of ten million! Other subsidies around twenty million!] [Return Countdown: Ten seconds] The comments instantly exploded. But I could no longer keep my eyes open to read them. Three… Two… In the final second, the warehouse door was kicked open. “Evelyn!” And I completely lost consciousness.

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The universe just hit the ‘restart’ button—and dropped me into a nightmare. Specifically, I woke up as the tragic hero in one of those gut-wrenching “Dead Husband” romances. The plot was classic: The hero is mentally and physically tortured, suffers a miscarriage (yes, the male version), has his eye dug out, his kidney removed, and dies miserably. Only then does the heroine realize he was innocent all along and lives to regret it forever. I swear, what kind of lawless world is this? My eyes were practically spitting fire as I muttered curses and drifted off to sleep. When I opened them again, I had transmigrated to the exact day the hero was framed by the heroine’s beloved “Golden Boy.” Oh, this is going to be fun. I grabbed my phone and quickly dialed three numbers: “Help! I was nearly murdered!” Let’s see if your twisted melodrama world has any police. 1 I came to with the faint, sterile smell of a hospital, wrinkling my nose instinctively. “Ugh.” A slender, striking figure in a floor-length crimson dress stood by the bed. Her voice was pure ice: “You’re awake. Stop playing dead and go apologize to Jasper.” That line. It was sickeningly familiar. Wasn’t this the trashy novel I’d been reading before I passed out? Delaney Wells, beautiful and icy, was standing against the light, arms crossed, radiating self-righteous fury. In the original story, Delaney and the hero, Callan Bishop, were married in name only. Callan had loved her for years, and Delaney, though moved by him, didn’t realize her own feelings until her first love, Jasper Reid, came back to town. Jasper, wanting to break them up and claim Delaney for himself, tried to drug her for a hookup. But a bizarre mix-up led to Delaney sleeping with Callan instead. Jasper quickly spun the narrative, accusing Callan of the drugging. Callan, a proud but stubborn man, couldn’t defend himself effectively and was misunderstood as being deeply manipulative. That was the wedge that began their decline. After that single night, Delaney’s already low opinion of Callan plummeted. Jasper then deliberately sought out confrontation, sabotaging Callan’s reputation and finally, shoving him down a flight of stairs. And now I’m supposed to apologize to the sociopath who nearly killed the original me? Absolutely not. I didn’t come here to be a doormat. I frowned, a snarl rising in my throat. “Apologize? Go to hell.” Delaney’s eyes widened. “What?” The momentary shock passed, replaced by a deeper scowl. “So you finally drop the act. Jasper was right—your attentive, thoughtful persona was just a mask.” She stepped closer and grabbed my arm, her grip surprisingly strong. “You clearly fell down the stairs yourself and now you’re trying to pin it on him. He’s wracked with guilt—he hasn’t eaten or slept since you were admitted. If you have an ounce of decency, you’ll go apologize now.” Decency? I violently yanked my arm away. A sharp spike of pain shot through my leg, and the room spun—this body was seriously weak. I lifted my gaze to meet hers and held out my hand. “Give me your phone.” Delaney frowned, noticing my pale complexion. A flicker of something that looked like pity crossed her face. She reached into her clutch, lecturing me as she did so: “Calling him is fine, I suppose, considering your condition. But you need to learn to control this temper, Callan, or—” I snatched the phone from her hand and, with absolute clarity, dialed three digits. It connected instantly. I spoke in a calm, measured voice. “Hello, 911? I need to report an assault. Attempted murder, actually.” Delaney: Blinks. The police were fast. Soon, two officers were standing by my bedside. I cleared my throat, then burst into a theatrical, heart-wrenching sob. “Officer, please! You have to help me!” I pointed a trembling finger at the stunned Delaney. “My wife here is having an affair! Her lover pushed me down a flight of stairs! I fell from the top—sob—it was brutal! They tried to kill me!” Delaney’s face went white. Confronted by the officers’ severe, scrutinizing eyes, she stammered. “I… that’s not… I didn’t…” “Delaney?” Everyone turned. Jasper Reid was standing in the doorway, the quintessential Golden Boy in an all-white linen shirt, looking frail, delicate, and utterly innocent. You have got to be kidding me. That pose should win an Oscar. My eyes narrowed. No way am I letting this manipulative leech play the victim. I ripped the IV out of the back of my hand, scrambled back to the headboard, pulled my hair into disarray, and shrieked. “NO! NO! It’s him! The killer! He’s come back for me! He’s going to finish the job! He’s going to kill me!” Jasper’s carefully constructed expression of fragile concern faltered, freezing in an awkward half-step forward. Delaney started toward him, but the lead officer held up a hand. “Ma’am, the caller has accused both of you of assault and attempted murder. We need to take a statement and investigate. Please do not interact with the alleged victim.” Jasper: Confused, petrified silence. Another officer approached to calm me down. I pretended to settle, huddling behind him, trembling. “He pushed me. I didn’t even have time to scream before I was tumbling down.” Delaney’s voice was strained and cold. “Callan Bishop! What on earth are you saying? You fell on your own! You’re slandering Jasper, and calling the police? This is a waste of resources, you know that’s a crime!” I clutched the officer’s sleeve pitifully. “I promise, he pushed me. When we first got married, I installed a full security system on the estate for safety. Every corner of the house is on camera, Officer. Please, check the footage.” One officer nodded, took the address, and left with his colleague to retrieve the data. Jasper was completely undone. He’d only dared to be so reckless because he knew the original Callan would be too stubborn and self-destructive to use evidence. He hadn’t counted on the cameras. Seriously, why was the original hero such a masochistic idiot? The officers returned quickly. On the bodycam footage, the case was clear: Jasper aggressively closing the distance, reaching out, and shoving my shoulder, sending me flying down the stairs. Delaney, who rushed over after the noise, only saw Jasper kneeling beside me, looking distressed. Jasper’s knees gave out, and he crumpled to the hospital floor. Delaney whispered, shaking her head. “No… it can’t be… you actually pushed him?” Jasper crawled toward her, grabbing the hem of her crimson dress. “Delaney, I messed up, I’m sorry. I just wanted him to stop keeping us apart. I pushed him accidentally! Please, you have to forgive me!” I couldn’t stand it. “Are you out of your mind? Forgive you? You pushed me down the stairs! I’m the victim lying here in pain! You’re apologizing to the wrong person, you pathetic fool!” Jasper: Silence. Delaney: Silence. The Police: Deep, uncomfortable silence. Oh, right. I forgot my “persona” for a second. I quickly switched back to the victim role, clutching my injured leg and wailing. “The evidence is right there! Officer, this is a clear case of aggravated assault. I insist on pressing charges! He’s malicious and unpredictable. I’m genuinely afraid he’ll come after me again. The thought of falling from that height keeps me awake at night!” Despite my truly awful acting, the facts were undeniable. Jasper Reid was taken into custody on suspicion of assault. He was looking at a minimum of two weeks in a cell. Delaney stared blankly at me, then at Jasper’s struggling form as the officers led him away. A look of utter bewilderment crossed her flawless face. Oh, stop looking so lost, you idiot. You’re no saint either. I settled back onto the pillows. “Delaney, I want a divorce.” Her lip trembled. “A divorce? On what grounds do you think you have the right to ask me for a divorce?” …And there’s the classic line. I reached for the water glass on the nightstand and threw it, aiming at the wall behind her head. “You think a trust fund and a good last name make you royalty? You can buy me out of my own life? I’m telling you we are done! This is a legal right, not some damn favor you bestow! I’m sending you the papers tomorrow, and if you dare fight me, I’ll expose everything to the media! We’re talking ‘Wells Heiress, Adulterous Wife, Conspires with Lover to Murder Husband.’ Enjoy watching your stock plummet and your board turn on you.” The glass shattered on the tile floor. Delaney stood frozen, her crimson dress now splattered with water, looking more disheveled than she probably had in her entire life. Her bewildered gaze intensified. “Callan, you’re not supposed to be like this.” I gave a cold laugh. “How am I supposed to be? Meek? Like the convenient husband who lets you and Jasper walk all over him? Who smiles politely while you two flirt? Who quietly accepts your abuse and physical harm? Go to hell. I’m not your toy, and I’m definitely not your father.” Delaney walked out, looking utterly defeated. A sharp, painful ache hit my chest. It was the original Callan’s lingering grief. Stop it, you pathetic fool. You’re free now. 2 Jasper Reid ended up with two weeks in county jail for aggravated assault. I suspect Delaney’s family used their influence to keep him from facing felony charges, but the police record was enough for my purposes. The day after I called 911, I had a lawyer draft the divorce papers, making sure the division of marital assets was meticulously detailed. I never understood why the male leads in these wealthy-family abuse novels always had to walk away with nothing, acting like they were too ‘pure’ to take their due. It’s their right! They were abused and nearly murdered—they deserve every penny of their marital property, plus emotional distress damages. Unfortunately, the divorce wasn’t straightforward. Delaney refused to sign. After several attempts, she deployed her mother—my mother-in-law—to handle me. Mrs. Wells arrived in a custom-tailored designer suit, sipping an artisanal latte with an air of refined disappointment. “I know Delaney was wrong,” she began. “But in our world, Callan, elite marriages are often separate lives. We both know how things work. You brought the police into this—you made an embarrassing scene. If the firm hadn’t stepped in to kill the story, the scandal would have crashed our stock. You’re being very immature.” I felt the bile rise. This level of hypocrisy was breathtaking. Without a word, I picked up my own cup of coffee and tossed the contents straight onto her suit. “Aaaah!” Mrs. Wells screamed, her perfectly coiffed hair and the expensive fabric now soaked with dark brown liquid. “Callan Bishop! Have you lost your mind?” “I have! You and your sick family drove me to it! Your daughter cheats, then conspires with her lover to nearly kill her husband, and you sit here telling me to let bygones be bygones? You’re a fake!” “You…” “Me what? You failed to raise a decent daughter. She gets married and runs around with another man, nearly killing me in the process. You think you bear no responsibility, Mother?” “I…” “I what? You talk about ‘separate lives’ and ‘elite arrangements’? I remember when your late husband ran around with those aspiring actresses. You nearly cried yourself into the hospital, threatening to bankrupt him! You can’t preach water and drink wine. If you’re so generous, why didn’t you just officially welcome his mistress into your home?” “He…” “He nothing! I’m getting a divorce. The marital assets will be divided strictly according to the law. You won’t cheat me out of a single dime. I’m showing remarkable restraint by not suing you all for emotional distress.” Mrs. Wells’ face darkened. She was determined to regain control. She snapped, calling to a bodyguard hovering near the door. “Take this insolent man to the basement! I will teach him how to behave!” Wait. I suddenly remembered: this old harpy had a history of verbally abusing the original Callan, using ‘teaching manners’ as an excuse to lock him in the basement for days, torturing him both mentally and physically. Illegal confinement, is it? I whipped out my phone and dialed the number I now knew by heart—911. “I’m at the Wells Estate in Greenwich! My mother-in-law is threatening to illegally confine me in the basement! Officer, please, I need help!” Mrs. Wells stared at the phone in confusion. “What are you doing?” I gave her a chilling smile. “Giving you a taste of a civilized society.” The police were, once again, astonishingly fast. The officer who arrived looked at me, then at Mrs. Wells—who was standing there with coffee dripping from her hair and dress—with a profound look of weary disappointment. “It’s you two again.” I scrambled behind the officer. “Yes, it’s me! This old woman is my mother-in-law. She’s trying to kidnap and lock me up just because I want to divorce her cheating daughter!” The officer scowled at Mrs. Wells. “Ma’am, this is a nation of laws. You can’t just limit someone’s freedom. That’s a felony.” Mrs. Wells sputtered, “I… I was just threatening him…” “Nonsense! I knew she was up to no good, Officer. My recording started the moment I walked into the house!” I pulled out my phone and played the audio file at full volume, clearly capturing her order to the bodyguard. Mrs. Wells: Silence. The officer listened to the entire exchange, then fixed a cold, severe gaze on her. “You are not above the law. Threatening to restrict someone’s movement is a serious offense.” Mrs. Wells, in her stained suit, her dignity shattered, was forced to stand there and take a 15-minute lecture on the legal repercussions of illegal detainment. I knew the officers couldn’t actually arrest her since no physical harm had been done, but a good legal lesson was enough for now. As I left the estate with the police escort, the lead officer gave me a look that was both sympathetic and exhausted. “Hang in there. You’ll get through this.” “Thank you, Officer. I appreciate it. And… I apologize in advance. You’ll probably be hearing from me again.” I watched the patrol car pull away and muttered to myself, “God, the security of this country is truly something else.” 3 Delaney’s refusal to sign the divorce papers wasn’t just my problem; it was driving Jasper Reid crazy, too. He was acting like a nervous wreck, constantly finding ways to harass me. But since I wasn’t the original, masochistic hero, I refused to play the victim. He tried to retaliate by planting a venomous snake in my new apartment, hoping it would bite me. But I’d anticipated this level of low-brow villainy. My new place was wired with cameras. They clearly captured the entire incident, allowing me to call 911 again. “Yes, it’s me. Jasper Reid tried to kill me with a snake.” Then he moved to cyberwarfare: posting my private address, doxxing me, spreading nasty rumors online, and hiring trolls to attack me. My response? The legal system, again. “Officer, I’m being stalked, doxxed, and subjected to a targeted campaign of harassment. My mental health is severely affected. I have crippling anxiety and clear depressive tendencies.” Jasper Reid was promptly sent back to jail for another two weeks. Those two weeks weren’t exactly peaceful for me, either. Delaney, a dark cloud, started following me. “What exactly do you want?” I was utterly exhausted by her presence and finally agreed to meet her at a coffee shop. She looked significantly thinner, her exhaustion evident. I couldn’t tell if she was angry that her obedient husband had suddenly gone ‘mad’ or heartbroken that her Golden Boy turned out to be a villain. After the police lectured her mother, Delaney had called me in a rage, accusing me of disrespecting my elders. I’d verbally eviscerated her in response. She began a one-sided cold war, which I enjoyed immensely. But the moment Jasper went to jail for the snake incident, she unilaterally ended it. She’s a mess. She looked down at her coffee, then up at me. “I was wrong. I never imagined Jasper was capable of that. I apologize.” “Okay. Apology accepted. Are we done? I have things to do.” Delaney’s eyes were red-rimmed. She studied me with a speculative look. “Callan, why do I feel like you’ve completely changed?”

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I, Audra Mills, the company’s star translator, willingly passed on the biggest project of the year—a nine-figure deal—to the receptionist, Phoebe Wells. I did this only because, in my previous life, my fiancé Carter’s high-school dropout “childhood sweetheart” had suddenly claimed mastery of eight languages through self-study. I used to spend two weeks researching every obscure technical term before a translation, yet Phoebe could perform flawless, one-hundred-percent-accurate simultaneous interpretation simply by speaking off the cuff. The office buzzed with admiration for her “genius,” and I was quickly whispered about as an overpaid fraud. It all came to a head when I was two weeks deep into preparation for that massive project, running on four hours of sleep, ready to step onto the stage. Phoebe blocked my path. “Audra, this isn’t the time for you to grandstand. This contract is critical for the company’s IPO. Your foundation isn’t as solid as mine; it should be me.” Carter and my colleagues—the very people I had trained and worked alongside for years—unanimously agreed with Phoebe. I fought for my right to the job, but I was forcibly replaced. Phoebe executed the translation brilliantly, becoming the company’s hero overnight. I, meanwhile, was demoted to the mailroom, citing “insufficient professional capability.” I couldn’t understand it. How could ten years of disciplined, agonizing work lose to Phoebe’s sudden, unexplained talent? In a daze, consumed by professional grief, I slipped, fell, and drowned. In those final, chilling moments before I died, I heard her voice: I can only do it because I’m listening to your thoughts. When I opened my eyes, I was back. Back to the day Phoebe Wells first claimed she was fluent in eight languages. This time, I didn’t spend the night pouring over technical briefs. Instead, I lay in bed, quietly reciting the Declaration of Independence in my mind. … “Audra, congratulations! First place in the monthly review—again!” “Three-peat! That’s incredible!” My colleagues surrounded me, applauding. Standing in the middle of the crowd, I felt a flicker of disorientation. The scene was playing out exactly as it had before. The host cleared his throat and announced, “Our champion for this month’s assessment is, once again, Audra Mills…” “Hold on.” Phoebe stepped out from the periphery. “I signed up for this assessment too. Why don’t you let me try?” The chilling familiarity of the moment sent a shiver down my spine. My colleagues eyed Phoebe with suspicion. “This isn’t a game, Phoebe. You haven’t studied translation. The barrier to entry for this field is massive.” Phoebe pouted. “It doesn’t look hard to me. And who said I haven’t studied? Is it a crime that I taught myself eight languages at home this month?” A few people chuckled. “Self-taught? Even Audra, our ace, studied diligently for a decade. How could someone with zero background manage that?” “Don’t make a spectacle of yourself, Phoebe. If you can translate a single sentence perfectly, I’ll take you out to dinner.” They laughed, no one taking her seriously. Only I knew that in the last timeline, in this very moment, Phoebe had rattled off translations in eight languages without effort. Phoebe turned, linking her arm through Carter’s. “C’mon, Carter. Just let me try! I registered, and if you don’t let me participate, I’ll complain to HR about unfair assessment rules!” Carter James, a man who usually lived and breathed pedigree and credentials, showed no objection. He looked down at her with a sickeningly indulgent gaze. “I give up with you, Pheebs. Go ahead and try.” At Carter’s nod, the host reluctantly began to quiz Phoebe. What happened next was stunning. Question after question, whether in French or Spanish, Phoebe translated rapidly and with unnerving accuracy. The room’s expressions shifted from mockery to stunned amazement. It came down to the final round: simultaneous interpretation. As the host finished reading a complex German passage, Phoebe opened her mouth and spoke a flawless stream of the language. “…affecting androgen receptor inhibitors, directly targeting the ligand-binding domain. This can be used to treat patients with metastatic prostate cancer immediately.” The room erupted in applause. “Phoebe, you’ve been holding out! Your level is practically on par with Audra’s!” Someone else, more experienced, asked, “Even Audra needs a notepad sometimes for simultaneous work. How can you, a complete novice, be so fluid?” Phoebe widened her eyes in feigned surprise. “Isn’t translation just saying what you hear? Maybe Audra’s getting old; her memory naturally can’t keep up with a younger person. Taking notes is understandable.” She stuck out her tongue playfully. “Oh, Audra, did that sound too blunt? I didn’t mean anything by it, honestly!” I smiled. A cool, thin smile. While Phoebe was translating, I had subtly, intentionally mistranslated one crucial technical term in my own mind. Phoebe had parroted that exact, erroneous word. It confirmed my suspicion. She hadn’t magically mastered eight languages overnight. Thinking back to her unfocused, glassy-eyed look during the translation, I realized she wasn’t processing the source language at all. She was simply reciting my internal monologue. If that’s the game we’re playing, then I had a spectacular gift waiting for her. The host looked uncomfortable. “Well, Audra and Phoebe are tied for first place. So, the champion this month…” Carter frowned. Phoebe’s lips curled up in a confident smile. “Since it’s a tie, Audra, do you have the confidence to face me in a tie-breaker?” Phoebe’s challenge drew everyone’s attention. Carter was about to speak when I preempted him. I laughed gently. “No need. I concede.” The room erupted in gasps. Carter froze, clearly taken aback. He knew how seriously I took my profession and assumed I would never pass up a contest of skill. I repeated myself. “I withdraw.” He didn’t know that last time, full of competitive spirit, I had participated, only to be beaten at every turn because Phoebe simply spoke the answer I was preparing a split-second before I could. My decade of hard work had been turned into a joke. I wouldn’t let that happen again. Phoebe tried to provoke me. “Audra, you’re our star translator. Are you really going to back out of a challenge against a little front-desk girl? That’s embarrassing, isn’t it?” She tossed her hair. “Why don’t you quiz me again? See what level my skills are at. Can I compare to you?” I gave her a knowing look. “Your level is much higher than mine, Phoebe. I’d say at least Level Thirteen.” Phoebe proudly puffed out her chest. “Of course it is! My skill—” Everyone in the room burst into laughter. “Level Thirteen? Hahaha! What kind of certification is Level Thirteen?” “You!” Phoebe’s face turned bright red and purple with fury. She stamped her foot. “Enough!” Carter roared, glaring at me with undisguised displeasure. “There’s a limit to your sarcasm, Audra! Are you proud of yourself because you have a few certificates? You know Phoebe doesn’t understand your technical jargon, yet you still bully a young woman. Have some dignity!” I dug my nails into my palm, anchoring myself. The laughter in the room instantly died. The host managed a weak smile. “Perhaps we should declare co-champions this month?” Carter’s voice was sharp. “Co-champions? Audra has been studying for years. Phoebe started this month. The difference is clear!” At Carter’s insistence, the host announced Phoebe as the sole champion. Colleagues immediately swarmed her with congratulations. Phoebe cheered and hugged Carter. Carter glanced at me, coughed awkwardly, and gently pushed back a step. I scoffed internally. Leaning into Carter, Phoebe looked at me and gave a mischievous, challenging wink. “Audra, I think I’ve proven myself. Can I come along this afternoon for the big German business meeting?” I frowned, instinctively about to refuse. “No…” Phoebe’s eyes instantly welled up. “Audra, I know you look down on my lack of education. But I’ve studied non-stop to try and help Carter and the company. Are you going to deny me even the right to learn?” Carter pulled her closer, his expression softening with sympathy, and he rounded on me. “Phoebe is trying to help the company! Why are you so determined to shut people out?!” The surrounding colleagues chimed in. “Audra, you’re being selfish. What difference does Phoebe’s talent make to you?” “Yeah, can’t you give a new employee a chance? That’s so petty.” They threw accusations at me from all sides. I calmly finished my sentence. “I was going to say, ‘No problem, I was just thinking she should come along to learn.’” The room fell silent, the colleagues shifting uncomfortably and quickly changing the subject. Phoebe looked at me, a cryptic gleam in her eye. “Audra, don’t worry. I’ll be sure to really learn.” In the afternoon, we arrived at the venue. Our partner, a long-term client named Mr. Peterson, was hosting the meeting. Once everyone was seated, the meeting began. I was entirely focused, taking notes and marking key terms on my pad. As the German speaker finished a long technical segment, I took a breath, ready to speak. A fluid, rapid translation cut me off from behind. “…utilized for the treatment of patients who have received a novel endocrine agent, showing significant improvement. Key endpoints included overall survival and time to initiation of cytotoxic chemotherapy.” I whipped my head around. Phoebe, who was supposed to be quietly observing, was delivering the translation at speed. For the rest of the meeting, every single time I opened my mouth to translate, Phoebe would snatch the floor, continuing to translate flawlessly. I didn’t manage to get a single word in. When Phoebe finally finished the last sentence, looking incredibly pleased with herself, applause broke out. She then covered her mouth in mock surprise. “Oh, I am so sorry! I was just here to learn, but I got so engrossed. It just slipped out.” She beamed at me. “Audra, you don’t mind, do you?” Carter was clapping enthusiastically. “She minds nothing! You were brilliant, Phoebe! Translation is a meritocracy!” Mr. Peterson also praised her warmly. “Audra usually handles our accounts, and she’s excellent, but for a newcomer, you’re incredibly fluid. You must have done an enormous amount of private preparation for this meeting, right?” Phoebe just smiled sweetly. “Preparation? You don’t need any. Translation is just saying what you hear.” She tapped her head. “When you’re skilled, it’s just instinct, like eating or drinking.” Peterson looked surprised. “Audra, as a senior translator, always asks for our documentation a week in advance. You really didn’t prepare at all?” Phoebe blinked innocently. “Even though I’m new, I know everyone is busy. I wouldn’t bother people by asking for documents. Some people just drag things out for days to prove their professionalism, even when it’s an easy, one-shot translation.” I frowned. That was nonsense. As a translator, you handle specialized terms from countless industries. Researching beforehand is essential professionalism. Before I could correct her, Peterson’s gaze on me hardened. “From now on, all our company’s translation work will go through Phoebe. Some people like to make a show of their effort! Our company doesn’t have the budget for that kind of attitude.” I was speechless, standing there, unfairly condemned. Carter was quick to agree with him. Back at the office, Carter heaped praise on Phoebe and announced her promotion from receptionist to full-time translator. She was immediately given her own corner office. Carter proudly declared it a reward for her “outstanding performance” at the meeting. I scoffed internally. I’d completed dozens of zero-fault, high-stakes negotiations of that size over the years. I’d worked here for a decade and still shared a cubicle. I said nothing, burying my head back in my work. Over the next few weeks, Phoebe continued to use the same tactic, seizing the spotlight in every translation, always relying on my preparation. I, in turn, worked even harder, meticulously preparing every document, just for her benefit. Finally, the day before the massive nine-figure project presentation arrived. I was conspicuously hunched over my desk, cross-referencing industry-specific jargon. A colleague rolled their eyes. “If you don’t have the talent, don’t take the job. Phoebe just translates it directly; why waste everyone’s time with this act?” Phoebe giggled, covering her mouth. “Audra, what’s the point of looking at all that? You spent twelve years studying and you still can’t compare to my one month of self-study.” The colleagues immediately launched into more gushing praise for Phoebe. I frowned, playing the role of the troubled professional. “You’re right. There’s no point arguing about it.” I sighed heavily. “Since you’ve proven you’re enough, maybe I shouldn’t even go tomorrow.” “No!” Phoebe shrieked the single word, immediately earning confused stares. She quickly adjusted her expression, forcing a smile. “I… I just meant that Audra might gain valuable experience at a conference this size, in case she needs it later.” Carter also frowned, displeased. “What’s with the drama, Audra? Is it not a fact that you can’t keep up with Phoebe? Who are you trying to threaten by saying you won’t go? If you don’t want to, then don’t go!” I remained silent. Phoebe, however, was visibly desperate. “Carter, please let Audra come. I haven’t done a conference this big before. If Audra is there, we can learn from each other!” My colleagues were disgusted by her generosity. “Phoebe, she prepares for half a day just to put on a show! She’s the one who needs to learn from you! You’re too kind to her.” Phoebe pleaded with Carter until he finally gave in. “Fine! For Phoebe’s sake, I’ll give you one last chance. You have three minutes to pack up and get downstairs. Be one second late, and you’re out.” Phoebe stared at me intently, terrified I would say no. I slowly gathered my things. “Alright. I’ll go.” She finally let out the breath she was holding. The next day, as we arrived at the conference hall and the translators were being positioned, Phoebe reached out and stopped me. “Wait!” She gave a look of false sincerity. “I’ve thought about it, and I think I should handle the translation.” “These minor skirmishes we’ve had, I’ve been willing to let you share the stage. But this contract is too important. This isn’t the time for you to grandstand, Audra. Your foundation isn’t as solid as mine; it should be me.” I was about to speak, but Carter immediately approved. “She’s right! This meeting is vital for the company. There can be no mistakes.” He turned to me, his voice sharp with accusation. “Audra, you should be thanking Phoebe. She’s stepping up to cover for you. If your mistake costs us the IPO, you’ll be the company’s culprit. How will you explain that to the board?” I let out a cold laugh. Ten years of dedicated work, reduced to a liability. When the company started, I worked four or five translating jobs a day, standing for nine hours straight, just to build our reputation. Now I was the culprit, and Phoebe was the savior who’d stolen my job and demanded my gratitude. Seeing my lack of movement, my colleagues mocked me. “Seriously, Audra, you aren’t thinking of fighting Phoebe for this job, are you?” “Phoebe brought you here to learn. Don’t be so ungrateful!” “Forget professional skills, Phoebe is much more pleasant to look at. Just look at yourself—you’ve got rings under your eyes the size of a raccoon’s!” I raised a hand and touched the dark circles—trophies of my late-night research, now just ammunition for their insults. In my previous life, I would have argued fiercely. Now… I looked around the room and smiled faintly. “I have no objection,” I said, stepping away from the translator’s booth. “I just hope you all take responsibility for your choice. And don’t regret it.” My colleagues laughed it off, saying I was being melodramatic. Carter sneered. “I told her to take the stage. If there are any problems, I’ll take full responsibility.” I didn’t argue. I stepped aside and let Phoebe take my place. Phoebe leaned toward me, a triumphant look in her eye. “Audra, this was always your spot, and you used to make such a fuss if anyone got close. I’m not used to you being this quiet! But you have to admit the difference in talent. It took you twelve years to get here; it took me one month.” She leaned back in the booth. “Just watch and learn how a real translator works.” I ignored her. The meeting began. Phoebe sat confidently in the translator’s position. Carter and the others gestured encouragement from the audience. In the next moment, Phoebe’s face took on a look of intense concentration. This focused, serious expression made Carter sigh with pride. “Phoebe truly was born for this job. She gives everything her all.” The colleagues murmured in agreement. Then Phoebe opened her mouth. “When in the Course of human events, it becomes necessary for one people to dissolve the political bands which have connected them with another, and to assume among the powers of the earth, the separate and equal station to which the Laws of Nature…” Every person in the conference room stared, eyes wide.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “390487”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The first time I went to my wife’s company to ask for sick leave, the receptionist was visibly baffled. “You have to be kidding me, sir. The person you’re referring to… she’s the owner of this entire corporation.” She tilted her head, her smile fading. “And our owner and her husband come and go together every day.” “Her husband definitely isn’t…” The elevator doors opened. In that next second, my wife—who should have been confined to a sickbed in our shabby apartment—stepped out, smiling brilliantly, arm in arm with her college sweetheart. Our eyes collided. Her smile fractured, freezing on her face. I looked at the cashmere and the diamond watch, the sheer extravagance clinging to her, and the tears that came felt like a bitter, hysterical laugh. “That single one of your dresses is worth a year of my wages, but you played the role of a secretary making forty grand a year.” “You took my entire savings to start this company, then told me you were broke and in debt. I worked three jobs just to help pay it off, so exhausted I didn’t dare take a day off even with a fever.” “Tell me, Blair. Why did you play me for a fool?” Blair Caldwell fumbled for words, her mouth opening and closing soundlessly. Her companion, Miles Albright, stepped forward before she could speak. “It’s not a mystery, man. When I got married, she promised me she’d wait. Her company, her success—it’s all part of the future she built for us.” He shrugged, adjusting the cuff of his bespoke suit. “So, no. She really doesn’t have a dime she can give you.” It was then I realized the depth of the deception. Not only had she hidden her entire identity and fortune from me, but she had made a lifelong vow of fidelity and commitment to another man. Yet, I was Blair Caldwell’s legal husband, Noah Harrison. Could she truly walk away and leave me with nothing? 1 Blair’s hand reached out for my shoulder. I flinched, pulling back abruptly. Her hand hung in the air, then dropped with a sigh. “Noah, listen to me. I loved the simplicity of the life we had. I really did. I never planned to keep this from you forever. I was going to tell you the truth… soon.” “Soon? Eight years, Blair! We’ve been married for eight years! Was that not long enough?” My voice was trembling, the rage a fragile thing beneath the surface of my shock. “Or did you just think I was a fool you could lie to for the rest of your life?” She tried to take my arm again. “It’s not like that, Noah.” I took a shaky step back. My feet felt unstable because the soles of my shoes were worn flat, but I’d never felt I could justify buying a new pair. My gaze settled on Miles Albright. He was wearing gleaming custom oxfords, a charcoal gray suit that screamed couture, and on his wrist, a Patek Philippe. I’d only ever dared to peek at those through a jewelry store window. I remembered joking with Blair years ago: “When you’re rich, buy me a Patek, too.” She had laughed, ruffling my hair. “I promise. I’ll buy you two. One to wear, one to keep in a safe.” She had bought one. She’d just given it to him. Fighting the sickening bile in my throat, I forced a smile. “Not like what? Then what is he?” Blair glanced nervously at Miles. “Miles is just a friend.” Miles’s smug expression immediately soured. “Blair!” She grabbed his arm, shooting him a silent look, then turned back to me, her voice dropping to a low, urgent murmur. “Trust me, if I were involved with Miles, you wouldn’t have lasted this long. He just got divorced. He’s been really unstable, and I’m just trying to look out for him.” “He’s always loved a cruel joke. He was just messing with you now. Don’t take it to heart.” “Noah, you have to believe me.” Believe her. I flashed back to our first year of marriage, her first supposed “failed startup,” and the fifty thousand dollars in debt. The day the angry creditors showed up, she was huddled in the corner, sobbing, telling me how sorry she was. I held her and told her it was okay, we’d face it together. That night, I emptied my savings account. Twenty thousand dollars—my entire safety net. I pressed the debit card into her hand. “Take this. We’ll figure out the rest. I believe in you.” She cried in my arms for hours, promising she’d never betray my love. Eight years of deceit. That was her definition of not betraying me. “Believe you?” I heard a strangled, watery sound that might have been a laugh. My cheeks were wet. “Blair Caldwell, look me in the eye and tell me again that you are just friends?” She opened her mouth, but no sound came out. That silence was more brutal than any confession. I knew I didn’t need to ask anything else. I took a deep, shuddering breath, wiping the tears away. “Blair, let’s get a divorce.” “It’s seven words. That’s a million a word. A seven-million-dollar buyout of our marriage. To seal your freedom with him. That seems like a bargain.” 2 Blair seemed genuinely panicked. “Noah, you need to calm down. Let’s go home and talk.” I cut her off. “You mean the seven-hundred-dollar-a-month apartment with the peeling paint on the walls?” I wanted to laugh again, a truly terrible sound. Her expression tightened. She reached out to grab me. “Stop making a scene. It’s unprofessional.” “Let go,” I ground out. She held firm. “Not until you promise to come home and talk this through.” Miles, watching our struggle, drawled, “Mr. Harrison, if you ask me, you should be grateful. If you think the money is too little, I’ll tell Blair to up your monthly allowance. Five thousand. No, make it eight thousand. That should cover your expenses, just try not to be too extravagant.” His words were more painful than a punch. I thought of the endless string of calculated, careful days: the sale-rack groceries, the used shirts I bought on eBay, the badly trimmed hair I cut myself. The rush of humiliation was overwhelming. One of my arms was locked in Blair’s grip. The other one moved, an instinctual, desperate reaction, and I slammed my open palm across Miles Albright’s smug, self-satisfied face. The crack of the blow echoed in the silent, polished lobby. Time seemed to stop. A few seconds passed before Miles reacted, clutching his cheek, his eyes wide and wet with rage. “Blair! He hit me! It hurts!” Blair’s reaction was immediate. She shoved me away. I staggered backward. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of the reception desk. A white-hot burst of pain exploded in my spine. I hadn’t even found my footing when she grabbed me again. “Noah Harrison! Are you insane!” she screamed, shaking my shoulders and then delivering a vicious, final push. The world tilted. My head hit the corner of the heavy marble table with a sickening thud. A dull, heavy pain radiated from the back of my skull. I reached up and felt the slick warmth of blood. I gripped the table, struggling to stay upright. My vision was blurry, but I saw her clearly: she was cradling Miles’s face, meticulously checking his cheek. “It hurts, Blair, it hurts so bad…” Miles whimpered. Blair patted his back like a child’s. “It’s okay, darling. I’m right here.” Then she looked up at the stunned receptionist. “Are you blind?! Can’t you see Miles is hurt?! Get an ice pack! Now!” The young woman gasped and scrambled away to find the ice pack. The blood ran down the back of my neck, warm at first, then chilling as it soaked into my collar. I was cold. I was cold all over. Blair finally turned back to me. “Go home. I have to take Miles to the emergency room. We can talk about us another time.” My vision was swimming, but I fought to keep my voice steady. “Blair Caldwell, as of today, we are done.” She frowned. “What are you talking about?” “You think seven million is too much? Fine. The savings you owe me, the eight years of my life you stole, the blood I just shed—I’m going to get it back. Every last cent, in court.” The community property. The company she started with my money. The profits. The houses, the cars, the luxury watches she bought him. Everything. I would claim my rightful share. Miles shot up, his eyes blazing. “You’re dreaming!” I didn’t answer him. I simply turned and walked toward the main doors. Every step sent a jolt of throbbing pain through the back of my head. Every step, I bled. But my back was straight. A man can fall, but he must never bend. Whether I was dreaming or not, my lawyer would soon answer. 3 It was dark by the time I left the law office. I drove home, wincing from the headache, and as soon as I stepped inside, I saw an open suitcase in the middle of the living room. Blair was folding dresses into it. Miles was sprawled on our threadbare couch, scrolling on his phone. “You’re back?” Blair looked up, her tone as calm as if nothing had happened. “Good. I have something to tell you.” “Miles’s body is sensitive. That slap you gave him made his heart race. The doctor says he needs constant care. I’ll be staying with him for a few days.” I barked a laugh. “Don’t bother telling me. We’re in a ‘divorce cooling-off period,’ Blair. You can live wherever you want. I don’t need a report.” She let out an impatient sound. “Noah, don’t be like this. I know you’re emotional, but we can talk later. Miles needs me now.” Need. When she needed me, I was there. When I needed her, she was with someone else. Was it fair? No. But marriage isn’t about fairness. It’s about willingness. I had been willing for eight years. Now my heart was dead, and my willingness was gone. “Fine,” I said, turning and walking into the bedroom. She probably expected me to break down, to beg, to try and stop her. I didn’t. I opened the closet and began tossing her belongings into the case. My hand paused only when I reached a photo frame. It was our wedding picture. She was beaming. My eyes were full of light. “Noah, what are you doing?” She followed me in, and there was a tremor of genuine alarm in her voice. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” I continued throwing things into the suitcase without looking at her. “I’m helping you pack. Saves you a trip.” “I said it’s just for a few days—” “Then don’t ever come back. Take your things, and the man who needs you, and get out.” Miles appeared in the doorway. “Blair, are you still going to the yacht auction tonight? You promised to bid on that limited edition watch for me…” “Yes.” Blair answered instantly, not sparing me a glance. “I keep my promises.” Hearing her reply, Miles looked at me, a smirk playing on his lips. “A high-society event like that… I doubt Mr. Harrison has ever been to one. I suppose it’s for the best. Lots of rules, not suitable for someone… impulsive like Mr. Harrison.” Blair turned back, offering an explanation. “Noah, I’m not excluding you. It’s just that these events are for business partners. We have to be careful what we say and do. I was worried you might not fit in, that you might say or do something to offend an important client—” I cut her off, cold. “Are you done?” She blinked. I pointed to the door. “Then get out. Get out of my apartment.” “Noah, this is our—” “No. This is mine. I pay the rent. I pay the utilities. I bought the furniture and appliances. What did you contribute in eight years, other than your presence?” She opened her mouth, ready to argue, but the words died in her throat. Because I was telling the truth. For eight years, the “household money” she gave me—five thousand a month—was just enough for rent and basic expenses. When I said it wasn’t enough, she told me to be thrifty. I was thrifty while she squandered fortunes on another man, and still called him just a friend? Her tone went frigid. “Fine. I’ll go. But you’ll regret this!” “Go!” The door slammed shut, and the apartment fell silent. It was too quiet. I could hear the hum of the refrigerator, and the frantic drumming of my own heart. I sank slowly to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. Tears fell, hitting the worn linoleum floor. One drop, then another. I don’t know how long I sat there. The phone buzzed. I picked it up. A photo from an unfamiliar number. On a luxurious hotel bed, Blair’s face was soft in sleep. Miles was nestled against her chest, giving the camera a triumphant thumbs-up. Below the photo was a single line of text: “Thanks for making it possible.” I stared at the image for a long, steady moment. Then I replied: “Thank you, too.” For sending me the proof. My private investigator hadn’t been able to confirm physical infidelity. That would have complicated the divorce proceedings and limited my claim to the marital assets. Now, I had it. 4 But the accident, the truly unexpected blow, came suddenly. My stomach had been cramping painfully since I left the law firm. I drove to a walk-in clinic, which sent me to the ER. The doctor told me I had severe gastric ulcers and internal bleeding. He gave me a prescription and told me to rest. I sat in the waiting room, staring blankly at the lab report. That’s when I heard the familiar voices down the hall. “The doctor said you’re delicate, Miles. You need to take it easy and avoid stress.” Miles’s voice was his usual, soft coo. “I know, but I’m a little cold. Will you hold me tonight, Blair?” I instinctively tried to get up and leave, but I turned the corner right into them. Blair was leaning on Miles, her face alight with an affectionate, doting smile. Seeing me, they both froze. Blair instantly dropped Miles’s arm and hurried over. “Noah, what are you doing here? Are you okay? Are you feeling sick?” There was a flicker of genuine concern in her eyes. For a split second, I almost believed she was the wife who used to stay up all night with me when I had a headache. I quickly tucked the lab report into my bag. “Routine checkup. Nothing to worry about.” I didn’t want her to know. Blair hadn’t seen my move, but Miles had. He sauntered over. “Blair, I’m thirsty. Can you get me a bottle of water?” Blair glanced from me to him, hesitated, and then conceded. “Okay. Wait here.” Once she was gone, the kindness instantly vanished from Miles’s face. “Did you get the picture? Blair is so captivating when she sleeps, isn’t she? She likes to spoon, and her arm holds you so tight.” Even as I told myself I was over her, the words still twisted something agonizingly deep in my gut. Eight years of devotion wasn’t something you could excise easily. I frowned. “Move.” He blocked my way, his eyes locked on the bag where I’d hidden my report. “You’re sick, aren’t you?” “None of your business.” He smiled, a flicker of pure malice in his eyes. “Blair’s future is my business, so…” He pulled a small utility knife from his pocket. I scoffed. “I advise you to put that away. This is a hospital. If you injure me, you’ll regret it.” He grinned. Then, with a sudden, vicious movement, he slashed a line across his own wrist. “Ah! Blair! He’s crazy! He cut me with a knife!” Blair came sprinting back. The water bottle she held clattered to the floor and rolled far down the hall. She grabbed Miles’s arm. When she saw the gash, her face went deathly pale. I was stunned. My voice shook. “It wasn’t me! He did it to himself! Call the police! Yes, call the police! Check the knife for fingerprints—” Before I could finish, Blair’s foot shot out and slammed into my abdomen. A searing, blinding pain erupted. Miles whimpered again. “Blair, it hurts.” Blair didn’t even look at me. She threw her arm around Miles and ran toward the emergency room. “Hold on! The doctor will be right there!” I collapsed, clutching my stomach. My heart felt like it was tearing apart. I doubled over and coughed up a huge mouthful of blood. I heard the frantic scream of a nurse: “Security! Help! Now!” Through the blurring darkness, I saw Blair’s footsteps hesitate, and the look of cold, stark fear on her face. … When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. A dull ache radiated from my stomach. I touched the area—surgical stitches. It was night. Rain was falling outside the window. The door creaked open. Blair walked in, her dress rumpled, her face etched with exhaustion. She sat by my bed and was silent for a long time. “Noah, I’m so sorry. I was panicking… I didn’t know you were sick.” I closed my eyes, turning my face away. “But it’s okay,” she rushed on, reaching for my hand. “I told the doctor to perform the surgery immediately. Everything is fine now.” I pulled my hand back, tears stinging my eyes. Her voice cracked. “Noah, please. Look at me. I was wrong… I’m begging you, just look at me.” “I’m sorry, I truly am…” Just then, her phone rang. She wiped her eyes and answered it. The corridor outside was quiet. I could hear the voice on the other end: a court clerk. She hung up after a long moment. “You filed for divorce…?”

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The day I died, my roommate was wearing a five-carat engagement ring at my graveside. My death was the culmination of her perfect lie: She’d used my name—Juliet Abbott, heiress to Abbott Pharmaceuticals—to scam an East Coast scion online. She’d sent him her own pictures, all of her perfectly slim, perfectly pretty self. When the scion, Prescott Harrington, discovered the real me was a woman nearly one hundred pounds overweight, his fury was absolute. He didn’t just break up with me; he used the full, destructive weight of the Harrington empire to crush my family’s company. My parents, broken by the shame and ruin, took the leap first. I followed them. Stella Davies stood over my fresh grave, her eyes wide and innocent, a diamond so large it looked like a frozen teardrop flashing on her finger. “Jules, Prescott proposed!” she whispered, her voice laced with the sickening sweetness of fake sympathy. “It’s a shame you jumped so soon. That two hundred pounds of yours would have made me look absolutely breathtaking as your maid of honor.” She leaned closer, a satisfied smirk cracking through her false woe. “I only used your name because I felt sorry for you. You were so huge, I figured you were too pathetic to ever land a man like Prescott. Who knew he would be so disgusted when he finally saw you that he’d dismantle the Abbott empire?” “Well, here’s hoping you’re reborn skinny, sweetie.” God must have heard her last spiteful wish, because I was reborn. Now, I have three months. Three months until Prescott Harrington steps off the plane and walks into the life Stella stole. This time, she will learn that stealing a name will cost her everything, including her life. 1 “NO WAY!!!” A shriek, sharp and completely grating, sliced through the evening quiet of our dorm room. The two other girls looked up from their phones, instantly alert. Stella Davies had sprung up on her bed, her face contorted with unbridled joy and a hunger for attention. “Scott, you’re not messing with me, are you?” She threw a deliberately casual glance my way, then hit the speaker button on her phone. The soft, low chuckle of Prescott Harrington—the golden, blue-blood heir to the Harrington fortune—echoed clearly in the tiny space. “Baby, it’s just a car. Why would I tease you?” His voice was rich, effortless, dripping with the kind of money that buys discretion and silence. “I saw it in Monaco and just thought the red was perfect for you.” “I’ll be home in three months. The paperwork will be finalized by then. I’ll drive it right up to your dorm myself.” He hung up. A beat of silence, then the other two roommates erupted in envious squeals. “Stella! Is that really a limited-edition Ferrari?” “Oh my God… you are living the dream!” Stella slid off her bed, weaving through the clutter and coming straight for me. She grabbed my arm and gave it a saccharine shake. “Jules, you have to come with me to meet Scott when he gets here, okay?” she pleaded, batting her eyelashes. “It’s my first time meeting an online boyfriend. I’m so scared of being scammed!” I looked up, my eyes locking on the mask of manufactured innocence on her face. Last life, that exact look had fooled me. My heart had softened. I’d nodded. The price for that single, kind gesture was paid with three coffins. 2 Stella had been transferred into our room at the start of junior year. That was when she was diagnosed with a particularly nasty, rare autoimmune condition. The treatment required long-term, high-dose steroids and supplements. Not only was the medication astronomically expensive, but the side effects were horrific: massive, uncontrolled weight gain, a ballooning face, and a condition known as a “buffalo hump.” Stella’s family couldn’t even afford her next month’s rent, let alone the medicine. When the pain flared up, she would hide in the corner and weep, a fragile, pitiful mess. I felt sorry for her. I went home and begged my parents. Abbott Pharmaceuticals didn’t just cover her tuition and living expenses; we put her on our experimental new drug trial. The drug was potent, effective, and crucially, had virtually zero side effects—no weight gain, no swelling. It hadn’t been officially released yet, but at my insistence, my parents signed off on the ‘compassionate use’ waiver. It was my drug, my access, and my family’s money that saved her life and preserved the one thing Stella truly prized: her beautiful, slender body. 3 My good intentions, however, were food for a viper. Senior year, she secretly used my name to lure Prescott Harrington. She claimed to be Juliet Abbott, the Abbott heiress, while sending him her own flawlessly edited photos. It was exactly today, in my previous life, that she got that call about the car, and it was exactly today that she asked me to meet him with her. I said yes. Three months later. Prescott actually showed up at the campus gates in the red Ferrari. Stella was clutching my arm, quivering with excitement as we walked up. But when Prescott smiled and called her name—”Jules”—she played the scared rabbit. She backed away, feigning total confusion, pointing her trembling finger directly at the two-hundred-pound me. “Y-you must have the wrong person? She is Juliet Abbott.” Prescott’s face had instantly gone black. He had assumed I had stolen her photos, that I was the scammer, the liar. In a rage, he’d brought down the full weight of his family’s influence on the Abbott name. After my family’s final, desperate act, Stella had appeared before a devastated Prescott, tears streaming down her perfect face, ready to deliver her ‘truth.’ “Scott, the one you were talking to was me,” she’d sobbed. “I was so insecure. Your family is everything, and I’m just a poor student with nothing. I was terrified you would never look at me, so I did a wicked thing and used Juliet’s name…” “And that day at the gate? I pretended not to know you because I needed to know if you loved me, or if you just loved the Abbott name…” Prescott, heartbroken and moved by her apparent sacrifice, had pulled her into his arms, instantly proposing. “From this day forward, you won’t need to borrow anyone’s name,” he’d vowed. “Because there is no title in this world more revered than Mrs. Prescott Harrington.” It was a beautiful love story. Unfortunately, it was built on the bones of my entire family. 4 “Jules? You’re not saying anything. You don’t want to go with me?” Stella’s voice yanked me back to the present. I pulled my arm free from her grasp, distancing myself from her touch. “No. I don’t.” Her expression immediately curdled. She leaned in, her voice dropping to a low, silken-soft whisper only I could hear. The knife-twist of her malice was unmistakable. “Jealous?” She smiled with a vicious sweetness. “Jealous that I snagged Prescott Harrington? Jealous that he casually buys me a Ferrari, while you, the great Abbott heiress, can’t even get a date?” “You must have loved throwing money at me and watching me grovel, right?” Her eyes were cold, spiteful. “Well, look who’s on top now. Juliet Abbott, I hope that pathetic little superiority complex of yours is completely shattered.” “Are you finished?” I asked. My tone was so flat it stopped her mid-sentence. Before she could form a reply, I pulled out my phone and dialed the house number. “Mr. Harris,” I said calmly when my family’s butler answered. “Immediately cease all funding and all aid to Stella Davies.” “Including her monthly medication supply.” Mr. Harris’s even voice came through the speaker. “Miss Abbott, is that effective immediately? Miss Davies’s next supply was scheduled for tomorrow.” “Immediately,” I confirmed, watching the blood drain from Stella’s face. My voice was ice. “From this moment forward, the Abbott family will not spend a single cent on her. She will not receive a single pill.” 5 A dead silence descended upon the room. The other two roommates shifted uncomfortably, glancing between a placid me and a ghost-white Stella. Stella managed to tear a brittle, scoffing laugh from her throat. “Fine! Stop the funding! Who cares?” she chirped, though her hands were shaking. “Your family’s experimental crap? Who knows what’s in it! Maybe you were just using me as a guinea pig! I was going to stop taking it anyway!” She tossed her head back in defiance. “Wait until my fiancé gets back. I’ll be able to afford the best medicine in the world!” I put my phone away. My expression remained impassive. “Go ahead. You wait for him.” Stella had no idea what awaited her once she was forced onto the generic, commercial-grade steroids—the drugs that would replace the bespoke medication the Abbott family had been providing. Moon face, buffalo hump, central obesity, dark purple striae across the skin… The beautiful face and slender body she had mortgaged her soul to protect. It would all disintegrate. Bloat. Corrupt. I was waiting, too. Waiting for three months to pass. Waiting to see the expression on Prescott Harrington’s face when he saw the woman who claimed to be his “perfect vision”—transformed into a desperate, monstrous thing. The scene would be delicious. 6 I didn’t spare Stella’s trembling, defiant mask a second look. I simply turned and began packing my bags. “You’re moving out?” one of the other girls whispered. “Yes,” I replied, stuffing heavy books on Integrative Medicine into my suitcase. “I need space to focus.” I needed an environment free of distraction. I had a plan to execute—the one Stella’s malice had cut short in the last life. My major was in holistic and integrative medicine, specializing in metabolism and weight management. Many people found it hilarious. A two-hundred-pound woman studying weight loss? What they didn’t know was that this weight was self-inflicted. Early in freshman year, combining an ancient family formula with modern pharmacology, I had successfully refined a pure herbal weight-loss remedy. It was effective, fast, and virtually side-effect free. My father was thrilled, wanting to launch an entirely new product line under Abbott. But the old guard on the board had sneered. “A cocktail put together by a green kid? And you claim ‘no side effects’?” “Miss Abbott, you have no credentials. Who would believe you?” “Want to prove it? Fine. Take it yourself first!” Their arrogance had accidentally given me the perfect idea. With my father’s quiet support, I began a long-term ‘self-experiment.’ Over two years, using specific diets and drug assistance, I had intentionally gained a hundred pounds. Last life, I was just days away from starting a live-streamed regimen—a public record of my entire weight-loss process—when Stella had pulled me toward Prescott Harrington. The whole plan, along with my life, had been reduced to ashes. Not this time. I couldn’t wait. I zipped up my suitcase. The girl reflected in the mirror was still large and swollen, but the smoldering fire that had been dormant for two lifetimes was finally alight in my eyes. More than one person had told me, before I gained the weight, that I had the kind of face that could stop a man’s heart. This time, I will claim that dazzling life that was supposed to be mine, and I will take back everything they owe me. 7 The afternoon I moved out of the dorm, I registered a new social media account: “Jules’s 90-Day Miracle.” The three-month timeline—one month of internship and two months of summer break—perfectly aligned with my plan. I never showed my face. The camera focused only on my body below the neck, the scale’s readout, and my daily meals. On Day One, the screen displayed a two-hundred-pound, soft, and shapeless body. My voice was calm. “Hello. Starting today, for the next three months, I will lose exactly one hundred pounds using only a proprietary herbal formula and a sensible diet.” The comments section exploded with mockery. “Trying to go viral, are we? Hundred pounds in three months? Unless you get liposuction, no way.” “I’ll believe that when I believe I’m the Queen of England.” “Another scammer trying to sell supplements.” I ignored the noise, sipping my first cup of the herbal infusion. Day Two. Day Three… Over the ninety days that spanned my internship and the entire summer, I live-streamed twice daily—taking my medicine, revealing my weight, and showing my exact caloric intake. Everything was transparent, open to scrutiny. My weight dropped at a stunning, visible rate. The bloated jawline sharpened, my collarbones emerged from the thick layer of fat, and my waistline appeared clearer every day. My body transformed daily right before the camera. The initial mockery turned into full-blown internet shock. “Holy sh*t! She lost another 1.2 pounds today! What kind of witchcraft is this?” “I’m begging for the formula! I’d sell my ex-boyfriend’s soul for this!” The skeptical old board members at Abbott, who had initially dismissed my idea, started showing up in the live chat, sending huge virtual gifts and calling my father with fawning deference. “Chairman! Miss Abbott’s formula is a miracle drug! We must push it into production now!” The herbal formula’s production line was approved by a unanimous vote. Just before the end of summer, I stepped on the scale for the final time. The digital display showed a number exactly one hundred pounds less than when I started. I posted a short, dramatic before-and-after video. The comments section went insane. “Queen! You are my only Queen! Show us your face, please!” “That transformation… what does her face even look like?” “I’m betting a year’s salary she’s a drop-dead goddess!” 8 On the first day of the new semester, I slipped into a sleek, black spaghetti-strap dress. In the mirror, my hair was pinned up, revealing a face that was clean, unadorned, and arrestingly beautiful. The most impactful feature was my eyes—clear, stark black-and-white, shimmering like cold stars. I put on a disposable surgical mask and walked toward the campus. The September sun was harsh. The campus entrance was packed with returning students and parents. A bright red Ferrari sat glaringly at the curb. Its scissor door was open. Prescott Harrington leaned against the side, sunglasses covering his eyes, his posture radiating casual, untouchable arrogance, commanding every eye. As I was about to navigate the crowd, my phone buzzed. It was Stella. “Jules, where are you?” Her voice was breathless with a nervous, desperate excitement. “At the gate.” “Perfect! Can you just meet Scott for me? I’m going to be half an hour late.” She paused, and the venomous satisfaction in her tone almost spilled out. “I told him you were my roommate. All you have to do is walk up and tell him—” “Tell him your name is Juliet Abbott. That’s it.” I sneered internally. My gaze scanned the agitated crowd, finally settling on a discreet corner of the plaza. A bulky figure in an oversized, dark track suit, wearing a hat and a mask, was hunched over, clutching a phone. There she was. Stella. “No,” I replied, my voice cool and final. In the corner, Stella flew into a silent, desperate panic. “Fine, Juliet Abbott! If you want to play dirty, let’s play dirty!” She furiously dialed another number, her voice shaking with pure malice. “Hello? Are you at the radio station? Good! Now! Broadcast it immediately!” Almost on cue, the high-power campus loudspeaker crackled to life. 9 “ATTENTION! Prescott Harrington at the campus gate, listen up!” “The Juliet Abbott you’re talking to online is a two-hundred-pound FAT PIG! She’s an UGLY, WICKED CREATURE!” “All the photos she sent you are STOLEN from her beautiful roommate! The real girl is a fat, ugly, psycho liar who scams men online!” “Prescott Harrington, you IDIOT! You’ve been fooled by a pig! The whole campus knows what she is!” The crowd instantly erupted. Discussion exploded in a shocked, chaotic wave of noise. Prescott’s expression, previously one of bored hauteur, froze. He ripped off his sunglasses, his eyes—cold, dark, and utterly lethal—sweeping toward the broadcast booth. His jaw was clenched so tight the muscle twitched. The next second, he pulled out his phone. He didn’t raise his voice, but every word he spoke into the mic cut through the chaos, clear and distinct. “Juliet Abbott.” “I’m giving you one chance.” “Now. Get out here.” 10 The phone clicked off. The entire area went dead silent. No one dared to move. Every set of eyes was nervously searching, waiting for Juliet Abbott to emerge. That was my cue. I started walking. I walked directly toward Stella. The crowd instinctively parted, creating a path for me. Prescott’s dark, furious gaze followed me, settling on the hunched, bulky figure in the track suit. His brow furrowed in confusion and disgust. I stopped right in front of Stella. She tried to shrink into the anonymity of the crowd, but I was too fast. I grabbed her wrist. Before she could react, my other hand reached for the black surgical mask covering her face. With a swift, downward motion, I ripped it off— “N-no…!” The moment the mask fell, the air became thick and heavy. A face that was utterly and tragically ruined was exposed to the sunlight. It was bloated like unkneaded dough, squeezing her features into distorted slits. Her skin, a sickening shade of mottled gray and purple from the hormonal damage, was slick with a sweaty, diseased sheen. A collective, horrified gasp rippled through the onlookers. “Dear God… who is that? She’s so swollen…” “She… she looks sick.” “I think that’s Stella Davies from the Integrated Med program…” Stella let out a high-pitched, desperate shriek, trying to cover her face, but my hand easily blocked her attempt. As raw terror flooded her eyes, I reached up with my free hand, hooking my finger around the pristine white mask covering my own features. I gently, delicately, removed it. The midday sun poured down, illuminating my face. Extreme ugliness and profound, devastating beauty were displayed side-by-side in the same, cruel frame. Silence. More absolute than before. I turned my head and looked straight at Prescott Harrington. “Mr. Harrington.” “Which Juliet Abbott were you looking for?”

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I had been married for twelve years, and for every one of those months, my paycheck had gone straight to my mother, Doris. Stella, my wife, had never once complained about it. I honestly believed she was the most high-minded, understanding spouse a man could ask for. That belief shattered the day I was rushed to the hospital with a sudden, severe illness, needing a hundred thousand dollars for emergency surgery. I called her, my voice strained. “Stella, honey, I need the money for the operation.” Her voice, when it came, was a cold, sharp blade. “Go ask your mother. If you’re broke, maybe it’s time to pay the piper.” I froze. It was only after she hung up that the awful realization dawned on me—for the last twelve years, she hadn’t been high-minded or generous at all. She had simply been waiting for this exact day. 1 The dial tone buzzed like a needle in my ear. The world went silent. Only the rhythmic drip-drip of the heart monitor echoed in the sterile room, each beat a chilling countdown to my life’s end. Stella’s words were still circling in my head. “Go ask your mother. If you’re broke, maybe it’s time to pay the piper.” The tone was infused with ice, devoid of all the warmth and affection she had so expertly manufactured over a decade. I held my phone in mid-air, my arm locked in place. The blood in my body felt instantly congealed. How? How could she say that? We were husband and wife. Twelve years. My mind was a blank slate, utterly unable to process the magnitude of this betrayal. The aggressive smell of disinfectant burned my nostrils. I flashed back twelve years, to the first time I handed my debit card over to my mother, Doris Sullivan. We had just been married. My mother, smiling benignly, took the card in front of Stella and said, “A family’s money should be in one place, dear. I’ll keep it safe for you, put it away in a high-interest account. It’ll all be yours one day.” At the time, I thought she was the model of a dutiful parent. I was her son; she would never shortchange me. I looked at Stella. She just looked down, silent. I took her silence for assent. I believed her to be the rare, rational woman who understood the importance of filial loyalty. From that day forward, for twelve years, one hundred and forty-four months, not one dollar of my salary passed through my own hands. Stella never raised her voice or gave me a dirty look about it. I had been patting myself on the back for years, convinced I had married a good, generous, unmaterialistic wife. But that single, brutal sentence—”maybe it’s time to pay the piper”—was a slap that brought me crashing back to reality. It wasn’t assent. It was twelve years of calculated resentment. A bone-deep chill crept from my soles to the crown of my head. No, this couldn’t be right. Stella must have been joking, angry, or stressed. Clutching at a sliver of hope, I dialed my mother, Doris. The phone rang for an agonizingly long time. “Hello? Grant, is that you? Are you feeling any better, sweetheart?” My mother’s voice was, as always, thick with performative concern. My tight nerves relaxed a fraction. “Mom, the doctor says I need immediate surgery. It’s a hundred thousand dollars.” My voice carried a tremor I couldn’t hide. “A hundred thousand? Why so much?” The pitch of her voice lifted slightly, then softened again. “It’s alright, son, don’t you worry. A mother always takes care of her child. I’ll make sure you get treated.” The enormous rock in my chest sank to the floor. “When can you bring the money, Mom? The nurse has been pressing me.” “Oh, don’t rush me, dear,” her tone grew hesitant. “The money is all saved up, but most of it is in long-term CDs—you know, to get the best interest. Pulling it out now would be a catastrophe, we’d lose so much on the penalty.” “But the doctor said—” “I know, I know,” she cut me off impatiently. “I’ll see what I can scrape together first. What about your wife? Didn’t you talk to her? She must have some liquid cash, surely?” She was pushing it back to Stella. The small sense of security I had just found evaporated, leaving me more anxious than before. “Mom, Stella… I told her.” I couldn’t bring myself to repeat what Stella had actually said. “Well, there you go. You’re married, she can’t just abandon you. I’m hanging up now. I’ll go check with the bank.” The line went dead with an abrupt click. I stared at the phone screen, the anxiety twisting around my heart like a poisonous vine. The door opened and the nurse walked in, her face impassive. “Mr. Sullivan, if your payment isn’t processed, your surgery will be postponed today. We have other patients waiting for the OR.” Her words were a cold, hard hammer blow to my fragile nerves. “I—I understand. I’ll… I’ll have it processed right away.” My lips trembled, unable to form a coherent sentence. The nurse gave me a look of vague pity and turned to leave. Like a cornered animal, I redialed Stella’s number. This time, the phone rang once, then clicked off. I tried again. Click. I called her again and again until the generic voice message informed me that “the user you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” She had blocked me. Despair, like a tidal wave, instantly drowned me. My chest tightened, a crushing weight pressing the air from my lungs. Just then, my screen lit up. It was my younger brother, Ronan. I seized the phone like a drowning man grabbing a life preserver. “Ronan! Quick! How much cash do you have? I need to borrow some—I need surgery now!” I cried out desperately. There was a moment of silence on the other end. “Cash? Where would I get cash, Grant? You know I just bought the new SUV last month; I’m totally tapped out.” His voice held zero urgency, only a tone of mild complaint. “Speaking of which, there’s a new flagship smartphone that just dropped. The camera is insane. I was thinking of upgrading. Could you maybe talk to Mom…?” Slam! I lost it. With every ounce of my remaining strength, I hurled the phone against the far wall. The screen splintered like an ugly spiderweb. The world was finally, utterly silent. I lay back on the bed, my eyes fixed on the ceiling. There was an old, discolored water stain shaped like a grotesque, twisted face, silently mocking me. In their eyes, I was worth less than a new phone. 2 After what felt like an eternity, the door cracked open. My mother, Doris Sullivan, walked in, clutching an old thermos. The moment she saw me, the tears started, streaming down her face like a broken dam. “Oh, my poor baby, how did you get so sick? This is going to be the death of your old mother…” She collapsed against my bedside, sobbing and beating her chest dramatically. Anyone watching would have believed she was a loving, utterly heartbroken mother. But after Stella’s call and Ronan’s callousness, her wails were nothing but grating noise to me. When she finished her act, she pulled a crumpled wad of bills from her pocket and shoved it into my hand. “Grant, sweetheart, this is every penny of my emergency money. Take it.” I looked down at the pathetic bundle in my hand. At most, it was two hundred dollars. All the blood in my body rushed to my head. Twelve years of my five-figure monthly salary, and this was my return? Two hundred dollars? “Mom, where is my paycheck money?” My voice was hoarse, like sandpaper grating on wood. Doris’s sobbing stopped instantly. She wiped her eyes and immediately launched into an attack on Stella. “Don’t even get me started! I told you years ago that woman couldn’t be trusted, she’s sneaky! See? The minute you get sick, she’s nowhere to be found! She must have hidden all your money!” She pushed all the blame onto Stella. “Your money, the bulk of it, is tied up in a high-yield CD, like I told you. The penalty for early withdrawal is huge!” She slapped her thigh, her face contorted in an expression of pained self-righteousness. “Just go back to your wife! She must have cash! Spouses are supposed to protect each other, how can she just watch you die? That heartless woman!” I said nothing, just stared at her. My eyes fell on her wrist. There, glittering under the fluorescent hospital light, was a brand-new, thick gold bangle bracelet. I had seen that exact style in a jewelry store window just last week. The price tag had been north of three thousand dollars. My heart plummeted. My mother had always sworn off jewelry, calling it a waste of money. Where did this bracelet come from? I couldn’t stop the image of Stella from flashing in my mind. She hadn’t bought herself new clothes in years. She wore the same few outfits, washed until they were threadbare. Our son didn’t have a decent remote-control car; his toys were hand-me-downs from the neighbors’ kids. And my mother, wearing a three-thousand-dollar piece of jewelry, was telling me she only had two hundred dollars in emergency cash. An invisible hand squeezed my heart, the pain so sharp I could barely draw breath. “Mom, your bracelet… is that new?” I heard the tremor in my voice. Doris’s look of profound sadness instantly froze. She instinctively tried to pull her hand back, but it was too late. Her eyes darted around the room. “This? Oh… this old thing? I bought it last year… It was cheap…” “Last year?” I gave a cold, dry laugh. “I saw the exact one at the jeweler last week. Thirty-two hundred dollars.” The air thickened, a sudden, suffocating silence. Doris’s face cycled from red to white to a mottled gray-green. She instantly exploded, like a cat whose tail had been stepped on. “Grant! What is the meaning of this?” She shot to her feet, pointing a trembling finger at my face. “Are you questioning me? I worked my fingers to the bone to raise you, and now you take the side of an outsider and accuse your own mother?” “You married that vixen and lost your mind! You’re utterly poisoned by her!” Her voice was so shrill it seemed to pierce my eardrums. “I’m telling you, the money is not available! If you want to get well, go beg your darling wife! See if she gives you a cent!” With that, she snatched the two hundred dollars back and threw the crumpled bills on the floor. The scattered greenbacks looked like a spray of blood. She spun around, slammed the door, and was gone. The ward was dead quiet again. I looked at the money on the floor, then at my own empty hands. Vixen? Outsider? For twelve years, Stella managed our home, raised our son, and looked after my every need. Yet, in my mother’s eyes, she was still just an “outsider.” And I, her so-called “son,” when in desperate need of life-saving cash, was rewarded with a pathetic performance and a torrent of abuse. My heart chilled, inch by agonizing inch. The “filial loyalty” I had so proudly upheld was nothing more than a self-deceiving joke. 3 I had run out of options. The hospital’s notices for payment started arriving like snowflakes, each one a death warrant. I lay on the bed, feeling like a stranded fish, mouth agape, waiting for the end. In a haze of despair, I thought of my childhood friend, Connor. I used the nurse’s station phone to call him. “Hello, who is this?” “Connor, it’s me, Grant.” My voice was weak, barely a whisper. “Grant? What the hell happened? You sound half-dead.” “I… I’m in the hospital. Acute pancreatitis. I need surgery, man. Could you… could you lend me some money?” My face burned with shame as I asked for the loan. I had never asked anyone for money in my life. “How much?” Connor didn’t waste a single word. “A hundred thousand.” “Fine. Send me the account details. But let me say one thing, Grant. Are you out of your mind? What about your wife and kid? Where did the last two and a half million you’ve earned go?” Connor’s blunt question hit me like a sledgehammer. Two and a half million… Right. Where was my money? I had never actually run the numbers. I just knew my five-figure paycheck automatically transferred to my mother’s account every month. How much was that, over twelve years? “Connor, could you… could you help me figure that out? How much did I make over the last twelve years?” “Hold on.” Connor hung up. Less than ten minutes later, the cell phone (one the nurse had kindly lent me) buzzed with a text. From Connor: “Just ran the numbers. After tax and benefits, your take-home pay over 12 years is conservatively $2.5 MILLION.” Two and a half million! I stared at the number, my limbs going cold. It wasn’t twenty-five thousand, not two hundred fifty thousand, but a staggering two and a half million dollars! That sum was enough to buy a decent house in the Bay Area, enough to secure my wife and son a comfortable life. And yet, here I was, unable to afford a hundred thousand dollars for my own surgery. Where did my money go? The wrenching pain in my heart threatened to make me pass out. Just then, the door swung open again. My mother, Doris, returned, her face still flushed with anger. I looked at her and roared like a lunatic. “Where is my money! Where did the two and a half million dollars go!” Doris flinched, startled by my ferocity. Her eyes darted away. “What two and a half million? Where do you get that number? It’s… it’s all saved for you…” “Saved? If it was saved, why can’t I get a hundred thousand dollars for life-saving surgery?” I struggled to sit up, but the weakness in my body sent me crashing back down onto the bed. “What is wrong with your brother? Shouting at your mother, do you have no manners!” A lazy, entitled voice sounded from the doorway. My brother, Ronan, swaggered in, dressed head-to-toe in brand-new designer sportswear. On his wrist, a glittering luxury watch. In his hand, the very latest smartphone model he’d asked me about on the phone. My gaze was locked on him, pinned like an insect. His outfit alone was worth more than ten thousand dollars. And then there was me. Lying on a cold hospital bed, waiting for a hundred thousand dollars to save my life. My mother and my brother were living in absolute, pampered luxury, funded entirely by my sweat and blood. A metallic, sickly-sweet taste flooded my throat. I looked at their smug, self-satisfied faces, then at the scattered, pitiful two hundred dollars on the floor. My vision went scarlet. I wasn’t a son. I was merely an asset. A human ATM, bled dry to the last drop, bones scraped clean by my own family. “The money… did it all go to him?” My voice was a raw whisper, tasting of blood. Doris’s face changed completely. Ronan looked irritated. “What do you mean, ‘went to me’? Money Mom gives her son isn’t ‘giving,’ it’s family! Besides, your money is Mom’s money. And Mom’s money is mine!” This self-serving, entitled logic ignited the final, frayed wire in my brain. I felt something enormous and vital inside me collapse. Twelve years of faith, twelve years of self-imposed blindness—it was all annihilated in that instant. 4 The door to the hospital room opened a third time. This time, it was Stella. She wore a simple black dress, her face devoid of any emotion, her eyes as cold as a Siberian winter. She didn’t look at me. She walked straight to the bedside. In her hand was a thick, leather-bound notebook. Thwack! She dropped the book onto my bed. The sound was quiet, yet it exploded in my ears like a thunderclap. My gaze fell on the cover.

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I used to be Rowan Mitchell, the realist prodigy who took the New York art world by storm. Now, still young, I run a tattoo parlor tucked away in a dimly lit alley. My work is impeccable, but the shop has one ironclad rule: no matter the price, I never ink a person’s name. “Roe, I still want her name.” The young guy who comes in every week stood in the doorway again. He pointed to the photo of a bright-eyed girl. “Just ‘Jenna.’ Please, can you do it?” I looked at him, and saw a reflection of another stubborn boy from years ago. Finally, I simply set my pen down on the table. My gaze drifted to my own growing belly. “Some names, you tattoo them thinking they’re profound declarations of love. Later, you realize they’re just jokes.” “I told you the rule. No names.” It wasn’t until news broke about Preston Van der Zee—the crown prince of the elite Manhattan circle—having a tattoo that read ‘Rowan’ on his lower back. The girls in the shop clustered around me: “Roe, that tattoo has the exact same name as yours!” “The gossip rags said the Prince had three ribs broken just to marry her. For a second, I almost thought you were the one!” I smiled, shaking my head, and stroked my pregnant stomach. The door suddenly swung open. The man stood in a tailored suit, dragging in the cold air from outside. He spoke with an unnerving detachment: “I need a removal.” 1 The moment I recognized him, my heart seized up. I froze. “Tattoo removal, right this way.” Jules, the receptionist, led him to the back room. Even with the mask covering the lower half of his face and his gaze fixed on the floor, I knew him instantly. He was Preston Van der Zee, the same man the girls and I had just been discussing. “Roe, he said he needs the owner to do the removal personally.” Jules approached me, her face clouded with concern. I pulled myself together. “It’s fine. I’ll take care of it.” Inside the back room, Preston sat rigidly on the sofa, legs crossed, his clean knuckles idly scrolling on his phone screen. He had the speakerphone on. I heard the simpering voice of a woman on the other end: “You promised me you would clean up everything that had to do with her! But that tattoo is still there, and every time I think about it…” A broken sob filtered through the line. Preston patiently soothed her: “If you don’t like seeing it, then I’ll have it removed.” His voice dropped lower, colder. “It’s just a tattoo. Every second it stays on my body, I find it disgusting.” The sound of me pushing the door caught his attention, and he finally looked up. The moment he recognized me, his brows knit together almost imperceptibly. His sharp, assessing gaze fell to my prominent baby bump. Preston quickly pulled his attention away, addressing the phone: “Be good. I’ll be home soon.” He hung up. He looked at me. “The Van der Zee name won’t be held hostage by a child. However you got pregnant, you’ll terminate it.” His eyes were heavy and grim. For a moment, I didn’t process what he’d said. When the meaning hit, I scoffed out loud: “This is my husband’s child, Preston. It has nothing to do with you.” “I got married after we separated.” He tapped his fingers lightly on the seat, seemingly considering something. I ignored him, rolling the laser machine over. As routine, I lifted the fabric of his shirt to expose the tattoo on his lower back. Seeing the ink again after five months, my heart involuntarily lurched. Every line, every stroke, had been designed by my own hand. He had endured the pain to get it, and afterward, he’d cradled me in his arms, smiling, treating me like the most precious treasure: “This way, we’ll never be apart.” I steadied myself. “This will hurt a little. Try to stay still.” My voice was flat and steady, as if I were addressing the most ordinary client. In the small treatment room, the laser machine began its rhythmic tick-tock. Preston’s sweat beaded instantly. Each pulse of the laser brought a suppressed grunt of pain. I didn’t know how much time passed until the final stroke blurred into an angry, blood-flecked red blotch. It was done. Just like a broken promise, a wrong relationship had finally been corrected. “You’ll need three more sessions,” I said, removing my protective goggles. “It will scab, then flake off. Nothing to worry about.” Preston stumbled as he stood up, raising a hand to offer me a credit card. “Whosever child it is, abort it.” He paused. “Chelsea is pregnant too. If she were to find out, it would cause unnecessary suspicion, and emotional distress is bad for the baby.” I waved the bank card away, forcing a small smile. “Do you really think I’m just some trinket you can pick up and put down whenever you like?” Preston was silent for a beat. He sighed lightly. “Rowan, I never looked down on you.” I responded with a detached, “Mhm.” Then I turned and walked away, terrified that I would lose control, just as I used to—like a desperate, hysterical mess. And all I would get in return was a look of utter disgust and a cool, dismissive, “Are you done with your tantrum?” 2 I watched Preston walk out the door. My hand began to throb faintly. I forced a laugh for Jules. “It’s going to rain.” The words were barely out when a clap of thunder split the sky. Jules looked at me with immediate reverence. “Roe, you’re basically a Greek goddess of weather.” I gazed out the window, smiling but saying nothing. The night deepened, and the rain became a drumming downpour, blurring the glass into a massive watery curtain. Thirteen years ago, it had been a rainy day too. My father was a bodyguard for the Van der Zee family. Preston was only six then. He’d been kidnapped by an enemy family while playing outside. It was my father who sacrificed his life to save him. His only dying wish: Look after his daughter. And so, I became a fixture in the Van der Zee mansion. I was very young and only knew that my father had died because of Preston. The crushing grief overwhelmed me, and seeing him made me scream and cry. “You killed my dad! I hate you!” I stood alone in the rain, my voice raw and hoarse. The cold rain drenched me, the chill reaching my bones. Ignoring the servants’ frantic attempts to stop him, Preston ran out into the storm and pulled me into a hug, whispering, his small body trembling: “I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry…” We both got sick and passed out from the cold. When I woke up, Preston was sitting by my bedside, his boyish face serious and earnest: “From now on, I will protect you in everything. I won’t let anyone hurt you.” From then on, I was the Van der Zee family’s unofficial second daughter. Preston indulged my every whim. When I had nightmares about my father’s death, he would sit up all night by my bed without fail. Having just lost the only family I had, I began to depend on him, seeing him as a source of salvation. To preserve the memory of my father, I begged him to find me a painting tutor. I immersed myself in art, determined to paint the last images of my father from my memory. It was then that my teachers discovered my extraordinary talent. By age thirteen, I was studying at the Royal Academy of Arts. By fourteen, I was the protégé of a world-renowned master. At sixteen, one of my pieces sold for eight figures. I became the it girl, the prodigy, but a photo of me and Preston was leaked. The media speculation and online gossip were relentless: “Hooking up with the Prince of the Elite Circle at that age? Shameless!” “She’s nothing but a scheming gold-digger. Why are you praising her?” “Look at her. She’s clearly manipulative. Her awards? Probably slept with the judges to get them!” “Genius? More like a cheap hustler.” Spreading rumors is the fastest way to destroy a woman. Before I could react, all the online filth was scrubbed clean. Preston took the rare step of posting on his social media: “The girl I consider my North Star is not one for you to judge.” After that single sentence. No one dared to speak ill of me again. All the major gossip mongers received cease-and-desist letters. I was still in London for school when he took a red-eye flight, knocking on my door in the middle of the night. “Roe, don’t waste a single minute worrying about those people.” His long lashes still held flakes of snow. His expression was focused and full of concern. I was momentarily stunned. In that fleeting moment, I understood something deeper in his gaze. But I dared not entertain the thought. The Van der Zee empire was too vast. Preston, the heir, was destined for a strategically advantageous marriage. “Thanks, Preston,” I said, drawing my thoughts back and forcing a smile. The light in Preston’s eyes dimmed. He asked, his voice shaking: “What did you just call me?” It sounded as if he couldn’t believe his own ears. “Preston,” I said, taking a deep breath. “I’m meeting friends for class soon, so I can’t entertain you for long.” Preston looked like he wanted to say more, but he only ran a hand through my hair. He spoke, his voice hoarse: “I’ll head back then.” The unspoken longing of our youth ended there, in that moment of conscious retreat. The change came later, on the night of my eighteenth birthday ball. 3 “Roe,” Jules gasped, eyes wide, staring at the computer screen. “This girl looks just like you!” My heart pounded, and I quickly moved to her side. Underneath a post discussing Preston’s tattoo, someone had uploaded an old photo. It showed Preston pinning a boy to the floor, fists flying, while I, dressed in a couture gown and wearing a tiara, tried to break up the fight. Jules scratched her head, asking tentatively: “Roe, so you and the Prince really do know each other?” I nodded. And I began to tell her the story behind the photo. At my eighteenth birthday ball, a relatively well-known boy from our circle had confessed his feelings for me. Preston had immediately grabbed the boy’s collar, his tone razor sharp: “She belongs to me. What right do you have to touch her?!” The two of them had fought, oblivious to the venue or the crowd. That night, Preston came looking for me. He started drinking alone, and two glasses in, he was drunk. He cupped my face in his hands, his expression full of sorrow. “Roe, don’t you know?” He collapsed into my arms, his eyes reflecting mine. “I’m in love with you.” A burst of fireworks outside illuminated his desolate face. The painter’s perception of beauty was magnified in that moment. On impulse, I kissed his perfect lips. The moment it was done, a wave of regret washed over me. The next day, he announced to his parents that he was going to marry me. He stood firm even after his father allegedly broke three of his ribs, raging: “A Van der Zee heir marrying a bodyguard’s daughter? You’re degrading yourself!” Preston never backed down, eventually forcing the family to consent to the marriage. He had completely sealed off any chance for me to change my mind. After we married, he treated me exactly the same as before. He wanted me by his side at every event, introducing me proudly to everyone: “This is my wife. She’s a painter, a little known genius.” The entire elite circle declared him a man obsessed with his wife. “Wow,” Jules said, shaking her head, a hint of confusion in her voice. “So why did you two break up?” “The Prince was clearly madly in love with you, and you’re so accomplished. Who was this ‘other woman’ who could possibly steal him away?” When I first heard about Preston’s affair, I was dismissive. He loved me too much, I thought. He loved me enough to tattoo my name on his skin, to be inseparable from me, even immersing himself in art exhibitions and oil painting just for my sake. Chelsea Bell was the one who appeared then. Preston’s mistress. She was a struggling, ambitious university student from a poor background. I was hosting my “Phoenix Rising” exhibition in the city, and Preston was there with me. In the gallery, a young woman grabbed my hand, asking excitedly: “You’re Rowan Mitchell, right?” Her eyes sparkled. Before I could speak, she rushed on: “Ms. Mitchell, you are my idol. I’ve studied all your work, from when you were a teen until now. I truly hope to be like you someday!” Then her expression dimmed. “But I don’t have your resources. My family can’t afford to let me continue my studies.” I was moved. I considered testing her skills to see if she was worth discreetly sponsoring. I asked her, “Can you tell me which Western Art History movement you admire the most?” “I…” She stammered, unable to answer. “Enough.” Preston uncharacteristically cut me off. “Roe, don’t put her on the spot.” I stared, momentarily stunned. I was about to explain my intentions. But then I saw it: he was looking at Chelsea Bell with a barely concealed expression of pity. That was how they met. A few days later, Preston brought Chelsea home to talk with me. “Roe, do you remember Chelsea?” “Her family is forcing her to quit school and marry for money. I want to bring her here. You can mentor her personally.” Chelsea clutched at the corner of her dress, biting her lower lip, looking panicked and helpless. “Ms. Mitchell, it would be my honor to be taught by you.” “I promise to study hard. Please, just give me a chance.” She immediately knelt at my feet, her eyes wide with desperation and craving. I felt sympathy for her plight and agreed. She did nothing in the house but paint, focusing entirely on her art. Preston told the outside world that she was my new protégé, giving her an immediate, huge boost in attention. Every time I came home from a busy day, I would coach her hands-on. Watching her gradually improve, and eventually hold her own small exhibition, brought me a genuine sense of fulfillment. 4 The turning point came at one of Chelsea’s exhibitions. She displayed several works that I had never publicly released. My blood instantly boiled. I immediately confronted Preston, my voice tight with accusation: “What is the meaning of those paintings in Chelsea’s show?” I had only ever shown those specific drafts to him. Preston flinched, then said dismissively: “I gave them to her. You have so many pieces, why are you making a big deal out of a few sketches?” He tried to brush the entire matter aside. He embraced me, his voice calm. “She said she liked them, so I gave them to her. I’ll talk to her about it next time.” I refused to back down. I said with a deep, furious calm: “This is theft, Preston!” I then used my official website and social media to release an authoritative statement. Chelsea was immediately slammed by online outrage. She posted a desperate-sounding message: “Are you trying to destroy me? I don’t have Rowan’s wealth and privilege. I’m just a struggling person from a poor background. What is wrong with trying to succeed?” Preston immediately deployed the Van der Zee PR machine, working through the night to delete any negative comments about Chelsea, including my official statement. Unwilling to give up, I contacted the media and planned a press conference to clarify the truth. Preston finally erupted in rage. He came to me, shouting: “Stop it!” “Haven’t you caused enough trouble?!” “She tried to kill herself because of you! She cut her wrists! Do you know how important hands are to a painter?” For a moment, I hardly recognized him. I didn’t back down. I even swore I would paint exact duplicates of the stolen pieces and show the world that she was a fraud. Chelsea finally became afraid. She ran to Preston. “Mr. Van der Zee, please save me. I don’t want my reputation destroyed.” The day of the press conference, Preston brought a team to intercept me. He gestured to several men, and they viciously and deliberately struck my hand bones. I heard the sickening, sharp crack of the bone breaking. “Ah!—” Preston turned his eyes away, unable to watch, but his voice was unwavering. “Don’t blame me, Roe.” “If you lose your hand, you’re still Mrs. Van der Zee. But Chelsea—she can’t afford to lose anything else.” My face was paper-white. I squeezed out a strangled cry of pain, the agony nearly consuming my sanity. “Take me to a hospital, please!” I knelt on the floor, trembling violently. Preston didn’t budge. “You can hold on a little longer.” Chelsea, hiding timidly behind Preston, shot me a look of cold, victorious challenge. That was the darkest day of my life. In a single afternoon, I lost the man I loved and the career I was so proud of. 5 “Whaaa!” Jules’s cheeks were wet with tears. She looked at me with deep sympathy. “Roe, I just tried to search for your old profile, and I can’t find anything.” It was useless. After Preston and I had our final rupture, he flew into a rage and used his connections to completely wipe out all traces of my life with him. No one was allowed to mention me. I pretended to be unaffected, smiling at Jules. “Tomorrow is the start of spring holiday. We’ll take the day off.” “Okay.” … The spring rain drizzled down. When I arrived at the cemetery, a tall, familiar figure was already standing there. Pushing down my emotions, I walked over and silently placed a bouquet of white chrysanthemums at my father’s grave. I stood beside Preston for a moment. As I reached the cemetery gate, he suddenly grabbed my arm. I forced myself to meet his eyes and gave a polite smile. “Can I help you?” Preston’s gaze was fixed intently on my abdomen. “Abort the child. For the sake of your father’s memory, you can still come back as Mrs. Van der Zee.” He lowered his eyes, his lips barely moving. “Chelsea feels deeply guilty about what happened between us. If you come back, she will give you her child to raise as compensation. All she asks is to see him five times a week.”

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After five years as his secret, his shadow, I watched him announce at a family dinner that he was bringing his girlfriend to meet us. My heart swelled with a foolish hope that this was the dramatic moment he’d chosen to finally make us public. I never expected him to actually bring another woman. He had his arm wrapped around her, grinning like he’d won the lottery. “Come on, Jordan,” he said, the old pet name sounding foreign on his tongue. “Say hello to your new sister-in-law.” After the woman left, he gave me a ride home, just as he had countless times before. In the plush back seat of his luxury sedan, the place where our absurd, secret life had unfolded, I finally asked him. “Landon Montgomery,” I whispered, the name a raw accusation. “You have a girlfriend now. What was my five years of waiting, then?” The hand gripping the steering wheel tightened, a brief, sharp tremor. “Waiting?” He didn’t look at me. “Did I ever ask you to wait?” He finally turned, his expression carefully bland. “Jordan, maybe don’t get so hopelessly attached to people in the future. It’s honestly… a little terrifying.” He said it so carelessly, so dismissively, as if the five years I’d sacrificed everything for had been my own ridiculous fault. I suddenly felt an overwhelming sense of fatigue. I smiled, a cold, empty thing. “Fine. Then goodbye, Landon.” 01 Under the dim streetlights, Landon leaned against his car, finishing his last cigarette. He ground the butt out with his Italian leather shoe. In the last five minutes, he’d checked his phone ten times and sent nine voice messages to the woman he’d just dropped off. His final text, I knew, was to his sister—my best friend, Sasha—assuring her he’d delivered me home safe. Landon lowered his phone and turned to me, a lingering trace of a smile from his other conversations still on his face. He seemed pleased, which made his tone light and easy. “Look, Jordy, you’re all grown up. You know what they say about adult breakups. Clean and simple, right?” He reached out and ruffled my hair, an intimate, brotherly gesture that completely belied the seriousness of the conversation. It was a final, damning sign that he had never once taken me seriously. He hadn’t even been serious the night we started. Five years ago, I’d gotten drunk, and we’d ended up in his bed. The next morning, he’d sat against the headboard, smoking a cigarette, the smoke curling and obscuring his handsome, flippant face. “You like me?” I’d nodded, panicked, but my fear was met with his easy, cynical laugh. “Sure, let’s go with it.” He added, almost as an afterthought, “But we can’t tell Sasha. She’d probably take a knife to me if she knew.” He said it so casually, but I took it as gospel. From that day on, I lived in his shadow, a pathetic fixture in his life, feeling like an accessory he was too lazy to discard. I thought time would eventually make me special. I was horribly, devastatingly wrong. He continued his circuit of women, and I was merely a convenient, secret toy. I stared at the ground, catching the glint of his phone screen as he sent yet another text. The person he’d saved as “Girlfriend” had, I knew, only gotten his number at a bar two days ago. I pressed down the acidic burn in my chest, took several deep, shaky breaths, and asked the question I’d been terrified to utter for five years. “Landon, why was everyone an option for you… but me?” Landon froze, then sighed, a sound of genuine, yet self-pitying, annoyance. “It’s not that you can’t be, exactly… It’s just, I regretted getting involved that first night.” He scrubbed a hand over his face. “I tried for five years to see you as a normal woman. I couldn’t.” He looked at me then, his eyes dark and complex, both intensely present and utterly detached. “It’s like… every other woman was a viable option for me, except for the one right here.” On the silent, empty street, his rare moment of honesty felt like the cruelest cut. I immediately averted my gaze, terrified that he would see the sudden, hot sting of tears. “I understand,” I mumbled, pulling my composure back like a heavy blanket. “Thank you for the ride home, big brother. It’s late. I should go up.” I turned to leave, but his hand shot out and clasped my wrist. Landon gently wiped a tear I hadn’t even realized had fallen. He wore a look that said, ‘Of course, I knew this was coming.’ “Why the waterworks? Why not try to fight for me, then? Stick around?” He grinned, a predator playing with its food. “Maybe, for Sasha’s sake, I’d keep you amused for a little while longer.” It was a sick kind of temptation, but I couldn’t fall for it again. The corner of a small, square package pressed against his jacket pocket—a silent, sickening reminder of the necessities he kept for his other dates. I pulled my hand back and took a resolute step away. I made sure my voice was calm. “No, thank you, big brother. I hope you have a fun night.” Without looking back at his face, I walked quickly toward the gates. My rough, uneven breathing condensed into clouds in the cold night air. I’d thought I was done with crying. But once I was inside and had unlocked my door, I went straight to the balcony. Landon was still standing by his car, staring at the apartment building. I knew he was waiting for the light in my room to come on, his perverse way of feeling absolved before he left to see Brittany. How dare he? How could he hurt me so carelessly and then wait around to collect his peace of mind? I yanked the curtains closed, slid down the wall, and finally, completely, gave in. I sobbed until my throat was raw, releasing five years of humiliation, betrayal, and unrequited devotion. A notification chimed. It was Landon. [Jordy, take advantage of being young. Go travel, go see things.] [There are plenty of good guys out there. Don’t waste yourself on one tree.] [Get some rest.] In the darkness, the three perfect, impersonal messages seemed so utterly ridiculous, so fundamentally Landon. My five-year obsession, that deep, humiliating anchor, finally snapped with those three vapid sentences. I wiped my eyes, grabbed my phone, and typed back one final message. [I will. Thank you.] Then, I immediately called my mother. “Mom? The arrangement with Theodore Brooks? The wedding? I accept. Seven days from now.” 02 After hanging up with my mother, I collapsed onto the bed, physically drained. I tried to command my mind to move on, but the control center of my heart had shut down. I couldn’t help but remember the first time Sasha introduced me to Landon. He was wearing a black track suit that day. When he made a three-pointer, the whole campus erupted in shrieks. But he ran straight to me, took the half-empty water bottle from my hand, and grinned. He asked Sasha, “Who’s this? I don’t think I’ve ever seen this little sister around.” No one could be immune to a first meeting like that. I certainly wasn’t. I fell headfirst, completely and utterly. I broke things off with my family for him, and for him, I accepted five years of being the nameless, unofficial other woman. I found out much later that my perfect, cinematic meet-cute had just been his standard opening line. He’d said it to every girl Sasha ever brought around. … “What? You’re getting married?” It had been three days since I ended things with Landon. Sasha had taken me out to lunch, worried sick over my silence, and I dropped the bombshell. She stared at me, her brow furrowed with concern. “Jordan, I know you just broke up with whoever that garbage boyfriend of yours was, but you can’t just marry some random guy out of spite!” I smiled, shaking my head. “Do you really think I’m that fragile? This is a decision I’ve thought through. And he’s not just ‘some random guy.’ It’s… well, Theo. Theodore Brooks. It’s an arrangement, technically. A childhood engagement our parents never fully let go of.” I wasn’t lying. If I hadn’t met Landon, I probably would have already been Mrs. Brooks. Sasha’s worry didn’t abate. She was genuinely concerned for me, the way a best friend should be. I pinched her cheek. “Stop worrying. You’re going to be my maid of honor, remember?” “Maid of honor for what?” The door to the private room swung open, and Landon strode in with a lack of ceremony only he could manage. He’d traded up, or at least traded out, for another date. The secret spot next to him—the spot I’d desperately wanted for five years—was, as he’d promised, always open for anyone but me. Landon stopped in the center of the room, scanning the space before his gaze landed on me. “Who’s getting married?” I squeezed Sasha’s hand to stop her from answering. “It’s nothing, Landon. What are you doing here?” The girl behind him stepped forward, a vision of wide-eyed innocence. “I made him bring me,” she chirped. “I wanted to meet his family and friends. Hi, I’m Brittany Miller.” It might have been my imagination, but a flicker of proprietary contempt crossed Brittany’s face when she looked at me. Sasha, bless her oblivious heart, didn’t notice, and dragged Brittany to the karaoke machine. Landon sat beside me, swirling the amber liquid in his glass under the room’s soft lighting. “So, already on the hunt for a rebound?” I glanced at him. “Are you really that invested in my dating life, big brother?” He let out a short, dismissive laugh. He leaned closer, watching me with a cynical amusement I recognized too well. “Just checking up on my after-sales service.” He paused, his gaze hardening. “If you can’t find anyone, I could always help you vet candidates. Someone totally different from me, of course.” He leaned in further, his voice a low, taunting murmur. “Someone who wouldn’t make you drag yourself out with a fever to deliver his condoms, or parade his rotating door of dates in front of you. Someone who’d be devoted. How does that sound?” I froze, gripping the wine glass. He knew. He knew how agonizing those moments were. He just hadn’t cared. He’d watched my pain and treated it as entertainment. I downed the wine in one gulp, turned back, and met his eyes with a genuine, triumphant smile. “No need, Landon. I’m getting married.” 03 The air in the private room went instantly silent and brittle. Landon’s eyes narrowed, his brows drawing into a tight line. A deep, cold anger radiated off him. “Jordan Wells,” he bit out, using my full name. “I don’t appreciate that kind of cheap joke.” I simply smiled back, refusing to explain. At that moment, Brittany approached with a glass of champagne. Whether by accident or—I suspected—by very pointed design, she stumbled, and the contents splashed directly onto my white dress. She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand, a picture of delicate remorse. “Oh, I’m such a klutz! Sister, are you okay?” Landon’s face was dark, but he looked straight at me, his voice sharp with cold displeasure. “None of your business, Britt. This is what happens when people stand in the way.” “What are you saying, Landon?” Sasha rushed over, planting herself between us. “What does this have to do with Jordan? You’re usually so protective of her. What’s wrong with you today?” I put a hand on Sasha’s arm. “It’s fine, Sasha. It doesn’t matter.” I ignored Landon’s thunderous expression and walked out toward the ladies’ room. Outside the stall, I saw Brittany’s reflection in the mirror. She stood behind me, her eyes full of undisguised, cold hostility. “You’re the one Landon called his five-year-long lapdog, aren’t you?” Her voice was low and triumphant. “Do you know what else he calls you? An attachment he couldn’t shake. A clingy shadow.” Even though I’d tried to shed that past life, hearing such a degrading description made my heart clench in a painful spasm. I took a breath and turned to face her. “Is that right? Well, I hope your time with him lasts longer than mine did.” Brittany’s smug expression faltered, her perfectly composed face twisting with sudden, raw fury. She suddenly grabbed my arm, forcing a grotesque smile. “It was only five years! And after all that, Landon tossed you out like trash! Like a stray dog he got tired of petting! Jordan Wells, the woman who walks down the aisle with Landon? That’s me!” The moment Landon arrived, he found me with my hand stinging, having just delivered a hard slap across Brittany’s face. She was clutching her cheek, tears welling in her eyes, a perfect picture of a beautiful victim. She’d clearly hit herself to make the mark more convincing. “Landon, I just wanted to apologize, but I don’t know why, she—” Landon’s expression was calm, almost unnervingly so. He looked past Brittany, straight at me, and asked only one question. “Did you hit her?” I looked him in the eye, knowing the answer didn’t matter. “What if I told you no?” He studied me for a long moment, then broke into a slow, chilling smile. “Jordy. You’re getting less and less agreeable. Lying, saying you’re getting married…” He raised Brittany’s chin, his thumb delicately stroking her cheekbone. “Such a pretty face. We can’t let it get bruised. Come on. Let’s get you to a doctor.” He wrapped his arm around Brittany’s shoulders, starting to lead her away. “Wait.” I called out, my voice startlingly steady. Landon paused and arched a brow. I walked up to him and held out my hand. “Give me back the bracelet I made you.” I was pointing to the dark wooden prayer beads he wore on his wrist. I had painstakingly sanded and stained each bead myself when I was a teenager. Landon had worn it religiously, everywhere he went. Landon’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by a deep, tight frown. His eyes were cold, and the air around us dropped several degrees. Brittany didn’t dare make a sound. Suddenly, he gave a harsh, short laugh. He raised his wrist, feigning confusion. “This old thing? This piece of junk? Honestly, I’ve been meaning to get rid of it.” With brutal force, he ripped the bracelet off. The thick red cord snapped, leaving a red welt on his wrist. He tossed the beads onto the pristine marble floor. They scattered, bouncing with dull, final thuds. “Pick them up yourself.” Landon dismissed me with that cold command, swept Brittany into his arms, and strode out. I looked down at the mess of wooden beads. I had come to find closure for a foolish, youthful devotion. It seemed the beads weren’t needed for that ritual anymore. I drew a deep breath, raised my foot, and with a silent, resolute finality, stepped right over the scattered beads. 04 In the following days, I moved back into the Wells family estate and focused entirely on the wedding preparations. Three days before the wedding, I finalized the decor with the hotel coordinator. He informed me that the flowers had all been changed. “Mr. Brooks made a special request,” the coordinator beamed. “He replaced all the classic roses with sunflowers. He said sunflowers are your favorite, Mrs. Wells. He wants to give you the very best.” A warmth bloomed in my chest. I sent a text to Theodore, who was still abroad. [The sunflowers are perfect. I love them. Thank you.] Meanwhile, Landon updated his social media. A photo of him and Brittany on a beach holiday. The sun, the sand, a beautiful resort—a trip I’d begged Landon for over five years, one he always shrugged off, now handed to Brittany effortlessly. Two days before the wedding, Theo sent over the finalized guest list. It was detailed, organized, and reflected a genuine care for the event, not just a business transaction. Sasha texted me, frantic, saying she hadn’t been able to reach Landon all day. The final day before the wedding, Theo had a designer gown—an incredible dress encrusted with diamonds—flown in from Paris. As I stood by the mirror, gently stroking the fabric, I realized I was genuinely starting to anticipate the day ahead. All the pain and shadows from the past seemed to recede. My phone screen lit up. Landon. [The keypad on the front door is dead. You still have the spare key, right?] My conversation thread with him was a wasteland of my green bubbles, my frantic texts about his absences, his lies, his excuses. His last message to me had been two months ago. I smiled, flipped my phone face-down on the vanity, and let the notifications pile up. … The relentless ringing continued. [Jordan Wells, how did you string those beads? The bracelet snapped.] [Don’t get the wrong idea. I didn’t pick up the broken one. I just want to make a new one for Britt as a gift.] [Jordan, answer me!] [Since when did you learn to play games?] … The irritating chimes drove me to finally pick up the phone. I calmly deleted the entire conversation history, then went to his contact page, and blocked him. Back at the Montgomery mansion, Landon stared at the red exclamation point next to his last message. He was so angry he wanted to throw the handful of wooden beads he’d retrieved from the club floor back into the trash. But he couldn’t bring himself to do it. His heart, he realized with a sickening lurch, was no longer under his control. He felt a deep, unfamiliar dread. Sasha, dressed exquisitely for the wedding, came down the stairs. She looked at her brother, who was pacing wildly, beads clenched in his fist. “Landon, why aren’t you dressed?” she asked, confused. “Are you really planning to wear that to Jordan’s wedding?”

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Starting the second year of our marriage, Kendall and I had an arrangement: we would spend the holidays with our respective families. This year, my dad was supposedly vacationing in South Beach. I kept it a secret from Kendall, flying two thousand miles on Christmas Eve, ready to give her the surprise of a lifetime. I had barely stepped out of the cab when a text from Kendall popped up: “Honey, dinner is so dull without you here. Missing my guy.” Warmth flooded my chest. I took a deep breath of the freezing air and excitedly knocked on the door of the small house in Rosewood, Tennessee. The moment Kendall saw me, the color drained from her face, leaving her ghost-pale. She instantly tried to slam the door shut. “Kai! W-what are you doing here?!” I put my hand up to stop the door. From inside, her mother’s voice called out: “Honey, who’s at the door?” Kendall shoved against the door, her voice a thin, panicked whisper: “Mom, it’s nothing! Just a colleague dropping off a last-minute office gift basket!” “Sweetheart, which colleague is it?” A familiar male voice cut in. “It’s freezing out there! Don’t leave them standing in the snow, let them in.” … 1 It was Blake Harrison. Kendall’s assistant. And he was wearing the apron—the one I’d bought for her mother. The sub-zero December wind was nothing compared to the ice forming in my chest. Nothing. “Colleague?” I stared at Kendall, my voice dangerously low. “I’m what kind of colleague to you?” A sheen of sweat broke out on Kendall’s forehead. She pressed her face close to mine, her voice a desperate plea: “Kai, I’ll explain everything later. My mom’s heart… she can’t handle a shock. Please, I’m begging you, just—don’t make a scene.” Don’t make a scene? A sick joke. I traveled across the country to surprise my wife, to spend the holiday with my in-laws, and she was begging me not to make a scene? The word tasted like ash. Before I could reply, the door was pulled open from the inside. Blake, still wearing the apron and holding a spatula like some kind of domestic prince, smiled. His face froze for a fraction of a second when he saw me, but the warmth returned instantly. “Well, look who it is! Kai, man! What a surprise!” “Why are you two still blocking the door?” Mrs. Wells called from the living room. “Come in, it’s blowing a blizzard out there!” Kendall gave me a frantic, tearful look, mouthing the words: Please. I’ll explain. I swallowed the metallic taste of betrayal, nodded once, and stepped into the house, into the warmth and the noise, carrying the heavy bag of gifts I’d brought. 2 The living room was cozy. The TV was running a holiday special, and the coffee table was covered in nuts and holiday treats. Mr. Wells was on the sofa, peeling an orange. He looked up. “Well, now, Kendall, your colleague is a sharp-looking young man. Come in, come in, don’t be shy.” Mrs. Wells smiled, taking the gifts from my hand. “Out delivering presents on a holiday? That’s dedication. Thank you, dear.” Neither of them, warm and smiling, recognized the man who was actually their son-in-law. Our wedding five years ago was quiet, without a proper reception. I’d only come here once, that first year. After that, Kendall insisted we spend the holidays separately. The Wells didn’t use social media, and our contact was limited to brief, pleasant phone calls. I opened my mouth to speak. Kendall cut me off immediately: “Mom, this is Kai. He just happened to be passing through Rosewood. He can only stay a minute, he’s got to catch a train.” “Kai?” Mrs. Wells repeated the name, her brow furrowing, as if it sounded vaguely familiar. Blake smoothly intercepted the moment. “Mrs. Wells, Kai’s a mover-and-shaker. He’s probably on a business trip, had to stop by.” Blake laughed, setting a plate of sliced apples in front of me. “Kai, man, try these. Kendall and I picked them out at the market a few days ago. Super sweet.” I remembered a phone call from a few days ago, when Kendall had sighed, “Honey, I wish you were here to peel an apple for me. Nobody does it like you do.” “Blake, stop fussing, come sit down.” Mrs. Wells affectionately waved him over, her tone intimate. “You’re too good to us, son. Working so hard and still finding time to bring us all these nice things. You haven’t rested since you got here.” Mr. Wells handed the peeled orange to Blake. “Blake, show me how to use that foot spa you bought me again later.” My head snapped up. The foot spa. I remembered researching it for weeks, comparing every high-end model because of Mr. Wells’s bad circulation. It cost a fortune—over three thousand dollars—and I told Kendall specifically to show them how to use it. How did it become Blake’s? The cherries and the gourmet nuts on the table were things I’d shipped weeks ago. The massage chair in the corner? That was my Black Friday splurge. My love, my care, my every thoughtful gesture—all rebranded. All signed by Blake Harrison. 3 The snow fell heavier, making travel impossible. I wasn’t going anywhere. “So, where are you staying, Kai?” Mrs. Wells asked. Kendall reflexively glanced toward the master bedroom. Mr. Wells filled the silence. “The den has a fold-out couch, Martha. It’s a little messy, but with a thick blanket, he’ll be fine for one night.” “Oh, that’s terrible,” Mrs. Wells said, looking pained. “Blake, maybe you can double up with him?” “Mom, I’m not really comfortable sharing a bed with a stranger.” Blake turned to me, his smile fixed. “Sorry, Kai, you’re stuck with the couch.” “Fine,” I heard myself say, the word tasting like sand. The lumpy, fold-out couch in the cluttered den was rock-hard. The threadbare quilt smelled of dust and attic. We had promised to alternate holidays. The second year, Kendall claimed her mother was sick. The third, she said I’d be too cold in the South and that my own dad needed me. Last year, the same excuse. This was the fifth year. The years of “you’re too busy” and “you’ll be cold” weren’t about consideration. They were about keeping the stage clear for him. Blake wasn’t a temporary stunt; he was the understudy who took the starring role. My phone vibrated. A text from my dad: Son, did you make it? Did Kendall love the surprise? Give the Wells my love. Staring at my father’s earnest, trusting words, the dam broke. I pressed my face into the musty quilt and finally let the tears come. Later that night, I went out for a glass of water. The master bedroom door was ajar. The sheets, the ones I’d splurged on from a luxury linen store in NYC, the ones Kendall said were “too nice” for her parents—they were draped over their bed. Blake was holding a tablet, their heads bent close together, sharing a laugh so easy, so intimate, it felt like a punch to the stomach. They looked like a couple planning their future. I barely made it to the bathroom, collapsing onto my knees. I dry-heaved over the porcelain bowl, trying to vomit up the sickening image, the years of lies. I needed out. I couldn’t look at them for one more second. 4 Perhaps it was the cold, or the raw, white-hot fire of my fury, but I had developed a fever. In my hazy dreams, I was back five years ago. Kendall was broke and starting her company. I’d hold her frozen feet in my lap in our tiny, unheated apartment in New York. “Kai,” she’d promised, “when we make it big, we’ll buy a place with heated floors. We’ll never be cold again.” The scene shifted. She was kneeling in the snow, a tiny diamond chip ring in her hand. “Kai, let’s build a home. You’ll never have to feel like an outsider again.” She had loved me, hadn’t she? So where had this woman come from? “Water… water…” I mumbled, waking up. A cool washcloth was on my forehead. In the dim light of the headlamp, Kendall was leaning over me, her face etched with worry. “Kai? You’re awake? Oh God, you’re burning up.” Her voice was soft, laced with genuine fear. Seeing her distressed face, I almost believed we were back in our apartment, safe and real. “Kendall…” I whispered, the exhaustion making my voice shake. Tears streamed down my temples. “I need to go home.” “I know, I know. Just as soon as your fever breaks, we’ll go home.” She gently patted my back. The fleeting moment of tenderness almost drowned me in the illusion of our past. But the events of the night snapped me back. “Why did your parents think Blake was their son-in-law?” I demanded. “Kai, you have every right to be angry,” she said, her voice dropping. “But I swear, there’s nothing going on with Blake.” “My parents have been pressuring me for years to bring you home for the holidays. You know how small Rosewood is—the gossip, the shame. I told you I just needed a stand-in, a temporary fiancé, to shut them up.” “I didn’t want to come back?!” I was shaking with fury. “I booked a ticket for today! You told me this place was ‘too remote’ and ‘too cold’ for a ‘city guy’ like me!” “Yes, yes, you’re right, it’s all my fault.” Kendall quickly conceded. “Blake’s a committed bachelor—this was strictly business, a performance for the family. We’re totally platonic. We have never done anything that would betray our vows.” “An act that requires you to sleep in the same room? An act where he claims credit for my damn Christmas gifts?” “We didn’t sleep together! We slept separately! I swear! And the gifts… that was a misunderstanding. I didn’t want them to get the wrong impression of you, so I just let them think he bought them…” “After the New Year, I’ll tell them the truth.” Kendall knelt on the floor beside the couch, wrapping her arms around my waist. “Can you just hold it together for a couple more days? Just until after the New Year? For my mother’s sake—you know her heart.” Her eyes were wide, pleading. She knew. She knew I grew up in a single-parent home and envied the warmth of a full family. She knew I couldn’t stand to see an elderly person suffer, and I couldn’t resist the phrase “for the sake of the family.” 5 A sudden, sharp gasp came from the doorway. “What in God’s name are you doing?!” Mrs. Wells was standing there, her face a mask of rage. “Mom, I—” Kendall scrambled away from me. Mrs. Wells rushed in, pointing a trembling finger at me. “You respectable-looking scoundrel! Sneaking in here in the middle of the night to prey on my married daughter?” The scream made my eardrums ring. “I am not—” “Not what? I saw you! Groping my daughter, practically kissing! Are you shameless?” “I knew no decent man would show up here on a holiday night! Blake is sleeping just down the hall! You think you can just march in here and steal someone’s fiancé right under our roof?” Mr. Wells, now wearing his robe, rushed in, his face grim. “Kendall! What is the meaning of this? Are you drunk or just plain stupid? You’re throwing away a good man like Blake for this… this nobody?” I looked at Kendall, waiting. I waited for her to speak the truth. I waited for the five words that would save me: He is my husband. But the words never came. She looked at the floor, accepting the slander. “Dad, Mom, it’s my fault. I just came in to bring him some water… he has a fever.” “Fever? That gives you license to seduce a woman who’s practically engaged?” Her mother was hysterical. I closed my eyes, exhausted by the absurdity. “Get out,” I croaked. “What did you say?” Mrs. Wells kept railing. “I said, Get the hell out!” I roared the words, grabbing the rock-hard pillow and hurling it violently at Kendall. She ducked away, pushing her furious parents out of the room. The door slammed shut. Through the wood, I heard the old woman’s voice, raw with fury: “The nerve of that man! Tomorrow, he leaves! Don’t let him stain our floors a minute longer!” 6 New Year’s Day. The living room was packed with extended family. The moment I stepped out of the den, dozens of eyes, full of malicious curiosity, tracked my every step. “Is that the shameless guy?” “He’s not bad-looking, I’ll give him that. No wonder he tries to steal other people’s girls.” “Blake’s better. So much classier. If it were me, I’d have thrown that guy out last night.” I walked through the gauntlet, my face a cold, blank mask, heading for the front door. “Oh, leaving already? Not going to keep flirting?” Kendall’s judgmental Aunt Beth hissed. I stopped and fixed her with a cold stare. At that moment, a sharply dressed man walked in, carrying several gift bags. It was Kendall’s older brother, Grant Wells. “Kai?” he blurted out. A tiny, desperate spark of hope flared in my chest. Grant knows the truth. But Grant caught sight of Blake, who was efficiently serving coffee, and his eyes shifted away from mine. He forced an awkward smile. “Oh… I guess you’re Kendall’s colleague?” I managed a self-deprecating laugh, said nothing, and walked out the door. Back in my New York apartment, the silence was deafening. The wedding photo on the wall—Kendall’s radiant, sincere smile. Our matching coffee mugs on the counter. Every corner of the apartment, a haunted relic of a shared life. My phone was buzzing continuously. A cascade of texts from Kendall. “Honey, did you make it back okay?” “I’m so sorry. I truly am. I was just being weak.” “Please don’t be mad. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I turned the phone off. For the next two days, I was a ghost, unable to eat, floating through the apartment in a haze of confusion and hurt. It wasn’t until I found myself in the hospital, picking up a set of pre-holiday test results for Kendall, that I stopped cold. She was six weeks pregnant. The world stopped. God, are you playing some kind of sick joke? Was this my child? If it was… Just as I decided to walk away from this poisoned marriage, fate handed me this tiny, unexpected life. I remembered the silly, tender times—me listening to her flat stomach, promising a daughter who would be as beautiful as she was. What if she really was just shallow, just vain? What if the whole thing with Blake was truly a platonic ‘act’ for the sake of her parents’ pride? For the child’s sake, could I bury the truth and try again? 7 Kendall was home when I returned. She rushed to me, throwing her arms around me. “Kai! Where were you? I’ve been frantic! I thought I’d lost you!” Her voice trembled with what felt like genuine fear. Breathing in her familiar scent, the last of my resolve crumbled. “Kendall, if you’re lying to me again, it’s over. Truly over.” She nodded frantically. “I swear! I’ll never pull a stunt like that again! Never!” For the child, I was willing to risk one last act of faith. That Friday, a week after I got back, was Valentine’s Day. It was also the anniversary of our first date. Before she left for work, Kendall gave me a deep, lingering kiss. “Honey, wait for me tonight. I have a surprise for you.” I smiled and said I would. After a week of her attentiveness and my own desperate self-counseling, I decided to erase the past. I prepared her favorite dishes and tucked the ultrasound printout—our secret, our future—into a small velvet box, ready to deliver the life-changing news. I waited from day to night. Expectation soured into a cold dread. The food sat uneaten. I called her. Voicemail. I texted. No reply. She’s in a meeting, her phone died, I told myself, clutching the desperate hope. At eleven o’clock, I checked social media. It was Blake. A carousel of photos, set in a chic, upscale restaurant. Blake, his parents, and right next to him, Kendall, radiant and laughing. The caption was a knife: First dinner with the wife’s folks this year! #futuremrsH #soinlove The sound was a roar in my ears. Logic dissolved into a raw, white-hot fire. I grabbed my keys, coat forgotten, and bolted for the elevator. I was going to find her. I was going to ask this woman I’d loved for eight years if her heart was made of stone. I was going to ask her why she was destroying us. The elevator doors opened. The steel reflected a pathetic stranger: hair a mess, eyes bloodshot, wearing one sneaker and one slipper. A discarded caricature of a man. Was this Kai Ashton? The sharp, confident man I used to be? Reduced to this—a weeping, betrayed husband chasing a liar? Is she worth it? The elevator stopped at the ground floor. The doors opened. The cold night air rushed in. I looked at my reflection. I wiped the tears from my face. I stood up straight. Then, I reached out and pressed the ‘Close Door’ button. 8 The velvet box with the ultrasound. I dropped it, along with the hopes it represented, into the stainless steel bin. This child, my child, deserved a father who wasn’t a fool. It was gone. I packed my bags that night. Even if that baby were mine, I didn’t want it anymore.

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My childhood best friend threw away his Stanford acceptance—the one we’d both bled for—all for a girl who was suddenly too fragile for California sunshine. The deadline for application material submission was half an hour away when his social media updated. In the soft glow of candlelight, he was gently placing a delicate birthday crown on her head. The caption: “Some choices are more important than a future.” My phone was vibrating wildly; it was my best friend, Jade. “Riley, are you still going to submit his forms? You’ve got three minutes left.” I closed the browser tab, watching the countdown clock tick. “No,” I said. “I’m not. That’s his call.” “I only pay for my own flight plan.” … At 6:00 p.m. sharp, the Stanford application system automatically closed. Jade let out a long, relieved breath on the other end of the line. “It’s about time you came to your senses! I’ll finally get to visit you in California next spring break!” Just as she was speaking, I heard the familiar beep of my front door’s smart lock. Beckett Nolan walked in, followed by Sadie Miller, looking as comfortable as if they were entering their own home. “Riley, you submitted your grad school application, right?” He didn’t wait for my answer. “I told Sadie that given her circumstances, staying domestic for a Master’s is the safest bet, but she was worried and insisted I come check on you.” He nudged her gently. “See? She’s more focused on your life than you are.” He gave the girl next to him a fond, almost paternal rub on the hair. The moment I’d decided not to follow Beckett’s path and stay behind, many of my raw emotions had settled into a quiet calm. I no longer felt that familiar tightening in my throat when I saw Sadie clutching his arm. I nodded. “All submitted. Did you need something?” Beckett frowned at my flat expression. “Riley, what’s with the attitude lately?” Sadie subtly tugged on his sleeve and spoke in a small voice: “Riley… you know about my family situation.” “Going abroad is too much of an expense. Even with a full scholarship, I can’t afford the living costs and flights.” “My grades are just okay. It’s better if I stay here, work on a domestic research project, and get a stipend.” She lowered her gaze. “It’s because of me that Beckett gave up his plan to go abroad. Please don’t be mad at him. He’s been working all afternoon connecting me with potential domestic advisors, so he didn’t get a chance to tell you himself…” Listening to her soft, frail explanation, I cut straight to the chase. “Didn’t you know all of these difficulties back when we started the application process?” “Why wait until the eleventh hour to bring it up?” Sadie looked genuinely shocked, her eyes instantly welling up. “I—I had talked it over with Beckett a while ago. It’s just that today was the final decision…” A while ago? I lowered my eyes. So, while I was pulling all-nighters with him, working on essays, grinding out practice problems, and dreaming of watching the sunset on the West Coast together, he was already planning a completely different future with Sadie. Seeing me silent, Sadie’s voice dropped to a whimper, laced with tears. Beckett placed his hand on her shoulder, his tone turning cold. “That’s enough, Riley.” “There’s no need to be so aggressive.” His words were like a bucket of ice water, jolting me completely awake. I looked at his familiar, yet suddenly alien face, then shifted my gaze away. “I’m not mad. I just wanted to know the reason.” Now I understood. And finally, I could let go. Beckett and I were the definition of childhood sweethearts, attached at the hip since kindergarten. After my father passed away, my mother became permanently based at her company’s overseas branch. She came home less than twice a year. For most of my childhood, it was just me and my grandmother in our old house. Some relatives always whispered cruel things—mocking my mother as a “career woman who neglects her home” or hinting that my family was “lacking a strong male presence.” I’d always hide under the old oak tree in the backyard to cry, not wanting my grandmother to see. That was where Beckett found me. He’d squat down in front of me, stick up for me, and every day after that, he’d bring me a warm bag of candied pecans. From then on, I was his shadow. We went to school together, studied for tests together, and cheered each other on through countless late nights, fueling each other’s dreams. We promised to go to America together, to get into the best schools, to drive Route 66, and wait for the sunrise over the Grand Canyon. We agreed that once we were settled there, we’d finally officially be a couple. Everything changed last year, the day Sadie arrived. She was a student his mother had sponsored from a disadvantaged school district. She was given special permission to transfer to our highly selective high school for her senior year, temporarily living with the Nolans. Initially, Beckett was distant, avoiding her at home and ignoring her at school. Sadie silently followed him around, organizing his messy homework, saving him a seat in the cafeteria, and collecting his lab reports. Her cautious, almost timid devotion occasionally reminded me of my younger self. So, I often urged Beckett to be kinder to her. But he was always indifferent. When we went off to college, Sadie applied for the Humanities program—the one with the lowest admissions score—just to be on the same campus as him. Then one day, while turning in forms at the Sociology department, we saw Sadie alone in the corner of a lecture hall, secretly wiping tears while listening to a TOEFL audio lesson. Beckett’s face was a study in conflicting emotions: surprise, guilt, pity. And perhaps a flicker of something else I couldn’t quite name. From that moment, everything shifted. He started canceling our weekend dates to help Sadie with English tutoring. He started walking her to public lectures because her roommate was giving her the cold shoulder. This afternoon, he’d texted to say he was officially pulling his application and would be staying in the country to pursue a direct PhD with Sadie. I was stunned for a long time, but the overriding emotion was, surprisingly, relief. It was as if a heavy stone I’d been carrying for years had finally hit the ground. Beckett was so sure I’d follow him that he didn’t even bother to ask about my choice before he and Sadie left. That evening, the department had a dinner gathering. When I arrived, they were already there. I chose a seat as far away from Beckett as possible. He kept staring at me, his eyes full of a complicated mix of confusion and irritation. A guy at the table laughed, trying to lighten the mood. “Riley, why so far away? Better keep an eye on Beckett, or someone else might snatch him up for good.” Everyone knew who that “someone” was. Sadie didn’t deny it; she just blushed and glanced at Beckett. Our class president tried to smooth things over. “Don’t be ridiculous. Didn’t Beckett and Riley promise to study abroad together?” Before I could speak, Sadie gently interjected, “Beckett didn’t accept the overseas offer. He was worried I wouldn’t adjust to life abroad, so he decided to stay here with me.” There was a hint of barely concealed triumph in her voice. The table went quiet for a beat. Someone asked me, “Riley, is that true? You don’t mind? You guys have been preparing for this since sophomore year, right?” I looked at the slight upturn of Sadie’s mouth and spoke calmly. “I don’t mind.” “To each their own path.” Just as Beckett had chosen Sadie. I had chosen my own road. Halfway through the dinner, I stepped out to take a call. When I returned, Beckett and Sadie had moved to the seats right next to me. Beckett’s cheeks were flushed with alcohol. He leaned in conspiratorially. “Riley, I know you’re upset that I gave up the study abroad plan.” “But you know Sadie’s situation. Going abroad is just too much stress for her.” “If she stays here, she can keep her financial aid and be close enough to care for her sick mother.” “She’s so sensitive; she’s never been far from home. You wouldn’t want her to be here alone, would you?” “Sadie said if you want to visit the US, we can save up after graduation and go together.” “Don’t be so dramatic, okay?” I pushed his shoulder away. “I told you, I’m not mad.” I raised an eyebrow. “But if Sadie has trouble with basic living expenses, how is she planning a trip to America?” Clang. Sadie’s glass tipped over onto the table. She bit her lip, her eyes instantly red. “Riley, I know your family is wealthy, and you’ve always looked down on me.” “I was planning to tutor on the side to save up for the trip, and I’d pay Beckett back for everything.” “Are you saying only people like you deserve to see the world?” “Am I supposed to just rot away here?” “I don’t steal or cheat; I earn every penny. Please stop talking to me like I’m beneath you.” The surrounding students started whispering: “That was a bit much from Riley…” “She’s smart, but sometimes she’s just too aggressive.” “Honestly, if I were him, I’d pick the sweet one like Sadie, too.” Sadie’s tears began to fall in earnest. Beckett’s eyes hardened completely. “Riley, apologize to Sadie. Now.” Jade, who had been quiet, finally snapped back. “Why? She’s the one who keeps playing the poverty card!” “Riley only asked a logical question based on her own words. Why should she apologize?” “Sadie had three months this summer. She could have interned or worked. But she hasn’t. She just tags along with you everywhere, planning trips to the States. Who’s being high and mighty now?” Sadie began to sob hysterically. I looked at the scene, feeling only a profound exhaustion. I pulled Jade up to leave. Beckett grabbed my wrist, his voice low with fury. “Riley, apologize. Or don’t bother coming on the graduation trip.” My wrist was throbbing. I gently peeled his fingers away, one by one, and looked him in the eye. “Beckett, you and Sadie can go wherever you like.” “Just don’t involve me in your drama.” “And don’t contact me again.” With that, I turned and walked out. That same night, Sadie posted on social media. It was a photo of her and Beckett at an amusement park. Caption: Meeting you was the best kind of luck. I glanced at it, feeling a deep, abiding peace. I went back to packing, preparing for my summer stay in the city where my mother worked. The moment the plane landed, my phone blew up with notifications—all from Beckett. “Riley, Sadie and I are planning the California trip. You can still make the reservation if you apologize now.” “There’s nothing going on between Sadie and me. That post was just a thank you.” “Riley, I truly don’t understand you.” “A domestic PhD track is a golden opportunity. What’s so terrible about it?” “You had a guaranteed spot. Why throw a tantrum over this?” I scrolled past the messages, leaving them unread. Beckett had considered Sadie’s needs from every angle. Yet, he had never once stopped to think that with my father gone, my mother’s business overseas, and my grandmother needing care in a warmer climate, staying in the country was the worst option for me. When I arrived at the apartment, a tall, well-built young man was sitting in the living room. He stood up and took my suitcase. “Do you remember me? I’m Damon Fox.” Damon, the son of my mother’s old colleague, was two years older than me and currently pursuing his PhD in California. Hearing I’d decided to go abroad, he’d flown home specifically to help me get a head start. For two solid weeks, Beckett didn’t try to call again. His social media feed was a constant stream of travel photos with Sadie. Meanwhile, with Damon’s steady help, I familiarized myself with my courses, secured an apartment, and sorted out all the details for my life across the ocean. Once all the paperwork was finalized, I returned to Boston one last time. This trip was purely to finalize the sale of our old house. My mom, still cautious, asked Damon to accompany me. Just as we entered the neighborhood, we ran into Beckett’s mother coming home from the grocery store. She insisted we come up for dinner. Unable to refuse, and hearing that Beckett and Sadie were out, we went upstairs. While cooking, Beckett’s mother lamented. “Riley, that son of mine drove me crazy.” “He secretly rejected the overseas scholarship without telling anyone. I only found out when the confirmation email hit my inbox.” “Thank God he said you eventually decided to stay, too. Otherwise, I’d have wrung his neck.” “Now that you two are doing your doctorates here, I need you to keep an eye on him for me.” Beckett’s mother treated me like a daughter. She was the one who always sat by my bedside when I had a fever as a child. I paused, then spoke softly, “Aunt Nora, I didn’t give up the scholarship. My paperwork is all done.” Beckett’s mother froze. Then she patted my hand, simply telling me to be careful out there alone. The dinner finished in a subtle, uncomfortable silence. After saying goodbye, I went home for the final clean-up. The house sale was final; the buyers were a couple desperate for a good school district for their child, scheduled to sign the contract that afternoon. I was showing them the view from the patio when a familiar voice erupted at the door: “Who are you?” “Why are you in Riley’s house?” I turned around. Beckett was standing in the doorway, his eyes narrowed, staring aggressively at Damon. I stepped forward. “Beckett, this is Damon Fox, my mother’s friend’s son. Damon, this is Beckett Nolan, my oldest friend.” Beckett’s face darkened even further. He was about to press the issue when he was cut off by a tearful female voice. “Beckett, did you find out what happened?” It was Sadie. She was standing on the landing, her eyes red-rimmed. Beckett’s expression changed. He looked back at me. “Riley, did you stop by my house earlier today?” I nodded. “I ran into your mom, so I stayed for dinner.” The moment I finished, Sadie’s tears began to fall. Beckett’s brow furrowed. “Riley, what did you say to my mom at lunch?” “She suddenly gave Sadie the cold shoulder and told her to move out once she starts grad school.” “Giving up the scholarship was my decision. If you’re angry, take it out on me, but stop bullying Sadie.” “Go explain everything to my mom right now.” “Otherwise, you’ll regret it when the semester starts.” I was anxious to sign the contract. I had no energy for this. “Fine.” Beckett froze, then his face turned ashen. “Riley, what do you mean by that?” I didn’t answer. I gently closed the door. After the contracts were signed, I started the final sweep. The large furniture was staying; most of the clothes were handled. All that remained were some documents, photo albums, and a single cherrywood keepsake box. The box contained every birthday gift Beckett had given me from age eight to eighteen. The origami stars he’d folded, the simple silver necklace he’d saved up for, and the lucky charm he’d hiked for. Only my nineteenth birthday was missing. I remembered that Sunday. I was at the Nolans’ working on application details with Beckett. Things were already strained between us. All afternoon, he was helping Sadie revise her study proposal, barely speaking to me. I was hurt, but I refused to show my vulnerability in front of Sadie. As I was leaving, I spoke quietly. “Beckett, it’s my birthday today.” He paused, a look of immediate annoyance flashing across his face. He said he’d go straight out to pick up the gift he’d pre-ordered. But Sadie called out to him. “Beckett, I still don’t understand this question. Could you please go over it one more time?” Beckett looked at me, then at Sadie. After a moment of hesitation, he finally said, “Riley, just go home and wait for me. I’ll come over after I finish helping Sadie.” I waited until midnight. The clock struck twelve, and he never showed. When we met the next day at school, he didn’t bring the gift. He just frowned and told me, “Riley, you know Sadie’s never even had a birthday cake in her life.” His tone was laced with pity and concern. The ring of my phone pulled me back to the present. Damon’s voice. “Riley, your books and important documents have been shipped. Anything else I can help with here?” I looked around the empty room. “No, I’m all set. Just wait for me at the transit hub.” I sealed the cherrywood box and placed it, along with the rest of the unwanted clutter, into the recycling bin. Damon and I had a late-night flight booked. After saying goodbye to Aunt Nora, I rode my bike toward our meeting point. I didn’t expect to run into Beckett on the way.

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