“You don’t deserve this room.” Bethany stood in the doorway, my backpack clutched in her hand. I was eight years old, home from school, only to find the lock on my bedroom door had been changed. “This room is for Troy now.” She tossed the backpack at my feet. “You’ll be living at your grandmother’s house.” I looked at Dad. He was staring at his shoes, refusing to meet my eyes. “Dad…” “Just listen to your mother.” That night, dragging my suitcase, I stood on Grandma Ruth’s front stoop. When she opened the door and saw me, she froze for three seconds, then pulled me into her arms and just cried. 1. In 2003, I was eight. That summer, my father got remarried. His new wife, Bethany, brought her six-year-old son, Troy, into our house. On the wedding day, Bethany wore a cream-colored dress, and her smile was so sweet it felt sticky. She patted my head and said, “We’re a family now, Callie. Call me Mom.” I did what I was told. “Mom.” She smiled in response, then immediately turned to hug Troy. I thought this was the start of a new life. My birth mother died young. I was only two when she was gone. Grandma Ruth always said Mom’s health had failed after giving birth to me, and she never recovered. For years, Grandma helped raise me, because Dad worked constantly and couldn’t manage it all. Now that we had a mother in the house, I thought things would finally be different. They certainly were. On the third day after the wedding, Bethany replaced the family portrait in the living room. The new photo showed Dad, her, and Troy. I wasn’t in it. I asked Dad, “Why am I not in the picture?” He said, “We’ll add you next time we take one.” When was next time? I didn’t know. But I knew the things in our house started to change, little by little. Troy’s toys multiplied, spilling out of every corner of the living room. My own toys were packed away into the storage closet. “They take up too much space,” Bethany declared. Every day, Bethany cooked Troy whatever he wanted—mac and cheese, crispy chicken tenders, hot dogs. And me? “You’re not a picky eater, Callie. You can eat anything.” Back then, I didn’t understand what favoritism was. I just wondered why Troy got two chicken fingers, and I only got one. Why Troy could stay up late watching cartoons, but I had to be in bed by eight. Why Troy could mess up and Bethany would just say, “Oh, he’s just a little boy, he doesn’t know any better,” but when I broke a water glass, I had to stand in the corner for two hours. I asked Dad about it. His answer was always the same: “You’re older, honey. You need to be more sensible.” Older? I was only eight. That fall, things escalated. Troy was starting elementary school. Bethany decided Troy needed a quiet environment to study. My room faced south. It was bright, and it was quiet. Troy’s room faced north, right over the street. It was too noisy. “Troy is moving into your room. You can take the north one.” I didn’t want to. It was the room I’d lived in my whole life. My mother’s last photo was still taped to the wall there. “No,” I said. “It’s my room.” Bethany’s face hardened immediately. “I’m talking to you, young lady. Watch your tone.” I looked at Dad. He just repeated the mantra: “Listen to your mother.” That night, I was forced to move into the small room facing north. Eighty square feet. A bed, a small desk, and a window that was broken—it wouldn’t shut properly, letting the winter draft whistle in. I carefully re-taped Mom’s photo to the wall of my new room. It was the only stand I took. But it wasn’t over. A month later, Bethany found a new reason. “There are only three bedrooms in this house. Your father and I have the master, Troy has the south room… wherever you are, it feels crowded.” She paused, then put on a saccharine, “I’m-doing-this-for-you” expression. “I think you’d be better off staying with your grandmother. Ruth is all alone; it would be so good for her to have company.” I just stared. “What are you saying?” “I’m saying you should go live at your grandmother’s.” Bethany sounded completely justified. “It’s not like you can’t visit. You can always come back for the holidays.” I looked at Dad. He was sitting on the sofa, staring at the TV, silent. “Dad, say something.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Listen to your mother.” I lay awake that night, listening to the wind rattle the faulty window, and didn’t sleep a wink. The next day, when I came home from school, the lock on my old door was changed. The key was in Bethany’s hand. “I’ve packed all your things.” She pushed a suitcase toward me. “Your grandmother is coming to pick you up today.” I looked at the suitcase. A pink, 20-inch carry-on. It had belonged to my mother. It held all my clothes and schoolbooks. I looked at Dad. He was standing in the kitchen, holding his mug, still not looking at me. “Dad.” He didn’t answer. “Dad, are you getting rid of me?” He finally looked up, meeting my eyes for one fleeting second. In that glance, there was guilt, helplessness, but mostly, avoidance. “Your grandmother will take good care of you,” he said. “I’ll send you money every month for expenses.” I didn’t cry. Eight-year-old me stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the house I’d lived in for eight years, and suddenly felt like a complete stranger. Bethany leaned against the doorframe, a faint, satisfied smile playing on her lips. Troy peeked out of my old bedroom, holding my small teddy bear nightlight. “Mom, this lamp is cool!” “If you like it, keep it.” My mother had given me that lamp. I wanted to rush over and snatch it back. But I didn’t. Because I knew that in this house, I no longer had the right to ‘snatch’ anything. Grandma Ruth was waiting outside. The moment she saw me, her eyes welled up. “My Callie-girl.” She knelt down and wrapped me in a tight hug. “Time to come home with Nana.” I nodded. Dragging the pink suitcase, I walked out the door. Behind me, the lock clicked shut. That was October 15th, 2003. I will never forget that day. Because from that day forward, I no longer had a home. 2. Grandma Ruth lived in a run-down complex on the south side of town. A two-bedroom apartment, about 600 square feet. The building was old, the paint was peeling, and the room was quite cold. But Grandma had cleaned out the biggest bedroom for me. “Callie-girl, this room is all yours now.” She held my hand. “This is your home from now on.” I stood in the room, looking at the clean bedding, the new desk lamp, and the small potted plant on the desk. Grandma lived on her own, with a small monthly pension—barely enough for one. She had bought all these things just for me. That night, lying in bed, I finally let myself cry. Not because of the injustice. But because of Grandma Ruth. She was getting old, her health was fragile, and she took three different medications every day. She was supposed to be enjoying a quiet retirement, but instead, she was now responsible for an eight-year-old. “Nana, I’m sorry.” Grandma held me and softly stroked my back. “Silly child, what are you sorry for? You’re my granddaughter. If I don’t take care of you, who will?” From then on, I lived with Grandma. Life was simple. Grandma walked me to school in the mornings, I ate lunch in the school cafeteria, and in the evenings, she cooked and waited for me to come home. Grandma’s food was the best. Even though it was simple, comfort food, it tasted far better than anything Bethany ever cooked. At least here, I always got two chicken fingers. Dad had promised to send money every month. The first month, he sent $300. The second month, $200. The third month, nothing. Grandma called. Bethany answered. “Ruth, it’s not that we don’t want to send it. But things are tight right now. Troy has tutoring, and there are so many expenses. Just tell Callie to be more frugal.” Grandma was so angry her hands were shaking. “That is your husband’s flesh-and-blood daughter!” “Is she? And are you the one raising her?” Bethany’s voice was ice cold. “She eats your food and lives in your house. Does it really seem right to ask us for money?” The phone went dead. Grandma sat on the sofa, silent for a long time. I came out of my room and saw her wiping away tears. “Nana, it’s okay.” I knelt and took her hand. “I don’t need their money.” “Oh, my sweet child…” “I’m not silly.” I looked up, my eyes dry. “Nana, I’m going to make money one day. I’m going to take care of you.” I was eight years old. Even I didn’t quite believe the words. But I never forgot them. After that, the allowance from Dad stopped completely. Occasionally, he’d send $100 or $150, but it was sporadic and unpredictable. Grandma never asked them again. Her pension, plus the small amount she earned doing alterations for neighbors, was just enough for the two of us. I knew how hard Grandma economized. The clothes she bought for me were new; the ones she wore were ten years old. She gave me meat; she ate only vegetables. She couldn’t afford to run the old gas heat much, so she slept under two heavy quilts. I saw it all. But I was too young to do anything. The only thing I could do was study. I knew that a good education was the only way I could give Grandma a good life later. When the holidays came, Dad would call. “Callie-girl, come home for Christmas dinner.” Home? Was it still my home? I didn’t want to go. But Grandma would say, “Go, honey. He is still your father.” So I went. The moment I opened the door, I saw a new chandelier in the living room, a brand-new sofa, and a thick carpet on the floor. Troy, in a new designer jacket, was glued to a gaming console on the sofa. Bethany peered out from the kitchen. “You’re back? Have a seat, dinner will be ready in a minute.” Her tone was casual, as if I were a distant relative stopping by. I looked down at my clothes. It was one of Troy’s old coats from last winter, which Bethany had given me before the holiday. “It’s still practically new. Troy didn’t want it anymore, but it’ll fit you perfectly.” Wearing Troy’s hand-me-downs, standing in this newly furnished house, I felt utterly out of place. During dinner, Bethany put the best portion of the slow-cooked roast in front of Troy. “Eat up, Troy. I made extra just for you.” In front of me, there was a plate of steamed vegetables. Dad reached over and put one small piece of the roast onto my plate. “Eat up.” One piece. Just one. Troy ate half the platter; I had one piece. I kept my head down and ate in silence. After dinner, Dad slipped me a $100 bill. “Take this. Get yourself some school supplies.” $100. I glanced at the new 60-inch flat-screen TV in the living room. It must have cost thousands. Then the gaming console in Troy’s hands. His new jacket. His brand-name sneakers. I took the money. Because Grandma needed it. “Thank you, Dad.” He patted my head. “Keep up the good work in school.” That year, I stayed in that house for only two hours. I ate, and I left. Bethany stood by the door, politely saying, “Come back soon.” Soon? When was soon? I didn’t know. Walking out of the complex, I looked back once. The living room light was on. Through the window, I could see Troy bouncing on the sofa, while Bethany and Dad were laughing, watching him. A perfect, happy family of three. I turned my back and walked into the cold winter night. That day, for the first time, I clearly understood— I had been abandoned by this family. Not just “staying with Grandma.” Abandoned. 3. Life went on. Elementary school, middle school, high school. I lived with Grandma Ruth the entire time. She poured all her love into me. All I could do in return was study hard. My grades were always good—top ten in my middle school, and I got into the Honors track in high school. Every time I brought home a report card, Grandma’s face would light up. “My Callie-girl is so brilliant!” That was her greatest source of pride. During the holidays, she’d tell the neighbors, “My granddaughter has amazing grades. She’s going to college!” A neighbor would sometimes ask, “Does her father help her?” Grandma’s smile would falter for a second. Then she’d say, “Of course, he helps… he comes to see her every Christmas.” Every Christmas. Yes, only at Christmas did I go back to that house once a year. It was the same routine: a quick dinner, a hundred bucks, and then I left. Bethany’s attitude was always politely distant, treating me like a relative she barely knew. Troy completely ignored me. Dad’s attitude was guilt, but guilt that never translated into action. I grew used to it. And I stopped expecting anything. In my junior year of high school, I needed a computer. The school started requiring a computer literacy class. I didn’t have one. Grandma had saved up her pension for years, accumulating maybe a thousand dollars. She wanted to buy me one. I refused. “Nana, keep that money for yourself. I’ll ask Dad.” It was the first time I ever called my father proactively. The phone rang for a long time before he picked up. “Hello, Callie? What’s going on? Why are you calling?” I took a deep breath. “Dad, I need a computer for school. I need about a thousand dollars.” Silence on the other end. “A thousand?” “Yes.” “Things are really tight right now. Troy is starting high school, and we’re saving for his tuition and fees…” I gripped the phone tightly. “Could you loan it to me? I promise I’ll pay you back.” “Callie, what kind of talk is that? Loan? It’s not like I won’t give it to you. I’m just short on cash right now…” “So, when will you not be short on cash?” “What is with your attitude?” He sounded annoyed. “Doesn’t your grandmother have her retirement money? Ask her to cover it for now. I’ll reimburse you later.” Later? When was later? When I was little, he said “next time,” now he said “later.” I had waited ten years for “next time.” “Never mind.” I hung up the phone. That night, I told Grandma, “I don’t need the computer. I can use the school’s lab.” Grandma didn’t say a word, she just looked at me and sighed. The next day, I came home to find a used desktop computer sitting on the desk. Grandma had found someone to help her buy it for five hundred dollars. “It’s not new, but it works.” Grandma wiped the sweat from her brow. “You’ll have to make do with it.” I looked at the old computer, at Grandma’s graying hair, at her increasingly frail figure. The tears came immediately. “Nana…” “Don’t cry.” Grandma wiped my tears. “Seeing you graduate and go to college will be worth everything.” The year I took my SATs, I was ranked third in my entire school. My score was high enough for the state’s top university. The tuition was $6,000 a year. With room and board and living expenses, it would be at least twenty thousand a year.

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My mother was the neighborhood’s most celebrated stepmother. She treated my stepfather’s three children better than she ever treated me. It was a well-known fact. Once, when all four of us had the flu, she was so terrified of neighbor gossip that she only gave the medication to them, leaving me to suffer and shake it off on my own. She would smooth my hair back countless times, her eyes full of a pleading sadness. “Cass, being a stepmother is impossible. I can’t slight them, or the whole town will carve up my reputation.” “You understand your mother, don’t you?” I understood. So many times. And each time, I swallowed the humiliation down to the back of my throat, where it hardened into a stone. That stone finally cracked when we were caught in a torrential downpour and had to pull over to the side of the highway to avoid a ticket. Just like she always did, Mom told me to get out and wait for the rain to let up. I stood frozen. I couldn’t move, and she knew why. After my stepbrother Garrett hit me while reversing his truck, my leg had been permanently damaged. I couldn’t walk for more than half an hour without searing pain. Mom’s patience snapped. She yanked me by the arm, dragging me out of the vehicle. “Don’t be stubborn, Cass! Try to be reasonable for once!” “Find a spot to take cover. Wait for the rain to stop and then hurry home.” I stood paralyzed in the deluge. This house, this life, wasn’t what I wanted. The downpour didn’t stop. The street water had already risen to my knees. I stumbled again and again into the deep puddles. The city streetlights cast a blurry, weak glow on the pitch-black night. “Cass?” 1 “Cass?” As I fell into the churning water yet again, Mom—umbrella in hand—sprinted toward me. She was always like this. I couldn’t bring myself to fully love her. But I couldn’t bring myself to fully hate her either. Her small frame looked like a scrap of paper in the wild wind, and she was nearly blown over into the floodwater. Rain smeared my vision. It wasn’t until she reached my side that her face and voice snapped into clear focus. She struggled to pull me from the slick, icy water, recognizing the resentment etched on my face. With a familiar, weary sigh, she began her usual lecture. “I know you’re upset. But what choice do I have, honey?” “You’re my biological daughter. They’re not. If I show even the slightest bit of unfairness to them, the whole world will know. How am I supposed to live with that judgment?” “I know you’ve suffered. I’m so sorry.” Her voice cracked on the last two sentences. It was heavy with the frustration of being misunderstood and the inescapable burdens of a stepmother. I said nothing. She helped me hobble back to that house. The dinner table held only scraps and cold leftovers. Even the ginger tea Mom had made to ward off my cold had been entirely consumed. Worse, they had poured the last bit into the cat’s bowl, just to make sure none was left for me. My two stepsisters, Brielle and Delaney, and my stepbrother, Garrett, never liked me. To my face, they were vaguely polite, mostly indifferent. But behind my back, they called me a pathetic leech, a tolerated guest, only fit to be their cleaning lady—less important than the furniture. They didn’t particularly like my mother either, but they reveled in all the concessions she made for them. My stepfather, Malcolm Shaw, sat in the living room watching TV. He didn’t spare either of us a glance, only offering a perfunctory, “You’re back.” He was always polite to me—no fighting, no yelling, no questions asked. He treated me like a distant relative, an acquaintance. But my mother loved him. She loved him fiercely. Even through all the compromises and suffering, she saw it as the necessary friction of building a happy family. Her love for him was why she’d divorced my biological father, giving up everything and taking me with her, the moment she learned Malcolm’s first wife had passed. She always said Malcolm was her first love. If not for her parents’ disapproval, their romance wouldn’t have been so tumultuous. Her deep, enduring love for him was the reason she went to such extremes for his three children. Mom helped me into the bathroom to take a hot shower. She brought me a glass of hot water. My stomach was rumbling. I was about to open my mouth and say, Mom, I’m starving. But she spoke first. “It’s late, Cass. Drink this water to settle your stomach. Your sister, Delaney, has terrible anxiety and her room is right next to the kitchen.” “She can’t tolerate the slightest noise. I’ll wake up early tomorrow and make breakfast.” The words died on my tongue. Since becoming a stepmother, she was a master at considering every single person in the house. Except me. 2 Her devotion to her role, her fear of being judged, dictated everything. I had been accepted to a prestigious state university. But Brielle cut off the celebration with a single demand: “None of us went to college. If Cass goes, we each deserve to be compensated for what we missed out on. You owe us all a college fund payout.” “Otherwise, we’ll know you, the stepmother, are playing favorites!” It didn’t matter that my tuition didn’t require Malcolm’s money. Mom’s salary alone was enough to cover my schooling. But for the sake of “fairness,” and because she couldn’t afford Brielle’s demand, she came to me weeping, begging: “Cass, you’re so smart. You’ll make it even without a degree.” “You love writing, don’t you? Why not try writing your novel full-time? Maybe that’s your best path.” That was the first time I truly fought back. I broke down, screaming until my voice was raw: “They didn’t go to college because they weren’t smart enough to get in!” “Why can’t I use my own mother’s money to go? Even if you won’t help, I can take out student loans!” But no matter how much I pleaded, Mom only cried with that same helpless, defeated expression. She even fell to her knees, hitting herself across the face. That was when I learned Delaney’s cat had shredded my acceptance letter. Mom begged me not to make a scene, pleaded with me not to tear apart the fragile family unity she’d fought so hard to build. I never made it to college. And not long after, I lost my chance at a future, and I lost my leg. Even when Garrett, driving without a license, reversed right into me and shattered my leg, she wouldn’t let me report it. She was terrified I’d make a big deal of it, that Garrett would go to jail, and that her perfect family would crumble. She threatened to kill herself if I called the police. She called this family her entire life, claiming Garrett was practically her own flesh and blood. If he went to prison because of me, she said, not only would he hate her, but it would destroy her relationship with Malcolm. After that final, crushing despair, I realized the absolute truth: she wasn’t their stepmother. She had utterly and completely become mine. The next day, I woke up with a bad cold and a spiking fever. My limbs were weak and heavy. Mom briefly checked on me early in the morning. She hastily put a hot mug of milk and a omelette egg on my nightstand. Seeing how high my fever was, she added a bottle of Advil. She was in such a rush. So rushed that she didn’t even look me in the eye when she spoke. “Cass, I’m heading to work now. Try to sleep it off. The fever will break soon. The house is on you.” I was the only “idle” one at home. Since the accident, being disabled meant I couldn’t find a suitable job. So, aside from writing my novels, I was in charge of the entire family’s cooking, cleaning, and laundry. Around noon, my phone pinged with messages. In the family group chat, Delaney messaged first, tagging me: Hey, little sis. I’m craving those stuffed bell peppers tonight. Five minutes later, Brielle tagged me: Cassidy, can you make that roasted chicken dish? The one you made last time was actually decent. Half an hour after that, Garrett tagged me: Little sis, can you make the pot roast? And throw in a couple of side salads. Thanks. Working hard. He followed the message with a digital payment. It was always five dollars and an emoji—a measly amount that was meant to feel like a handout. This time, I knew it would be the same. I didn’t collect the money. I didn’t reply to anyone. After spending the morning researching urban areas, I booked the cheapest train ticket I could find to Riverton, a city three states away. The departure date was three mornings from now. I spent the entire afternoon writing a final, long letter to my mother. With every word I wrote, the bonds of family pulled at my heart, making my eyes sting with unshed tears. 3 When night fell, my fever spiked again. I huddled under my blankets, shivering uncontrollably. At some point, the front door opened. A torrent of complaints immediately flooded the small apartment. “Why is it pitch black in here? Is Cass not home?” “What time is it? The kitchen is cold and empty. No dinner made.” “What is this, a strike? Who managed to piss off the little princess this time?” Mom and Malcolm had returned. The complaints from the three siblings grew louder and more frantic. “I worked all day! I’m exhausted, and I can’t even get a hot meal!” “What is her problem? If she doesn’t want to do it, she should just say so!” “Isn’t she supposed to be a part of this family? We all have jobs! It’s her responsibility. She can’t even manage dinner!” Delaney’s voice suddenly grew shrill and furious: “The laundry isn’t done! The clothes aren’t washed, not even the delicates! You can’t leave underwear sitting that long; it’s unsanitary! Mom, you need to talk to your daughter! What is she trying to do?” “I just bought that new lace thong—thirty dollars—and only wore it once. Now how am I supposed to wear it?” Mom, ever the peacemaker, tried to soothe them with her usual soft voice: “Cass didn’t do it on purpose. She’s probably not feeling well. I’ll go check on her.” Malcolm also offered a performative, conciliatory line: “Alright, everyone, calm down.” Mom hurried into my cramped room. When she flipped the light switch, the sudden, harsh glare illuminated the dark room. I was still lying there, semiconscious from the fever. “Cassidy, what’s going on? Are you not feeling well?” Beneath her concern, I could hear a definite tone of accusation. She pulled back the blanket from my head and instinctively reached out to check my temperature. “You’re running a fever again. Did you take the medicine?” “Yes,” I answered flatly. Garrett’s voice carried clearly from the doorway: “Mom, what are we eating tonight? I’m starving.” The flicker of worry on Mom’s face vanished as she rushed to appease him: “What do you want? I’ll make it right now.” Brielle grumbled, “It’s already so late. We’ll be eating dinner at midnight if you cook now.” Mom quickly offered a placating suggestion: “Tell you what. How about we all go out for barbecue? Garrett, didn’t you say you were craving brisket? My treat tonight.” The tension in the air evaporated instantly. They all cheered up, eager to drag Mom out to a restaurant. Malcolm gave a token gesture of concern: “Cass, are you going to join us?” Delaney’s voice was dripping with passive aggression: “She’s not feeling well, is she? Sick people usually don’t have an appetite. If she wants to go out for barbecue, it means she’s faking it.” And so, I was abandoned again. An outsider. Unsuitable for their family dinner. My tears, uncooperative, soaked the pillow again. My mind couldn’t help but flash back to ten years ago, before Mom remarried, to the way she loved me then. She used to hold me in her palm, terrified of dropping me. She kept me so close, afraid I would melt away. I had to face the reality. She was no longer just my mother. They returned after eating their fill. My stomach ached from hunger, and I was curled up beneath my covers. Mom placed a mug of milk on my nightstand again. Perhaps anticipating my anger, she spoke in a soft, coaxing tone, like one might use for a difficult child: “Once you’re better, I’ll take you out for barbecue too.” It was always wait, wait, wait. Brielle fed the dried strawberries I bought to the dog; she said she’d buy me more next time. Delaney took the dress I saved my meager earnings to buy and wore it without asking; she said she’d buy me a replacement next time. Garrett took the laptop I bought for my writing and used it for gaming; he promised me a new one next time. But, Mom, your “next time” was always a hollow lie. 4 I didn’t speak. She reached through the blanket and gently stroked my head. “My own daughter is the best. You always understand me. My Cass, you’re so mature.” She paused, sighing with a sense of noble suffering: “Being a stepmother is so hard. I’m truly relieved you understand.” But for every ounce of relief you felt, Mom, I felt an equal measure of heartache. Two days later, my fever finally broke. I felt well enough to move. Tomorrow, I would be leaving. I looked at the few, old clothes in my closet. I realized I didn’t have much to pack. It was the weekend, and they were all home. They were in the living room, discussing Garrett’s impending wedding. I didn’t join them, but I sensed the heavy atmosphere. Malcolm was saying, “The down payment for the new house is at least sixty thousand. Your mother and I barely have enough saved to cover it.” “The ring and the dowry gifts are another forty thousand. You three are siblings, you should pitch in and help.” Brielle spoke up first: “I don’t have much saved up. I can only manage five thousand.” Delaney reluctantly followed: “I only have five thousand, too.” Then, she deliberately raised her voice, directing it toward my room: “Don’t we have a writer in the house? Tapping away at her keyboard all day. I’m sure she’s sitting on plenty of cash.” Her tone was utterly sarcastic. She was the one who previously mocked me, saying my writing income wasn’t even enough to pay for my cat food. Mom, swayed by her words, came into my room, tears welling up in her eyes. “Cass, being a stepmother is hard. I have to help Garrett with his wedding. You’re his sister, and we’re family.” “Could you spare some of your royalty money? We can consider it a loan. Please?” Every time she used my money to bail out the three of them, she called it a loan. She never paid it back. “I don’t have much in royalties. It’s barely two thousand a month, and it’s not stable. It’s barely enough for me.” “Little sis, we’re family. Stop hiding it. I don’t believe you only make two thousand a month. Unless you show us your accounts.” Brielle had materialized, leaning against the door frame. Malcolm and the others followed, their eyes all fixed on me, judging. To appease them, Mom looked me in the eye and demanded: “Show me your accounts.” To finally shut them down, I logged into my bank account and my publishing dashboard, showing them the numbers. Once they confirmed my income was indeed pitifully low, their eyes filled with scorn. Delaney jeered: “You don’t have the talent to make a living as a writer. Honestly, you’re just dreaming in broad daylight!” Since I was leaving permanently tomorrow, I didn’t waste my breath arguing. They went back to discussing Garrett’s finances. In the end, Mom and Malcolm decided to take out a twenty-thousand-dollar loan to bridge the gap. Next was the issue of the wedding jewelry. Mom went to a cabinet and pulled out the vintage gold bracelet my biological father had left me. She also took out a small, two-ounce gold ingot. My father had given them to me when I was thirteen. Mom had told me I was too young and promised to keep them safe until I was an adult. But now, she said: “We’ll take these to be traded for the new jewelry. Gold prices are high right now. Buying them new is too expensive.” A furious heat instantly rose in me. I scrambled forward to grab them back. “That’s what my father left me! You have no right to give my property to him!” Mom was stunned by my reaction and chastised me with an annoyed tone: “I’ll buy you new ones later, Cass. Your brother’s wedding is an emergency, a huge deal!” She didn’t give the gold back, handing it directly to Garrett. She rushed him: “Go trade these now! Hurry!” I lunged to snatch them back, but Mom pinned me down. “Cassidy Jennings, will you please just be sensible!” I completely shattered. All the stored-up resentment erupted into pure rage. I screamed at her through my tears: “You are not their stepmother, Elaine! You are mine!” “I hate you. If you give my father’s things to him today, you won’t have a daughter anymore!” Mom froze. Then, a heavy slap landed across my cheek, followed by a roar of pure fury: “Get out! Get out and never come back!” I didn’t hesitate. I grabbed my laptop bag and limped out the door. Behind me, I heard her final attempt to control me: “If you walk out that door, you’re never coming back!” She didn’t know: that was exactly my plan. It took three days for Mom to lose her composure and call my phone. The only reply was the standard “this number is out of service” message. She instantly panicked. At that moment, Malcolm rushed into the house, frantic: “There’s a girl hit by a car down at the complex entrance! They can’t make out her face, but she’s a—she’s on crutches, and everyone is saying it’s Cass! You need to go check, right now!”

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My fiancé broke off our engagement publicly, right in the middle of my grandmother’s birthday gala, because he’d fallen for the cleaning lady. “You’re a socialite, Penny, but that doesn’t make you better than anyone,” he declared. “I love Holly’s pure and gentle soul.” My grandfather, who’d been an occult consultant and geomancy master his whole life, was so enraged he threatened to exhume the Croft family’s ancestral grave plot. The next day, the patriarch of the Croft dynasty arrived with his six other grandsons in tow. He was there to apologize. “My dear girl,” the old man said, sweeping a hand toward the line of impressive young men. “You may choose any one of them. The one you pick will be the next CEO and heir to the Croft legacy.” — 1 “I am here today to break my engagement with Penelope Albright.” Harrison “Harry” Croft stood ramrod straight in a seven-figure bespoke suit, his hand firmly clutching that of a girl in a simple, pressed cleaning uniform. He bellowed the declaration, letting it echo across the ballroom where all the city’s elite had gathered to celebrate my grandmother’s eightieth birthday. The silence that followed was so thick, you could have sliced it with a butter knife. Every guest invited to pay their respects was now gawking at us. “You insolent fool!” My grandfather slammed his palm on the marble table, sending a fine porcelain teacup flying toward Harry. The trajectory was both distant and impeccably aimed. Harry instantly yanked the cleaner girl, Holly Davies, into his embrace and spun them around, taking the brunt of the flying teacup on his tailored back. He shielded her completely, a dramatic gesture of protection. I wanted to point out that the cup would never have hit her in the first place, but he was already turning back. He raised their clasped hands high. “I want everyone here to know, openly and honestly, that the woman I love is Holly Davies,” he announced. “Though Holly comes from humble beginnings, she is not beneath any of us. She is kind, optimistic, and strong. In my heart, she is ten thousand times better than Penelope Albright.” “You… you…” Grandpa was choking on his own fury, his face turning a dangerous shade of crimson. I patted his arm, steadying him, and glared at Harry. “Adultery and homewrecking. Is that what you call ‘honorable’?” Harry looked back at me without a hint of shame, delivering the line that cemented his place as a villain in my personal mythology. “Penny, the person who isn’t loved is the real outsider. Holly is a truly good person, and I won’t let you use that word to defile her.” The girl, Holly, took a step forward, aligning herself with Harry. She puffed out her chest, looking strangely empowered as she addressed me. “Miss Albright, I never intended to ruin a relationship. But Harry doesn’t love you. Even if you hold onto a one-sided arrangement, there is no real love between you two.” Her tone shifted to one of false sincerity. “It’s sad to be used as a tool for a corporate merger. Everyone deserves to be whole and have dignity. I believe that when you find your true happiness, you’ll actually be thankful that Harry and I took this step first.” I was stunned by their audacity. Dignity? They were lecturing me on dignity while standing there in a cheating tableau at my grandmother’s party? “Holly’s right,” Harry interjected. “Even if you married me, I wouldn’t love you. Since you come from a privileged family, enjoying more resources and a better education than most, you should focus on something meaningful—not obsessing over men and calling others ‘home-wreckers.’” I felt the sudden, desperate urge to ask my father if we still had that antique cavalry saber tucked away somewhere in the armory. “Get them out! Throw them out!” Grandpa, all eighty-plus years of him, grabbed a dining chair, ready to charge them himself. My father and uncle managed to restrain him—Grandma’s birthday was decidedly not the time for physical altercations. Finally subdued, Grandpa glowered at Harry. “Mr. Croft’s son, we accept your cancellation of the engagement. As for the matter of disrupting this celebration, I will settle that with your elders!” “There’s no need to use my family to threaten me,” Harry said, arrogant to the last. “The Crofts are the wealthiest family in the state. Anyone marrying in is getting a major upgrade. I am my grandfather’s hand-picked successor. He won’t turn on me for a Wells.” With that, Harry and Holly sauntered out, heads held high. My entire family was incandescent with rage. The remaining guests started whispering. Some even looked at me openly, with a mix of pity and thinly veiled schadenfreude. Grandpa let out a loud, contemptuous “Psh.” He then addressed the room: “Those of you who came only for the Crofts’ sake may leave now.” Faces immediately flushed with awkwardness. Soon, the once-crowded ballroom began to empty. Our family isn’t one of the truly top-tier dynasties; many of the prominent attendees were indeed here to curry favor with the Crofts. The atmosphere now felt like a sudden, humiliating end to a glorious run. Grandpa spat a silent “Psh” in the direction of the departing crowd. 2 Few people knew that the Albright family was, at its core, a lineage of metaphysical masters. Our legitimate businesses were mostly fronts; studying the threads of destiny and manipulating fate required discretion. Those who chose to stay for the sake of an aging matriarch, rather than running after the Crofts, would certainly be remembered by the Wells family. The next morning, Grandma was already orchestrating revenge. She ordered the groundskeepers to water the Croft Group’s corporate ‘four-leaf clover’ with boling water and to secretly steal the prized koi from their reflection pond. Grandpa was in the living room, calculating an auspicious day for maximum disaster, muttering darkly about exhuming the Croft’s ancestral plot. “To provoke a master of fate under his own roof! The Crofts’ luck is officially finished!” he spat, his mustache bristling. “Grandpa, digging up graves is terrible karma,” I intervened. “Maybe just make a voodoo doll of Harry? Something simple, like chronic itching, temporary impotence, and a few broken limbs? That should suffice.” Grandpa’s hand, holding the abacus, trembled. “Daughter,” he decided, looking weary. “Maybe we should just stick to the grave digging.” “Fine by me,” I shrugged. I rushed through breakfast and headed straight to the office. After Harry’s spectacle, I anticipated a flurry of canceled deals. Even though our real revenue stream came from less conventional means, the legitimate business mattered to our employees and their commissions. As I reached the lobby, my assistant, Walter, arrived. “Ms. Albright, you’re in early,” Walter greeted me, looking concerned. “Got to work, Walter. Which projects were flagged for termination? Get the heads of those teams on a call,” I said, walking toward the elevators. “Actually, Ms. Albright, all projects are proceeding normally.” Walter’s worried expression deepened. “After yesterday’s disaster, I expected total chaos, but there’s been zero impact.” Ah, I thought. The Crofts must have been scrambling all night to contain the damage. A very strong survival instinct, I had to admit. “Nothing to worry about then. Inform the teams.” I paused by the elevators, spotting a familiar figure: the same cleaner, Holly, bent over, mopping the floor. “Terminate her employment immediately.” “Yes, Ms. Albright,” Walter confirmed. Holly stood up, her face a mask of wounded shock. “Why? I haven’t done anything wrong here.” I managed a strained smile. “Why the surprise? This is my company. Don’t you recognize your employer?” “Miss Albright.” Holly straightened up, looking pathetically wronged. “I’ve performed all my duties. You are only targeting me because of Harry.” I nearly laughed out loud. “Let me correct you: I’m targeting you because you disrupted my grandmother’s eightieth birthday party.” “I know Harry ending the engagement hurt you deeply. But you can’t bring personal grievances into the workplace. I work hard for my pay. You can’t fire me over private matters.” She looked on the verge of tears. Walter gaped at her, then leaned toward me. “She seems unstable. Should I call security?” “No need. Inform HR to process her termination now.” I turned to press the elevator button. “Miss Albright!” Holly cried out, her voice cracking. “Just because you are a privileged socialite and I am only a cleaner, does that give you the right to trample on my dignity? Cleaners earn their living with their own hands. We are not to be looked down upon.” Walter positioned himself between us, fearing she might lash out. “Ms. Albright, maybe I should call security anyway.” “It’s fine.” I waved Walter back and looked at Holly, the fragile, tenacious flower. “Your liaison with my fiancé and your behavior at the gala have nothing to do with your status as a cleaner.” “So you admit it’s because of Harry!” Excellent point, Walter. “Call security.” “Penelope Albright!” Harry, carrying a cup of coffee and two bagels, rushed in and immediately swept Holly into his embrace. He glared at me. “What did you do to Holly?” 3 I must have murdered their entire family in a previous life to deserve this. The moment Holly saw Harry, the tears started streaming. “Harry, don’t blame Miss Albright. I understand her pain from losing you. I know I shouldn’t be with you, but we have to protect our love.” Harry held her tightly, looking utterly besotted. “Don’t worry, my love. I told you I would handle both the Albright and Croft families. I will never let you suffer any indignity.” Even Walter couldn’t take it anymore. He muttered loudly, “Do either of you possess a single shred of human decency?” Harry ignored Walter completely, addressing me. “Penelope, control your assistant. I fell in love with Holly. She did nothing wrong. If you have an issue, take it up with me.” “Hmph.” I gave him a massive eye-roll. “My assistant, and everyone else in my company, has freedom of speech. I won’t police what they say or whom they criticize. As for you, you piece of stray, cheating filth, if you don’t want to be insulted, take your act elsewhere.” “You!” Harry’s jaw clenched. “Is this just you lashing out because I rejected you?” I wanted to curse his ancestors. Truly, the shameless are invincible. He then sighed dramatically. “I admit I handled this poorly. From now on, I can be like a brother to you. If you ever need anything, you can come to me.” “Spare me. You need to stop grandstanding and start worrying about your own hide. Your grandfather was busy yesterday, but today, you might just lose your legs.” I turned and stepped into the elevator. Harry darted forward and stopped the doors from closing. “What is your problem?” My temper was boiling over. Harry stood in the doorway, striking a pose of haughty superiority. “I told you, I am my grandfather’s successor. Even if I broke the engagement, even if I destroyed the Wells family, he wouldn’t raise a finger against me!” The next second, my stiletto landed squarely on his cheek. “Oops. My mistake. I bought that size too large,” I said dryly, retrieving my shoe and slipping it back on. Holly rushed over, cupping Harry’s face. “Harry, are you okay? Miss Albright is just in so much pain from losing you. That’s why she’s lashing out like this. She’s already suffered enough, please don’t retaliate against her family because of me.” Lock them up together forever. “My car’s outside. I can drive you two to the courthouse right now,” I offered sweetly. “Skip work. Get married.” Harry’s face twisted in conflict. Holly turned to me, her expression conveying a false sense of deep understanding. “Miss Albright, are you truly willing to bless us? I know how much pain you must be hiding.” Why do I always open my big mouth? Thankfully, my grandfather—a true savior when needed—called, demanding I return home immediately. I tossed my day’s agenda to Walter, pushed past the toxic couple, and headed home. Harry’s voice, still shouting something about his “commitment,” followed me. What a jinx. Those two were actively ruining my company’s feng shui. When I arrived home, the living room was already buzzing. The Croft patriarch, Silas Croft, was sitting next to Grandpa. Clearly, the grave-digging plan had been aborted. Given their decades-long relationship, I knew reconciliation was always possible. Standing nearby were six young men: the other Croft grandsons. Ah, he’s brought the whole cavalry. The old man must have been too embarrassed to grovel alone, so he brought a distracting display of handsome youth. There was the one with the wide, powerful shoulders, Nathan (Brother 2). The sharp, dark-browed one, Wesley (Brother 3). The mild-mannered, refined one, Jasper (Brother 4). The most eager, Flynn (Brother 5), spotted me first and chirped, “Sister-in-law!” Snap. Wesley immediately slapped the back of Flynn’s head. Old Man Croft glared, too. So much for being clever. “Are we still having lunch?” I asked, keeping my expression neutral. Old Man Croft gave an uncomfortable chuckle. “Penny, my dear, I promise you, I will make this right. These are our boys. Any one you choose will be the next CEO and heir to our entire family.” I gestured to the baby Nathan was holding. “Does that include the one still on formula?” “Yes!” Silas Croft thumped his chest, looking overly generous. “Even if you wanted all six, I’d grant it. Harry is a fool and doesn’t deserve you. We’ll cut him out.”

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The night before I was due to start at the exclusive academy, I scrolled across a post that stopped my breath. [The new Cinderella arrives tomorrow. Which of our Princes should we send out this time?] [Heard she’s got a pretty face. Should we just ruin it first?] [I bet this Cinderella won’t last a year before she’s gone.] [I’ll take six months!] [Hope this one sticks around longer, or we’ll be bored again.] My hand paused, moving the contents of my carry-on. A heavy-duty taser, military-grade pepper spray, a vial of white phosphorus, a miniature fillet knife disguised as a barrette… A year? I think I can manage a year. 1 I was born with something broken inside—a natural anti-social streak. When I was ten, my stepfather tried to grope me. I met his burning expression with a blank stare, then calmly tossed a pan of scalding oil onto him before using my bare hands to crush the thing he prized most. At eleven, the neighbor’s pit bull tore a chunk of flesh from my leg. After the incident, the old woman who owned the dog not only refused to pay for my stitches but swore I had tormented her pet while she was out, claiming I deserved the attack. A few days later, while she was at the grocery store, I lured the dog—Buddy—out to an abandoned lot with some sausages. I meticulously sliced the hide from its body, then went home and made a slow-cooked dog meat stew. When the old woman returned, I personally delivered the steaming bowl to her. She ate it, lips slick with grease, complaining only that the meat tasted gamey. Later that night, she realized Buddy was missing. She searched for a full month, growing sicker with worry until she collapsed in the street and was taken to the hospital. I went to visit her, carrying a fruit basket. As she watched me, tears welling up from gratitude, I leaned in close. “Hehe. Did you like Buddy’s meat?” “I cooked a huge pot just for you. Did you love it?” The old woman’s eyes bulged in absolute terror, her throat making a sound like a punctured bellows. After I left, her heart rate spiked, her blood pressure shot up, and she died right there, a victim of her own shock. When I was thirteen, a psycho classmate—a yandere in the online terms—filmed me in the bathroom and posted the video anonymously. That same evening, I texted him, asking him to meet me on the school roof, wearing something deliberately revealing. Under his feverish, predatory gaze, I hit him once with a brick. When he collapsed, I stripped him, bound him to the railing with duct tape, and left him exposed to the biting night wind. “W-w-whimper… Queena, I’m so sorry. I’ll never do it again. Please, let me go!” he begged, tears mixing with snot on his bruised face. I smirked, then logged into his heavily secured social media account, set up a tripod, and started a live stream. Overnight, the boy became an international joke. I deleted every trace of our conversation and, knowing exactly what I was doing, dropped a USB drive containing ten gigabytes of other girls’ videos—footage he’d taken—right outside the police station. The investigation was launched immediately. His parents, desperate to avoid a larger scandal, chose to forgive me for the assault. I sat in the interrogation room, laughing like a maniac. Everyone learned to fear me, to avoid me. Until I got the call from the hospital. My sister, Stella, had jumped. She was in the ICU, fighting for her life. I hung up the phone without emotion and returned to tasting a sickeningly sweet slice of cake at a local café. It was my fifteenth birthday. Stella had promised to come home for it. I glanced at the long, emotional text message she’d sent—a final missive, probably, before she jumped. It was sentimental and mushy. I skimmed it, lost interest quickly, and powered off my phone. The police tracked me down and gave me their conclusion. They offered a flimsy explanation. “Queena, your sister, Stella Sullivan, was under immense pressure at Veridian Prep and, in a moment of depression, took her own life…” Depressed? Suicide? They handed me a leather-bound diary, her last possession. 2 My sister had always been fiercely protective of me. She’d give me her favorite toys, her prettiest dresses. When our parents divorced and fought over custody, it was Stella who clung to me, telling the judge she only wanted to be with her little sister. Our parents saw me as a monster and openly despised me. Because of Stella, Mom was forced to take us both when she remarried. When my stepfather became abusive—the time he pinched my face and tried to hold me under the water in the laundry sink—it was Stella who launched herself at him to save me. She paid for it, badly. He hit her face with a flurry of heavy blows. Her brow bone shattered, requiring a handful of stitches at the hospital. Yet, she always remained relentlessly optimistic, even comforting me when she woke up. “See? Your big sister is fine, right?” “As long as my Queena isn’t hurt. You’re my little sister, and it’s my job to protect you.” The gentle touch on my hair was warm and comforting, yet I only tilted my head, confused. I never understood why she was so stubbornly determined to protect a monster like me. On holidays, even in our cramped, run-down apartment, Stella would arrange a colorful spread of humble treats. She’d place my favorites, peeled clementines and crisp, red apples, right on my bedside table. “Queena, it’s a holiday. Look what I bought! All your favorites.” I opened the diary, and a sudden, inexplicable tear splashed onto the white page. A strange emotion bloomed in my chest. A deep, hollow sensation, like something essential had been ripped away. I went to the hospital to see Stella. She was pale, wearing a breathing mask, and hooked up to countless tubes—barely clinging to life. I scoffed. “Stella Sullivan, you are such an idiot.” She’d been accepted to the elite Veridian Prep on a full scholarship for her academic excellence. Less than six months later, she was here. The diary she left behind was missing many pages. I flipped through, one by one. The last intact page was covered, front and back, in a single word—ESCAPE. The handwriting was shaky, as if the author had used every last ounce of strength to write it. Soon after, it was time for my entrance exams. I scored the top result in the entire city and was granted a scholarship to Veridian Prep. Veridian only accepted three scholarship students each year. The last was my sister. This time, it was me. 3 I spent the entire summer training at the gym. The rest of the time, I worked shifts at a café. I visited Stella daily, occasionally talking to her IV drip. Soon, the school year was about to begin. The night before orientation, I put on the Veridian uniform. The quality was excellent. Even the loose, pleated skirt perfectly showcased a girl’s pale legs. I admired myself in the mirror while refreshing the site for the latest posts. As expected, the thread had been updated. [OMG! So hyped! Cinderella arrives tomorrow!] [Hehe, which of our school Princes is going to make the first move?] [Same old games tomorrow? Honestly, I’m kind of over it. Can we spice it up?] [Right, heard she’s actually hot. Should we just ruin her face first?] [I mixed up some industrial-strength cleaner in Chemistry yesterday. Should come in handy.] [Hehe, I bet this Cinderella won’t last a year.] [Three months! I’m betting three months!] [Didn’t the last one break the record? Lived for so long. Every time we bullied her half to death, she’d be delirious, muttering about how she had to survive, had to live for her little sister…] My hand clenched around the handle of my luggage. I looked at the array of tools—the taser, the pepper spray, the white phosphorus, the micro-knife. Will these things be too childish for them? I closed my eyes and lay down. The thought of what tomorrow would bring made my mind buzz with explosive excitement. The next day, I looked up at the stunning, artistic architecture of the academy. I curled my lips into a pleased smile. The moment I stepped onto the campus, hushed whispers erupted around me. I ignored them, adopting an expression of nervous timidity. Snap! Something hit the back of my head. I reached up and my hand came away sticky with blood. A small, silver ball bearing rolled on the ground. Quickly, a second, then a third. The metal spheres came flying like bullets, aimed right at my body. I screamed and began to run frantically, stumbling as I tried to escape. People all around me raised their phones, capturing my desperate, pathetic struggle. “Haha! Look at her!” “That’s pathetic, even for a scholarship kid.” “Just running? I think the last one at least tried to fight back.” So, that’s what it was. Was this how Stella’s first day started? No wonder. No wonder she came home that first evening with a bloody mess clotting the hair at the back of her head, lying that she’d just tripped and fallen. Just as I lost my footing and crashed to the ground, a pair of pristine white sneakers appeared before me. “Are you okay?” A boy, backlit by the sun, reached out his hand. I squinted, then placed my hand in his. His voice was clear and pleasant. “You must be the new student? Are you lost? What made you fall like that?” His warm eyes studied me carefully, as if trying to etch my image into his memory. “By the way, I’m Jasper Lowell.” He leaned closer, his voice dropping into an intimate whisper by my ear. “I’m a year ahead of you. Your Senior.” 4 I raised my head and caught the flicker of pure malice deep within his eyes. He was the one who shot the ball bearings. He just finished tormenting me, and now he was here, trying to earn credit? I stood up, wrapping my arms around his waist with a smile. “You little son of a bitch. Think you’re so handsome?” I lifted my foot and stomped down hard on his sneaker. Jasper yelped immediately. He looked down and saw I was wearing heavy-duty, studded leather sneakers. His face twisted in agony. He shoved me away violently. “Ah! You psycho!” I laughed and stomped his foot again. “Senior, what’s wrong, Senior?” Jasper couldn’t take the pain any longer. He pushed me away one last time and hobbled toward the Nurse’s office, limping badly. When I arrived at the classroom and pushed the door open, a large bucket of stale mop water cascaded down from above. A group of girls clamped their hands over their mouths, giggling hysterically. The moment the bucket dropped, I twisted my body and kicked the heavy plastic container directly into their faces. The ringleader, Madison Croft, was stunned. She was instantly soaked from head to toe, reeking of sour, old filth. “You! You! Ahh! I’m going to kill you, you peasant bitch!” Madi shrieked and charged. I didn’t even have to move my hands; I simply sidestepped. She tripped, went face-first, and sprawled out on the floor like a beached whale. The other two girls wouldn’t dare touch me. They looked at me as if I were something terrifying and shoved each other aside as they fled. I finally reached my seat and, sure enough, found the word ‘BITCH’ carved into the desk, glue smeared across the seat, and a selection of roaches and other bugs stuffed into the drawer. I picked up the entire desk and tossed it into the nearest recycling bin, then went to the supply room and hauled back a brand-new set of furniture. The forum post updated quickly. [AAAH! That little whore! She dodged every single trap!] [She actually splashed the filth on me! I am not letting this go!] [Calm down, Madi. Calm down. There are still other plans, right?] [That was just an appetizer. She’ll realize soon enough that this school is her hell.] [Dorian and Zane, when are you going to make your move?] [The ‘Pursue the Peasant’ game is your specialty, isn’t it?] [I remember the last one was so broken, you two had her trained like a dog. She knelt down and licked your shoes!] … As predicted, two handsome boys soon appeared by my side. One was Zane Miller, with a deceptively innocent face. He claimed to be in my year, even two months younger, and constantly called me “Sister” or “Big Sister.” He brought me breakfast, took me to skip class, and after playing basketball, would approach me, sweaty and panting, begging for a head scratch. The other was Dorian Wilde, the Student Council President. He was aloof and aristocratic, but allegedly, he was only ever kind to me. He brought me hot tea during my period. A stickler for rules, he made exceptions just for me—allowing me to leave early or arrive late. He stepped in whenever anyone tried to bully me, and on my birthday, he folded me ninety-nine paper stars. It was a convincing performance by both of them. I enjoyed two months of easy living. No one dared to mess with me. There was always someone to get me water or snacks. I didn’t even have to go to the cafeteria. I just opened my drawer, and there were muffins and sandwiches. Until Dorian Wilde invited me to meet him in a secluded section of the campus woods. 5 Now, his mask of gentle warmth was completely stripped away. Dorian’s breath was hot against my ear. “Queena, do you like me?” “I haven’t told you this, but I have a specific… need.” He unsealed a designer shopping bag and pulled out an item—a ridiculously sheer, lace lingerie set. “Would you put this on, just for me?” I picked up the scrap of black lace with my fingertips. “Sure, I will.” Then, under his expectant gaze, I slapped the cheap fabric right across his face. Dorian froze. In that instant of shock, I pulled the pepper spray from my pocket and hit him directly in the face. Dorian clutched his eyes, howling. “Ah! Queena Sullivan, what did you spray me with?” “Pepper spray. Figured I needed protection from predators.” Dorian tried to charge at me, his eyes bloodshot. I smirked, picked up a heavy branch I’d stashed nearby, and swung it hard at the side of his head. Dorian’s eyes rolled back, and he collapsed, unconscious. I dusted off my hands, unlocked his phone with his finger, and found the password-protected folder. Inside, it was a gallery of naked videos of various girls. My eyes narrowed. I quickly found the video of my sister. In the footage, Stella was doubled over, covering herself, her face slick with tears. At that moment, the online thread updated. [Dorian, did you get it done?] [Did you take the video of that bitch yet?] A pink avatar posted several frantic messages. [Dorian, don’t tell me you actually fell for the scholarship girl?] I typed back: On it. Then I raised the phone, aiming the camera at Dorian Wilde.

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The day my sister and I both moved back home, divorced and dragging our baggage, she posted a smug update on social media. “Who says a woman needs to pay her way back to her parents’ house after a divorce?” “I haven’t given Mom and Dad a dime in years, and I walked in with two leftover mandarin oranges.” “Mom was thrilled! Said she’d happily take care of me forever.” Later, while I was cooking dinner, I mentioned the post to Mom. She offered a cold, dismissive chuckle. “You know, I actually think you’re quite selfish. That’s where you fall short compared to Sandra. At least when Sandra was eating those oranges, she thought of me.” She turned to face me, her eyes hardened. “You? When was the last time you ever thought of your mother while you were eating something good?” A sudden, deep weariness settled over me. In ten years of marriage, I had funneled over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars into this family. I had returned home after my divorce with boxes and suitcases full of things I thought they could use. Yet, I was still less valued than Sandra’s half-eaten snack. “See? You’re silent again. What, did I say something wrong? You’re just not as thoughtful as your sister. Never have been, not since you were a child.” “Then you continue to enjoy Sandra’s kindness and her oranges, Mom,” I said, stripping off the apron. “I’m done serving you.” I pulled out my phone, immediately canceled the shared credit card I kept for them, grabbed Luna, and walked out of the house without a backward glance. 1 A heavy snow had fallen over Crestview. Luna and I struggled through the blizzard, but I felt a complete, lightheaded sense of release. For a decade, I had bought them a house, kept them on an unlimited shared card, gifted Dad an expensive watch, and bought Mom a heavy gold bracelet. I believed my childhood home was my sanctuary. But when I came back, defeated and carrying everything I owned, Mom had been unwelcoming. “The fridge and washer are broken, Alexandra. You won’t be comfortable. And your old room is filled with storage. Maybe you should just go back to Todd?” “He was almost killing me, Mom.” “Then you just have to tolerate it,” she’d said, flatly. “All men get heated sometimes. Give him another chance.” I saw no genuine pity, only inconvenience. I replaced every broken appliance in the house, and only then did Mom grudgingly clear out my old bedroom. They called it my home, but I tiptoed around them, waiting on them, cleaning up their messes, feeling like a squatter in my own space. Now I finally understood: without love, no amount of money could buy me a place at their table. I hailed a cab. Just as I settled in, Dad yanked the door open and dragged me out. “You’re leaving because of a couple of oranges? Are you serious? Get back in there and apologize to your mother. All our relatives are here, and they’re waiting for you to cook.” The relatives gathered behind him murmured their support. “Yes, Alexandra. It’s just two oranges. You’re the older sister, don’t be so petty about your sibling.” “Exactly. You’re both divorced now. You need to stick together. Don’t be so small-minded.” As I wrenched my arm from Dad’s grip, Sandra’s voice drifted over, cool and indifferent. “You’re just jealous, aren’t you? Jealous that Mom and Dad actually like me. You’re dull, unpleasant, and you wonder why they don’t dote on you. Why don’t you reflect on your own personality for once?” “I just got home, and all our friends and family came to check on me, and already your feelings are bruised. You’ve had to compete with me since we were kids. Don’t you think it’s pathetic? You know you’ll always lose.” The careless remark twisted the knife in my chest. She was right. I had always been second best. From the moment Sandra, the surprise second child, arrived, Mom’s patience and soft words for me vanished. “Sandra is younger. Sandra doesn’t know any better. Give it to Sandra. Be the bigger person. Don’t be so small-minded, Alexandra. Why do you always compare yourself to your sister?” These phrases had defined my entire life, even though I was only a year older than Sandra. “I have every right to prefer Sandra,” Mom sneered, emerging from the house. “When I was in the hospital last year, it was Sandra taking care of me. You were nowhere to be found. What use are you, really? And you have the nerve to compare yourself to her.” I was shaking with fury. Mom had been in a coma; I had paid the bills and handled the logistics. She was the one who insisted I focus on work, claiming Sandra had it covered. Now she was rewriting history. I couldn’t take it anymore. “You’re absolutely right. You can’t rely on me. The next time you need money for a hospital or a bill, go find Sandra. Since she’s the one you prefer, you can count on her. As far as I’m concerned, you have no other daughter!” Dad slapped me across the face, his eyes blazing. “What did you say? It’s your duty to honor your parents! Are you trying to disown us?” “Yes! I’m disowning you! I don’t want this father and mother anymore!” I pulled Luna into the waiting taxi, slamming the door shut. From this day forward, I was an orphan. No matter how poor or desperate I became, I would never return and allow them to drain me dry again. 2 I had no home, so I took Luna to a cheap motel near my office. As soon as we settled in, Mom posted several photos in the family group chat. [Some people have the nerve to compare themselves to Sandra. Why don’t they reflect on how wonderful Sandra is? Look how much class she has when entertaining family.] [She booked the best steakhouse in Crestview, gave us so much face. And others? They just storm out in a fit of pique.] [If a certain ungrateful daughter would come back and pay the bill for this lavish dinner, I might consider letting her live here again.] In the photos, Mom’s hand rested affectionately on Sandra’s. The heavy gold bracelet I had bought for her was now on Sandra’s wrist. Sandra’s own social media updated again: “Congrats to me for escaping my marriage! Mom was so proud of my courage, she gifted me this beautiful gold bracelet. She says her Golden Girl deserves the best of everything.” I had worked myself to the bone, spending my own savings on that bracelet for Mom, never once buying myself anything so lavish. Now she’d given it away and was trying to shame me into paying for dinner. It was repulsive. I opened the group chat and sent a voice message. “One dinner gives you class? I spent a quarter of a million dollars on you! Without me, you’d still be stuck in that run-down farmhouse! Why didn’t that give you face?” “Who is the white wolf here? I poured hundreds of thousands into this family, and a stray dog would’ve shown more loyalty!” I hit send, left the group, and blocked every single one of them. A moment later, Uncle Richard called. “Alexandra, why did you block your parents? Why would you say those things? They’re still your parents, for heaven’s sake.” “I know you’re upset Dad hit you. I talked to him, he says it won’t happen again. Just come back, honey. We’re celebrating Sandra’s freedom tonight…” “Freedom?” I interrupted, the words thick with unshed tears. “When Sandra’s husband yelled at her, Mom and Dad rushed to bring her home. What about me? Todd was beating me senseless.” “I cried and begged Dad to help me, to let me come home, and he told me to tolerate it. He said a beating was better than him cheating, and to give Todd another chance. He’d learn his lesson.” “Uncle, there is no ‘after.’ Not a single person in that house cares about me. I’m done.” I hung up. Luna wrapped her arms around my waist, sobbing. “Mommy, I care about you. I love you. I’m going to grow up fast and make lots and lots of money, and buy you a real home.” Tears streamed down my face. I hugged her fiercely. Instead of fighting for their approval, I channeled all my energy into work. I needed to buy a house. We needed our own home. One afternoon, I went to pick Luna up from daycare, and the teacher told me her grandmother had already taken her. I raced to the house. Doris was dumping out Luna’s backpack, handing the prized jumbo scallops Luna had saved from the school cafeteria to Sandra’s daughter, Paige. I was so busy working multiple jobs, I often ate takeout. Luna hated it, so she often saved the best parts of her school lunch for me—a few prized shrimp, a piece of roast chicken. Today, it was the jumbo scallops. “Those are for my Mommy!” Luna tried to snatch them back, but Doris shoved her to the ground. “Paige is younger than you, so you let her have them, understand? Your mother has taught you to be small-minded, haven’t she? Getting upset over a couple of scallops.” Paige stuck her tongue out at Luna. “Your mom is jealous of my mom, and you’re jealous of me! Go ahead, make Grandma give them to you, if you dare.” When Sandra was small, I had to cater to her. Now, they were forcing my daughter to cater to Sandra’s daughter. I snapped. Just as I was about to grab the scallops from Paige, Doris stood up and shoved an apron into my chest. She let out a frustrated sigh. “What are you doing standing there? If you’re willing to come back, get in the kitchen and start dinner! Do you know what day it is?” She glanced behind me, her expression darkening. “You’re truly a disappointment. It’s my birthday, and you came back empty-handed.” Sandra chuckled softly. “Looks like Alexandra forgot your birthday, Mom. Don’t be sad, you still have me.” 3 Doris instantly beamed, praising Sandra for her thoughtfulness. She then turned her gaze of pure annoyance back to me. “See? Your sister is just better than you. Now go! Sandra already started the oven; all you have to do is the main courses.” Sandra added, “Don’t forget to make Mom a plate of pasta. Hand-made, of course. She likes those best.” I picked up the kitchen table and flipped it. Plates, utensils, and Sandra’s carefully placed fruit bowl crashed to the floor. “Why on earth would I give you a birthday gift? Why would I cook for any of you? We are no longer related!” Doris was so enraged she hit me across the face. “You dare defy me? I am your mother! It’s my birthday! You will honor your mother!” I covered my stinging cheek, then whirled around, grabbed a handful of Sandra’s hair, and slapped her twice across the face. Doris screamed. “Alexandra! Are you insane?” “I am! You drove me insane! I’m telling you right now, my daughter and I are done with the Callahans. If you ever, ever touch my daughter again, or lay another finger on me, I will double the abuse onto Sandra. Try me.” I pulled Luna toward the door. Doris let out a cold laugh, utterly composed now. “No relationship? Alexandra, don’t you forget who raised you. Your father and I worked hard to feed you, clothe you, and send you to school. Now you want to walk away? You can leave once you pay back every penny we spent on you!” I froze, turning back to look at her. “Fine. You want to settle accounts? Let’s settle them, properly.” I hired a lawyer immediately. We compiled every expense they claimed to have paid for my first eighteen years. When the final tally came to barely sixty-five thousand dollars, Sandra scoffed. “You bribed the lawyer. Sixty-five thousand for eighteen years? College alone cost more than that! Mom and Dad gave us three thousand a month in college!” Doris nervously tugged at Sandra’s sleeve. Her eyes betrayed a flash of guilt. My heart was cold. When I got into college, they tried to force me to drop out and get a job. “You’re smarter than your sister. You’ll make money without a degree. Sandra is delicate and not as sharp. She’d be ruined without a degree.” To get my education, I took out student loans and worked three jobs, clawing my way through to graduation, saving my career from being aborted. “My college was paid for with student loans. They paid for nothing,” I told the lawyer. “However, I have receipts for over two hundred and fifty thousand dollars I subsidized this family in the last ten years. That is far more than sixty-five thousand.” “Also, this house. It’s titled in both my name and Doris’s, but I paid the entire mortgage. I want her compelled to pay me back.” I glanced at the gold bracelet on Sandra’s wrist. “That bracelet was a gift I purchased for my mother. I have receipts. It is now on Sandra’s wrist. I reasonably suspect theft. I want it back.” Sandra was furious. “Mom gave it to me! You’re just jealous!” When the lawyer confirmed my demands were reasonable, Doris panicked. “Why should I pay her back? She’s my daughter! Buying a house for her mother is her duty! If I want to give her gifts to Sandra, that’s my right!” “And what is your relationship with Ms. Callahan?” the lawyer asked calmly. “You, as parents, were simply fulfilling your duty by raising a child. You forced her into existence; she didn’t ask to be born.” The lawyer looked at them with thinly veiled disgust. “Furthermore, Ms. Callahan has repaid you more than ten times over. Isn’t that enough? Mrs. Callahan, you must stop being so transparently biased. They are both your children.” Doris was speechless, flushed with shame. She tried to pretend nothing happened, but I wasn’t having it. I was direct: if they refused to return the house value and the bracelet, I would sue. We would drag this through court and see who ended up looking worse. “Give it to her!” Walter’s face was beet red. “I will not be humiliated. I won’t have my own daughter sue me!” “Alexandra, you heartless snake! I wish I’d never given birth to you! I still have one daughter left. I don’t need you to survive!” 4 To protect myself, I had the lawyer draw up a formal contract legally dissolving all financial and familial obligations. Doris and Walter moved out that day. They cried to the neighbors, painting me as a ruthless, ungrateful child. I used to be terrified of neighborhood gossip, terrified of being labeled “unfilial.” Now, I simply didn’t care. Let them talk. My life was none of their business. Luna and I couldn’t bear to stay in that house, so I listed it with a realtor. That night, Uncle Richard called. “A real shame, Alexandra, all this fighting. Did you know the property in the old town sold? Your parents got a cash payout of over forty thousand dollars. If you hadn’t left, you would’ve seen half that.” I knew better. Even if I hadn’t left, I wouldn’t have seen a dime. They wouldn’t have even told me the money existed. Uncle Richard forwarded me Dad’s recent social media post. [From this day forward, I, Walter Callahan, have only one daughter, Sandra. If anyone mentions a certain irrelevant person again, I will cut ties.] Sandra commented below: “Mom and Dad, I promise to take good care of you. I’m not an ungrateful white wolf like my sister.” I switched off my phone. Their drama was no longer my concern. “Tired?” Vice President Jensen handed me a contract. “Sign this, and you can take a week off. I hear you’ve officially cut ties with your family and are couch-surfing. This project bonus should be enough for a down payment on a place.” I accepted the folder, hesitating. “How did you know? Don’t you think I’m an ungrateful monster?” Jensen smiled. “Someone anonymously blasted a nasty email to the whole company, claiming you threw your parents out and disowned them. I intercepted it.” “I’m not surprised by the outcome. I knew years ago. You were always working multiple part-time jobs in college, skipping lunches. I knew your home life was bad.” He tapped the contract. “You did the right thing. Sometimes you have to quit. Sunk costs do not factor into major decisions. Go get that house.” My eyes stung with unexpected emotion. For days, all I’d heard was How could you? How heartless! You’re a white wolf! For the first time, someone was on my side. “Thank you.” I saw Sandra again while picking up Luna. She was blocking the street in a brand-new Mercedes-Benz GLC SUV, looking smug. “Aw, look at this. How pathetic. Riding a scooter now? If you hadn’t started a fight, maybe this Benz would have been yours.” I glanced at the SUV. “Sixty-thousand dollar car. Financed, I presume?” Sandra gave a faint smile. Doris, sitting in the passenger seat, spoke up dismissively. “I paid the down payment. I also bought Sandra a nice condo. We’re handling the monthly payments, of course. We only have one daughter now; she deserves to be spoiled.” “Some people are too late,” she added, giving me a pointed look. “We thought about giving her a little something, but she’s not my child anymore. I won’t waste my time on an outsider.” Since I’d set up the shared credit card, Doris and Walter hadn’t held a job. Yet the monthly twenty thousand dollars was always spent. It hadn’t been spent; it had been quietly saved and siphoned off. I ignored them, taking Luna’s hand and navigating around the SUV. Sandra shouted, “One more thing! Mom and Dad had their wills drawn up. All their assets are going to me. You tried to start a fight, and now you’ll live with the consequences!” Three days later, the contract was signed, and my bonus—a full fifty thousand dollars—landed in my account. I used it as a down payment on a small, move-in-ready condo. We were finally home. Just as Luna and I were celebrating with takeout, the lawyer showed up with a court summons. “Your mother, Doris Callahan, has suffered a severe brain bleed. Your father, Walter Callahan, was in a drunk driving accident. Your sister, Sandra, is unreachable. We have to come to you.” “Your mother claims you stopped the shared credit card, leaving them destitute and unable to pay medical bills. She is suing you for Elder Neglect and Non-Support.”

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My daughter was barely hanging on, recovering from a brutal car accident, when my best friend, Jenna, showed up with a special delivery—a scrawny, old mother hen, flown in from some remote farm. “It’s a true heirloom, Eliza, an organic free-range bird,” Jenna insisted, placing the struggling, feathered weight in my arms. “The broth will work miracles on Carol’s broken bones.” Then came the sinister caveat, the thing that would haunt my every waking minute for two lifetimes. “This one’s a real fighter, tough as nails. Remember, before you put it in the pot, you have to kill it—and I mean kill it—multiple times. Make sure it’s completely gone.” I’m the kind of woman who flinches at a housefly. I’ve never even squashed a cockroach. But for Carol, fueled by a terrifying maternal necessity, I took a knife and the bird to the small, sterile hospital kitchen. I twisted the scrawny neck with a sickening, wet snap. But Jenna’s words kept ringing in my ears. Kill it multiple times. Trembling, I plunged the knife into the bird again and again, until the counter was slick with dark, visceral blood. When I carried the steaming thermos of broth back to Carol’s room, the horror waited for me. My daughter’s small body lay under the sheets, but when I pulled the blanket back, there was no Carol. Only a torso riddled with deep, jagged holes, a mess of blood and viscera. And no head. Jenna shrieked, a sound that felt more performative than genuine, tearing the lid off the thermos I carried. It wasn’t rich, golden chicken soup. It was a container full of thick, congealed blood, and floating on top was the mangled, barely recognizable face of my daughter. “Eliza Rourke,” Jenna wailed, clutching the bloody container. “I told you to kill the chicken, not your own child!” My husband, Gavin Brooks, burst in moments later. His eyes, usually cool and calculating, were red with a rage that eclipsed my own paralyzing shock. He didn’t ask. He didn’t hesitate. Gavin’s hand swung out, a violent slap that cracked across my cheek, sending me stumbling back against the sterile wall. “She was just being a rebellious teenager, Eliza! You had an argument! And you decided to butcher her? You’re not a mother, you’re a monster! A psychotic animal!” I saw my reflection in the dark, anti-glare glass of the window: a blood-soaked woman, eyes wide, mouth agape. And tucked beneath the fingernails of my right hand was a bright, shocking crimson—the remnants of the red hair dye Carol had fought me to keep. But I knew what I had killed. I had killed the hen. How could the victim have been my own flesh and blood? The sheer impossibility of it drove me forward. I had to prove my sanity. Despite Gavin’s fists and my shattered disbelief, I crawled my way to the police station. I needed the truth to wash the horror away. They showed me the hospital surveillance footage. I watched myself, Eliza Rourke, my face contorted in a cold, unnatural smile. I watched my own hands, strong and merciless, twist my daughter’s neck until the sound was audible even through the muted recording. I watched myself, my own hands, dismember her body and then casually clean up the worst of the mess before walking out. I was taken away, convicted of murder, and sentenced to death. And then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to the day Jenna brought the chicken. 1 “This one’s a tough bird, a real scrapper. Hard to kill, so you make sure you stab it good, Eliza. Make absolutely sure it’s dead.” Jenna Davies pushed the struggling, flapping hen into my hands. The sudden weight, the feel of the rough feathers, made my body seize up in a full-blown tremor. Looking at Jenna’s sickeningly earnest expression, the truth hit me: I was back. I had been given a second chance. The images—the blood-soaked glass, Gavin’s furious eyes, the headless corpse—flashed in a dizzying loop behind my eyes. I shoved the bird back, my voice laced with a raw, desperate fear. “No! I can’t. I don’t kill things, Jenna. Take the damn chicken and get it out of here!” Last time, I had accepted her gesture. I had been a grateful, naive idiot, desperate to nurse my daughter back to health. The maternal instinct had overridden my entire life’s aversion to violence. I’d snapped the bird’s neck, and remembering Jenna’s insistent warnings, I’d stabbed it repeatedly, just to be sure. But when I’d returned, the girl who loved to tease and torment her mother had been hidden under the blanket. When I’d pulled it back, all that remained was a faceless, mutilated corpse. Jenna’s screams—“Eliza! You killed your own daughter!”—and the sight of Carol’s head in the thermos. Even the ladle of “soup” I held had been a ladle of crimson blood. I killed a chicken. How had my daughter been the one to die? Gavin had kicked me to the floor, his voice echoing with righteous fury. “She was just having a moody teenage moment! You butchered her and dismembered the body to cover your tracks! You’re worse than an animal!” Lying there, broken on the cold linoleum, I’d seen the reflection. My bloodied face, Carol’s red hair in my nails. The evidence was irrefutable, yet my memory screamed a different truth. I’d crawled to the police, determined to prove my innocence, only to be faced with the undeniable footage of my own descent into madness and murder. A death sentence. Now, I was back. I would not accept the beginning of the nightmare. “Honestly, Jenna, just take it to the diner downstairs and have them process it. I simply can’t bring myself to do it. I’m not taking the chicken.” The refusal was too rational, the fear too palpable. Jenna had no choice but to awkwardly pull the bird back into her arms. I thought I was safe. I thought I had broken the chain of events. But then, Gavin stepped out of the room, his face a mask of cold fury. “Are you serious, Eliza? Your daughter is lying there with a shattered leg, and you won’t even kill a chicken for her? What kind of mother are you? Just because she was in a moody phase and you had a fight last week, you’re going to neglect her now? Every kid messes up! No other mother is this cruel!” Carol, my little girl, peeked around the door, her face pale, eyes wide and pitiful. “Mommy, don’t be mad at me. I know I was wrong. Will you please make me the chicken soup? I’ll know you’ve forgiven me then…” I wavered. The love, the absolute, non-negotiable love for my daughter, always won. Jenna seized the moment, pushing the chicken and a butcher knife into my grasp. “Go on, Eliza. Kill the bird and make the soup. I’ll keep an eye on Carol for you.” 2 I stumbled into the small, sterile hospital kitchen reserved for families, heart pounding, gaze fixed on the corner where the security camera was mounted. The footage from my past life was a horror movie I couldn’t stop watching. Why did I think I killed a chicken when I had clearly murdered my daughter? How could I not recognize my own child? I had to test it. I pressed the hen onto the cutting board. With a shaking hand, I lifted the knife and made a shallow, bloody cut along the bird’s foot, barely drawing blood. At the exact same instant, the chicken’s wild, panicked squawk was perfectly overlaid with a sharp, agonizing cry from the hallway. I dropped the knife and bolted. It’s real. It’s happening again. I threw open Carol’s door, convinced I would find her foot severed, but she was curled on the bed, her small face contorted in pain. I scrambled toward her, checking her feet, her legs. I inspected every inch. No blood. No new cuts. She was intact. Carol blinked, her eyes hazy with confusion. “What is it, Mom? I just tried to shift down and I hit the railing on my broken leg. It hurt so much I couldn’t stop myself from screaming. Did I worry you?” I froze, my body rigid with shock. I forced a brittle smile, shaking my head. No. It was just a coincidence. I’m cracking up. I’m so stressed I’m having a psychotic break. The notion of a supernatural link, of a voodoo connection between a hen and my child, was too much for my rational mind. Everything I remembered, the arrest, the trial, the death—it must have been a terrifying, hyper-realistic nightmare brought on by fear and exhaustion. Jenna was my oldest friend; she wouldn’t hurt me. Jenna stepped forward, placing a comforting hand on my shoulder. “It’s okay, Eliza. Your sweet girl is safe here with me. You can trust me to watch her. Go on, make the soup. Just make sure you kill that tough old bird properly. Maybe I should come with you, just to be sure.” I nodded, utterly exhausted. Get rid of the paranoia. Focus on the living. I turned to leave, but Jenna suddenly bolted back into the room, her eyes wide with a manic terror that belied her previous composure. “Eliza! The chicken! Where is it? It’s gone!” I frowned, confused by her extreme reaction. Yes, those free-range birds are expensive and hard to find, but it wasn’t a national treasure. The truth was, the disappearance suited me perfectly. It was the easiest way out of this deadly obligation. “It ran off, Jenna, who cares? I’ll go to the market later and buy a replacement. I’d rather spend time with Carol right now.” I sat on the bed and reached for my daughter’s hand, which was close, almost touching mine. But my fingers grasped only the cold linen of the hospital sheet. I snapped my head up. Carol was gone. She had been right there, a moment ago. The exact moment Jenna declared the chicken was missing, my daughter had vanished into thin air. 3 “Jenna! Where is Carol? Did you see her? She was right behind me, how could she just disappear?” I grabbed her shoulders and shook, the frenzy I had been fighting finally taking hold. Jenna seemed equally distraught, tears welling in her eyes. “I’ll help you search! We have to find it immediately! Hurry!” We ran out, my voice echoing down the sterile corridors of the wing, screaming my daughter’s name. Carol! Carol Brooks! I checked the ER, the morgue, even the dimly lit path to the staff parking lot. Nothing. But then I saw Jenna, ostensibly searching with me, now on her knees by a small patch of hospital landscaping. She wasn’t checking under benches or behind doors. She was rifling through the dense shrubbery, her movements more focused, more desperate than they should have been. It looked like she was searching for a missing animal. My mind went cold. I had to know. I yanked her up by the sleeve. “Jenna Davies, stop! What does that bird have to do with my daughter’s disappearance? Tell me what that chicken is! What did you bring here?” Jenna flinched, pulling her collar up to cover her neck. “It’s… the chicken…” she stammered, avoiding my eyes. Tears of pure, agonizing panic spilled down my face. Before I could press her further, a large hand clamped down hard on my shoulder and yanked me backward. “Eliza, what in God’s name is wrong with you? Stop the dramatics! You’re supposed to be making your daughter’s soup, not screaming in the hallway!” It was Gavin. And in his other hand, dangling upside down, was the missing hen. The sheer shock short-circuited my brain. I whirled around, grabbing his shirt. “Did you see Carol? She’s gone! She just evaporated!” Gavin scowled, his confusion seemingly genuine. “Carol? She’s been in the room the whole time. She said you ran out like a maniac, raving about a chicken, and she asked me to check on you.” I looked up. In the window of the hospital room, my daughter stood, small and whole, smiling and waving. “Mommy…” she called out, her voice a little, sweet lilt. “Why haven’t you made the soup yet?” It was like a bucket of icy water had been thrown over me. I was shaking, unable to reconcile the terror with the immediate, mundane reality. Jenna’s hand came back to my shoulder, her touch now soft. “Eliza, that chicken… it’s not ordinary. It’s a very rare breed—a game bird. I was afraid someone would see it and report us for poaching. I was worried we’d get into trouble, not that I wasn’t worried about Carol.” She looked so sincere that my suspicion felt small and mean. I managed a strained smile, trying to push the madness aside. But I had to be sure. I turned to Gavin, my voice dropping into a register I hadn’t used in years—a low, slightly manipulative purr. “Honey, you know I’m a mess with blood and feathers. I want Carol to have this soup, but I just can’t do it. Could you please kill the chicken and pluck it for me? I’ll take it from there and make the stock.” Gavin stared at me, his ears turning slightly red, surprised by the sudden, rare display of vulnerability. Then, he simply nodded. “Fine. Whatever. It’s just killing a chicken. Wait here, I’ll call you when I’m done.” 4 I didn’t follow them to the kitchen. I rushed back to Carol. Seeing her safe, whole, and nestled in bed brought an overwhelming surge of relief that broke the dam of my fear. My voice was thick with emotion. “Sweetheart, where were you? I was terrified! Jenna and I searched everywhere, why didn’t you answer?” Carol gave a quick, brittle laugh, snuggling into my chest. “I was just playing peek-a-boo with you, Mom. I was hiding right here. I didn’t realize you would panic so much.” I didn’t argue. But my heart was sinking. The room was tiny. There was nowhere to hide. She was either lying or she was a victim herself, just as confused as I was. Either way, I would not let her out of my sight. In the distance, I saw Gavin by the utility sink, the knife raised. I’d specifically told him to start with the chicken’s legs—to be cautious—just in case a swift beheading triggered the disaster I remembered. A shrill, agonizing squawk from the chicken. Both its legs were severed. Carol flinched in my arms, but nothing else happened. No blood, no fresh wound. I watched, breath held tight, as Gavin completed the grisly task, dismembering the bird and dropping the pieces into the pot. Carol remained perfectly intact. My panic eased. The spell was broken. It had been a nightmare. Gavin beckoned me over to the simmering pot. I gently tucked a drowsy Carol into bed, kissed her forehead, and locked the door from the outside, just in case. I seasoned the stock quickly. Ten minutes, tops. I poured a ladle of the rich, aromatic broth into a bowl and carried it back, a small victory clutched in my hand. The door was still locked. I breathed a sigh of absolute relief. But when I turned the key and walked in, the air went cold, and the victory turned to ash. The bed was soaked in a tidal wave of fresh, arterial blood. Carol’s remains—limbs, organs, entrails—were scattered on the floor in a grotesque, dismembered tableau. I dropped the bowl. The golden chicken soup splashed onto the floor, but as it spread, it miraculously transformed into a puddle of steaming, crimson blood. Jenna’s scream, identical to the last life, pierced the air. “Eliza! What did you do to your daughter now?!” I staggered backward, shaking my head violently. “No! I didn’t do it! I was only gone for a moment! She can’t be dead!” Gavin rushed in, his face turning ashen, his voice a choked sob. “You psycho! She was playing hide-and-seek! And you killed her for it? Jenna and I were out processing the chicken! Only you were here! It has to be you! The police are coming, Eliza, you’re not escaping this time!” The police arrived with unnerving speed. They barely glanced at the scene, their eyes fixed on me, my bloody hands, my horrified face. “The killer often returns to the scene,” one officer said, his voice cold and definitive. “Eliza Rourke, you’re coming with us.” I fought them, screamed, pleaded for someone to listen. I was only gone for twenty minutes! But as they dragged me away, my eyes fell on my fingernails. Again. Under the edge of the manicure: a small, tell-tale streak of Carol’s bright red hair dye. I went suddenly, horribly still. A slow, horrifying smile spread across my face. I started to laugh, a hysterical, wrenching sound that was part sob, part madness. “Of course,” I whispered to the empty room. “I see it now. You thought I was stupid, didn’t you?” The truth, the simple, devastating answer to the nightmare that had plagued two lifetimes, had been right in front of my eyes the whole time.

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At the Marshall Corporation annual gala, my father was scheduled to announce the company’s successor. Every eye in the ballroom was fixed on me, the CEO’s daughter, who had spent the last eight years grinding as the Executive Vice President. But in the next breath, Father announced my cousin, Piper Marshall, would inherit the company and assume the role of President. The room erupted in a stunned silence, quickly followed by a low, collective gasp. I was frozen, my face burning with shock. My voice trembled as I finally challenged him: “I’ve dedicated eight years to this company, running myself ragged. And I’m your daughter.” “Piper just graduated. On what basis is she named President?” Father’s expression was cold, distant. “Because Piper is stronger than you. She will surpass your eight years of accomplishments in one.” I stood there, processing the cruelty of his words, then threw my head back and let out a raw, desperate laugh that felt more like a scream. I knew that wasn’t the real reason. It was his tired, old excuse: maintaining his reputation for absolute impartiality—his desire to “avoid suspicion” at all costs. Since he was once again giving what was mine to Piper, I decided to take the core team and start my own venture. I would no longer be his daughter. … 1 My hysterical laughter made the entire ballroom stare. The smile Father had been wearing instantly vanished, replaced by a mask of cold fury. “Did you forget your meds this morning? What is this grotesque display?” he hissed. “I have gone mad,” I replied, the laughter dying in my throat. I held his gaze, refusing to look away. “You pushed me there.” “When this company was on the brink of collapse, I was the one out in the blistering heat, landing clients and stabilizing the market. I suffered heatstroke half a dozen times that summer.” “I designed the product that became our biggest success—the one that launched us into profitability! I worked a week straight, pulling all-nighters, and nearly collapsed from exhaustion!” Every word I spoke landed like a hammer blow. I saw a dozen heads nod in agreement among the crowd. They all knew the truth of my contributions. But Father’s face only grew colder. He clenched his jaw. “Enough! Why are you shouting and making a scene? You’re embarrassing me!” “I admit you’ve had some contributions, but they pale in comparison to Piper. She’s only just returned, and she’s already secured the deal with VentureTech, the international conglomerate.” “You worked for a year and failed to finalize that agreement.” Hearing that, I was struck by lightning, utterly stunned. That deal, the one he was talking about, was my year-long battle. I had worn through countless pairs of heels and exhausted every contact to finally bring it to the finish line. Father had promised to announce the good news at the gala, but I never imagined he would pin the credit on Piper. All to protect his perfect image and to appear “impartial.” At that moment, Piper stepped forward, feigning humility. “Uncle Marshall, I truly don’t have the experience. I shouldn’t take this role.” “Let Rachel have it. Please, don’t let this damage your relationship. I’d be happy to serve as Vice President.” Listen to how noble she sounded. It made her look humble and generous, while also ensuring she landed the second-highest position—a cushy path to wealth and power. Father, blind to her manipulation, rounded on me again. “Look at Piper. She’s so mature and considerate! And look at you—always causing me trouble.” “The presidency is settled. Piper Marshall will lead the company. Any dissent will result in immediate termination.” “Including yours.” He glared at me, his eyes full of icy threat. Next to him, Piper’s mouth curved into a faint, barely perceptible smile. The crowd buzzed with whispers. Their eyes on me ranged from pity to outright mockery. Some were already praising Piper, positioning themselves to align with the new power. My heart turned to ash. I looked at Father with complete despair and said, “Then let Piper be your daughter.” “I quit.” The room went silent. Everyone, including Father, stared at me, shocked that I would sever all family and professional ties so definitively. I didn’t wait another second. I turned and walked toward the exit. But just as I reached the hallway, he caught up. 2 “Rachel.” Father grabbed my arm, his brow furrowed in frustration. “Can’t you ever act like a mature adult? Arguing with me in front of everyone makes us a laughingstock.” “Piper’s parents died young. We have a duty to take care of her!” “And right now, I have to maintain corporate optics! As soon as I win the Entrepreneur of the Year award, I’ll find a way to make you President.” “Now, come back inside. Apologize to everyone, including Piper! Tell them you’re willing to be her second-in-command!” I had foolishly hoped, for a second, that he had regretted his decision, but this was yet another brutal blow. “Years ago, I earned a place in the foreign exchange program through merit, and you took my spot and gave it to Piper, who was sleeping through her college classes.” “You said it was to ‘avoid suspicion.’” “You said she was alone in the world and I should be the bigger person.” “You said I could go later.” “But what was the result?” I lifted my gaze to meet his. This had been the pattern my entire life. In elementary, middle, and high school, I was always a top student, but I was never allowed to enroll in the best schools. Father always said it was to “avoid suspicion.” Yet, he would turn around, pull strings, and send the academically underperforming Piper to those exact schools. For years, I wondered if I simply wasn’t good enough, which only pushed me to work harder. Now I understood. Nothing I did would ever be enough. Piper would always be his priority, and “impartiality” was just a convenient weapon to hurt me. It was as if I’d exposed his deepest secret. Father’s face flushed with angry shame. He spat out a threat. “Rachel, if you keep this up, you will never be welcome back at Marshall Corporation!” His cold eyes were full of malice. “Fine.” This time, I didn’t back down. I turned and walked away. Father froze. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but nothing came out. When I walked out of the hotel, the winter wind was as sharp and cutting as his words. It chilled me to the bone. Dad, I thought, I can stand on my own now. I don’t need you. I took a deep breath and sent a message to my college friend, Noah Sullivan, who came from a powerful, old-money family in the city: I hear you’re drowning in cash. Interested in investing in me? I am! Noah’s reply was instant: Meet me at our spot tonight. We can talk about it. I can also show you the eight-pack I’ve been working on! I smiled faintly. The guy always flirted with me the second he found out I was single. I drove home to pack my things. As soon as I walked in, I saw my mother sitting on the living room sofa. “Mom, I—” Before I could finish, she grabbed the nearest throw pillow and hurled it at my face. “Why did you publicly humiliate your father? Why do you constantly try to undermine Piper?” “It’s just a title, the presidency. They’re all Marshalls. What does it matter who sits in the chair?” She had clearly been briefed on the situation. And just as I expected, there was no comfort, only accusation. I took a deep, steadying breath. “They’re all Marshalls. What does it matter who your daughter is?” I countered quietly. “Go let Piper call you Mom and Dad.” I didn’t have the energy for a fight, just a weary finality. “You…” Enraged, Mother lunged forward and delivered a stinging slap across my cheek. “It’s because you’re always so disrespectful! So defiant! That’s why you’ll never be President!” I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and laughed a short, hollow laugh. “Mom,” I said, looking her dead in the eye. “You say I’m disrespectful? That I defy you?” “Since you brought Piper home, have I not given her everything—the best food, the best clothes, everything I owned?” “The elementary school spot, the college exchange program—you gave it all to Piper. She even hit someone with her car once, and I was the one who took the blame.” “In college, you ‘poor-fed’ me to keep up your facade of impartiality, giving me a $300 monthly stipend while Piper got a $3,000 allowance.” “Did I defy you then? Was I not obedient enough?” Confronted with the stark reality of my sacrifice, my mother was momentarily speechless. I didn’t linger. I walked into my room, quickly packed a single suitcase, and prepared to leave. “What is this? Are you running away?” Mother finally burst out. Her tone held no apology, only escalating anger. I didn’t answer, just quietly walked past her and toward the front door. I heard her shouting from behind me: “Rachel Marshall! It’s just the presidency! Why are you making such a drama out of it!” “If you walk out that door tonight, you are never to come back! I’ll pretend I never gave birth to you!” 3 I had heard those words countless times growing up. Yet, because of that stubborn belief in blood ties, I always held onto the hope of their eventual approval. That’s why I was never able to leave before. But this time, I closed the door with a loud, resolute slam. The cold wind outside felt warmer than my own house. I didn’t have a car. Father had said he needed to “avoid suspicion,” so people wouldn’t say he spoiled me. Mother had added that Piper didn’t have a license or a car yet, and she didn’t want my cousin to feel bad. As I reached the curb, a sleek, black Aston Martin pulled up next to me. The window slid down, revealing the handsome, cocky face of Noah Sullivan. I slid into the passenger seat, confused. “What are you doing here? I thought we agreed on our usual spot.” “The whole city knows you had a spectacular falling out with your family,” Noah replied. I blinked, then opened my phone. A headline from a major news outlet immediately popped up. MARSHALL CORP. CUTS OFF DAUGHTER, NAMES NIECE HEIR. LAVISH INAUGURATION GALA PLANNED FOR TOMORROW NIGHT. BREAKING: RACHEL MARSHALL DISOWNS PARENTS, NOW HOMELESS AND ALONE. News travels fast. Almost instantly, two messages from my parents appeared. Without the Marshall name, who will recognize you? Think carefully! Stop being selfish! Come back now and apologize to your father and Piper. Say some nice things, and they’ll forgive you. Otherwise, you’ll starve outside, and no one will bury your body. I didn’t reply. I just laughed to myself. Starve? No one will recognize my face? We’ll see about that. Noah took me to a low-key upscale lounge. I walked in, looked up, and saw a familiar figure. My pupils immediately contracted. It was Gavin Thorne—my childhood best friend and my ex-boyfriend. He was currently wrapped in Piper Marshall’s arms, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on his face. “Seriously, Rachel,” Noah muttered, shaking his head. “You’re such a dummy. Those two were hooking up when they were studying abroad.” Boom. My brain went silent. I felt ridiculous. My parents had actually pressured me to give Gavin to Piper years ago. The absurd excuse then was that they didn’t want people to say they were using corporate power to force Gavin to marry me. I had adamantly refused, enduring a week of their furious silence and threats, but I wouldn’t budge. Later, Gavin left to study overseas, and we maintained a long-distance relationship for four years, with me covering nearly all his expenses. But on the day he returned, he broke up with me. His eyes were red then, as he told me, “Rachel, your parents’ pressure is too much. They will never agree to us. We have to break up. I don’t want to hold you back.” I desperately tried to salvage things. I told him my savings, while not massive, were enough for us to start fresh anywhere else. But he blocked me everywhere. For months, I was a wreck, consumed by guilt and self-blame. I believed I had failed to give Gavin the security he needed. I had failed to keep him. Now, this scene was a brutal slap across the face. Gavin saw me, his eyes widening in alarm. He quickly lowered his head, but Piper violently yanked him forward to greet me. “Cousin,” Piper cooed. “I’ve been meaning to tell you, but I didn’t know how. Please don’t be mad.” “Gavin and I are true love!” In that instant, my rage flared. I lifted my hand, ready to deliver a punch to Piper. But Gavin stepped directly in front of her. “Enough, Rachel!” “Do you have any dignity? How could you try to hit Piper like that!” 4 I stood still, shaking as I whispered, “Why… why…?” Gavin was silent for a few seconds before giving his answer. “Because you’re the cast-off daughter! Piper is your aunt and uncle’s pride! She’s the future heir of the Marshall family!” His words were a physical blow, a scythe that sliced a chunk out of my heart. I was in so much pain that all I could do was laugh. Love. Family. None of it could stand against the harsh calculus of profit and status. Noah started to argue on my behalf, but I stopped him. I grabbed his arm and turned away. There was no point in wasting breath. The only way to win was with power, to prove who was stronger, who would shine brighter, and who would get the last laugh. “Cousin!” Piper suddenly chased after us, holding out a sleek card. “My inauguration dinner is tomorrow. You absolutely must come.” A triumphant, challenging smirk played on her lips. I realized then: this wasn’t a coincidence. Piper had staged this entire encounter. Why else would she be carrying invitations? “I’ll be there,” I said. I took the invitation, turned, and walked out without looking back, a cold smile forming on my own lips. Once in the car, I said to Noah, “I need a favor.” “Don’t worry, big plans are already in motion for tomorrow.” Noah thumped his chest, a predatory glint in his eye. We exchanged a look. No words were needed. We were on the same page. The next day. I arrived precisely on time at the grand hotel where Father was holding Piper’s celebration banquet. The guests hadn’t arrived yet. My parents, Piper, and Gavin all turned cold faces on me. “Hmph.” Father sneered. “Look how thoughtful Piper is—she even invited you, despite everything. She’s worried about your feelings. And all you know how to do is act like a jealous child!” “Apologize to your father and Piper, and we’ll forget the past. This is your last chance, Rachel. Don’t be foolish.” My mother chimed in. They didn’t seem surprised about Gavin and Piper at all. It appeared their actions years ago—blocking my foreign exchange, for instance—were all part of a calculated plan to secretly push the two of them together. “Cousin, there’s no room for bad blood in family. Just swallow your pride.” Piper’s smile was openly mocking now. Gavin immediately backed her up. “Being named Vice President is already a huge affirmation of your abilities from your aunt and uncle. You should be grateful.” I dismissed their self-important pontificating with a quiet, scornful smile. “Who said I was here to attend the party?” My parents paused, then scoffed, clearly thinking I’d gone completely mad. Just then, a wave of luxury cars pulled up outside the hotel. “Let’s go,” Father grumbled, giving me one last angry glance. “Ignore this disobedient child. We have guests to greet.” He, Mother, Piper, and Gavin marched toward the entrance to receive the city’s elite. The entire who’s-who of the city’s business community was there. But they all stood at the door, refusing to enter the hotel. Father looked confused. “What are you all waiting for? Please, come in!” But the crowd remained still. “They’re waiting for my permission.” I slowly walked up to the entrance.

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Three months into my gig impersonating the spoiled trust fund idiot, Grant Harrington tossed his burner phone at me and told me to keep his fiancée on the hook. “Flirt, Jamie, not fall,” Grant warned, his eyes barely lifting from the twenty-year-old on his lap. “You mess this up, and your scholarship money is the first thing I cut.” To keep the lights on—and, more importantly, to keep my grandmother alive—I spent the next ninety days showering Delaney Croft with sickeningly sweet devotion. Morning and night texts. Weather reports. Even cutesy, slightly breathless voice notes that made my skin crawl. It worked. Eventually, the untouchable East Coast heiress actually started to thaw. Then came the night she messaged the burner phone to tell “Grant” she’d sent him a gift. My mind was clearly running on fumes. I picked up my personal phone—my main, private number—and tapped out a reply: Got it, babe. Love you! I sent the message and went straight to the shower. When I came back, the screen was illuminated by a single, icy cold punctuation mark: ? It was my personal chat with Delaney Croft. Not the burner. The situation spiraled from bad to catastrophic a few days later. At the welcome-home dinner, Laney decided to call her supposed fiancé—Grant—in front of the entire elite crowd. I was standing right beside him when my phone, resting innocently in my pocket, let out a cheerful, jarring ring. 1 It was my third year serving as Grant Harrington’s all-purpose gopher. His family’s finances were suddenly precarious, and they were strong-arming him into an arranged marriage with the notorious Laney Croft—heir to the Croft empire. Grant, whose ego was as big as his trust fund, wouldn’t be caught dead doing the grunt work of a relationship. So, he threw his second phone at me. “You handle the heavy lifting,” he drawled, still half-distracted by the ingenue he was currently dating. “You bore her, you piss her off, or you break the whole thing off, and I guarantee your tuition for the semester disappears. Find another way to pay for that old woman’s medical bills.” I clutched the phone like a live grenade. For that life-saving money, I was forced to channel my inner hopeless romantic, meticulously crafting every cheesy line and heartfelt inquiry. It was an exhaustive exercise: from basic Good mornings and Good nights to cringey pickup lines, from the five-day weather forecast to her weekly horoscope. After three months of this fabricated intimacy, Laney Croft—the one they called the Ice Princess—actually softened. Her replies grew warmer, her texts longer, and she started initiating conversations. Until that night. She texted the burner phone to say she’d dropped off a gift with the dorm security guard and reminded “me” to pick it up. My brain must have short-circuited. I didn’t even think, sending a quick reply from my main number: Received! Thank you, babe. Love you the most! The reply was instantaneous, though I didn’t glance at it. I shoved my phone under the pillow and headed to the bathroom, humming a tune. The cold water hit my face, and the adrenaline kicked in. Wait. The burner phone—the Grant phone—was sitting on the desk, plugged in. So the phone I’d just used was… I didn’t even bother to towel off my hair. I wrapped myself in a thin bath sheet, bolted back into the room, and snatched up my private cell. My world went black. That syrupy, embarrassing “Love you the most!” message hung there, frozen in time. Laney didn’t respond with her usual ‘Aww’ or ‘Hug’ emoji. She responded with utter, chilling detachment: ? I scrolled up to her previous message: I left a gift for Grant with the security desk. Make sure he remembers to grab it. I was ruined. My hands shook so violently I could barely tap the screen. The dreadful two-minute window for un-sending the message had already passed. I took a ragged breath, my mind racing for a cover story, before I typed out a desperate, shaky text: My apologies. Wrong recipient. Lost a bet in Truth or Dare with my girlfriend. I’ll remind Grant about the gift. Thanks. I felt like a condemned man waiting for the executioner. About thirty seconds later, Laney replied. As sparse and glacial as before: K. My heart, which had been lodged in my throat, finally plummeted back to my chest. I quickly abandoned my personal phone and picked up the burner. As soon as I unlocked it, Laney’s messages popped up, her tone utterly different from the one she’d used moments before: Darling, my work here is finished. I’m flying home tomorrow. When I land, let’s get the engagement party planning started. How does that sound? I stared at the screen, and the fragile sense of relief I’d just gained shattered. 2 Since freshman year, to cover my grandmother’s crippling surgery costs, I’d signed a devil’s bargain—becoming Grant Harrington’s exclusive, twenty-four-hour gopher. I did his laundry, ran errands, wrote his damn papers. Three months ago, the Harrington family investment firm ran into major trouble, desperate for the cash infusion the Croft Group could provide. Grant was forced into the courtship with the notoriously demanding Laney Croft, who was overseas tending to an expansion deal. It was a long-distance relationship by necessity. Grant, with his temper and short attention span, lasted less than three days before throwing the phone across the room, complaining that Laney was a “total ice block” and not worth the effort. To save his family’s future—and, consequently, my paycheck—he came up with the toxic solution: have me impersonate him. “Just keep her happy, and the money’s yours.” I looked at the pitiful balance in my bank account and took the job. To execute the role of the devoted, romantic boyfriend, I studied Laney Croft’s social media and public profiles religiously. What she loved, what she hated, her taste in music, her favorite novels—I knew them better than I knew myself. When she was stressed, I sent jokes; when she was tired, I recorded myself playing soft piano pieces. Slowly, her detached “Hmm” and “Okay” transformed into long, emotionally resonant voice notes. She started sharing her daily schedule without being asked. I convinced myself this was nothing more than a profitable transaction—until she announced she was returning home to get engaged. I knew my performance had reached its final curtain. 3 I spent an all-nighter compiling a multi-page, hyper-detailed dossier. I meticulously outlined every one of Laney’s likes, dislikes, favorite private jokes from our chats, and even her known emotional triggers. After printing it, I headed downstairs to the security desk to collect the gift she’d sent. I drove straight to Grant’s ridiculously expensive off-campus apartment. When I walked in, Grant was having a loud, messy party with a few friends. Empty bottles and junk food cartons were scattered everywhere. I handed him the gift and relayed the news about Laney’s return. Grant nonchalantly took the box, ripped it open, and peered inside. A hand-stitched rabbit plushie lay nestled within. It was beautifully crafted, clearly high quality, and probably took hours to make. Grant held it up by one ear, his face screwed up in disgust. “What is this garbage? A cheap bunny? Is she trying to treat me like a five-year-old?” I kept my voice low. “I mentioned I liked rabbits once, in a message. Maybe she remembered.” “So lame.” Grant tossed the plushie back at me. “Take this cheap crap. I don’t want it cluttering up my space.” “Next time, remind her I like a Patek Philippe, or maybe a new Tesla, not some kindergarten craft project.” I clutched the rabbit close. I knew it was hers; she’d shown me a half-finished video of it a few weeks prior, her fingers taped up with small bandages. I suppressed the bitter pang in my chest and handed him the binder. “This is the dossier. All the details. You need to review this before you meet her.” Grant didn’t even look at it. “Yeah, yeah, whatever. God, you’re so tedious, Jamie. Are you my mother now?” I swallowed my reply and said no more. A few days later, Laney arrived. Grant dressed in his most expensive suit and took me along to the welcome-home dinner. I walked silently behind him, a human shadow tasked with carrying his files. At the entrance to the exclusive private dining room, Grant’s current girlfriend called. He turned to me. “Go in and grab a table. I’ll take this call in the hall.” I nodded and pushed the door open. The room was dimly lit. Before I could fully assess the occupants, a long, elegant hand reached out and took the bag from me. The hand then slid down my arm, fingers gently but firmly lacing around mine. A low, amused voice exploded in my ear. “That messenger bag—the one you said you liked? It really suits you.” It was Laney. I’d heard that voice a hundred times over the phone, but hearing it live, so close, sent an electric current down my spine. I froze, lifting my head awkwardly. In the dim light, Laney’s eyes finally focused on my face. The soft smile on her lips instantly solidified. The hand holding mine recoiled as if I’d electrocuted her. “My apologies,” she said, her voice dropping to a chill. “I mistook you for someone else.” 4 Just then, Grant pushed the door open. He saw us standing opposite each other and asked, puzzled, “What’s the hold-up? Playing doorman, Jamie?” Laney’s expression snapped back to the picture of poise. She stepped past me, went straight to Grant, and took his arm, offering a dazzling, soft smile. “Nothing, darling. I saw his silhouette and thought it was you for a second. My mistake.” Grant chuckled, and the two walked into the room arm-in-arm. I trailed behind, finding the most inconspicuous spot in the corner. Laney’s crowd was the East Coast elite—old money, fast living. Grant, eager to please, immediately started charming everyone. After a few rounds of drinks, Grant decided to play the doting fiancé. He peeled a large shrimp and, smiling sweetly, held it up to Laney’s lips. “Open up, babe. Say ahhh—” The air in the room instantly thickened. A few of her closest friends exchanged nervous glances. My stomach dropped. In the very first line of that dossier I’d given Grant, printed in bold, red, ALL CAPS text was the warning: LANEY CROFT HAS A SEVERE, LIFE-THREATENING SHELLFISH ALLERGY. A SINGLE SHRIMP COULD CAUSE ANAPHYLACTIC SHOCK. Grant hadn’t read a word. Laney stared at the shrimp, her eyes unreadable, and didn’t open her mouth. Before the moment could crystallize into complete disaster, I blurted out a soft warning from the back of the room: “She’s allergic to shellfish.” Grant’s motion stuttered. But he recovered instantly. He rotated his wrist, popped the shrimp into his own mouth, and winked at Laney. “Gotcha! Just kidding, babe. I knew you couldn’t. Just trying to mess with you a little, see you squirm.” Laney’s rigid composure relaxed. She laughed, a low, dismissive sound. “You’re so funny.” The crisis was averted. I sighed in relief and took a long drink of the juice in front of me. After dinner, the crowd moved on to the usual fare: Truth or Dare. Halfway through the game, Grant announced he needed the restroom and told Laney to wait up. My cheap messenger bag and his expensive leather one looked similar and were placed side-by-side on the sofa. Laney reached for what she thought was Grant’s, accidentally knocking mine to the floor. Thwack. The contents spilled everywhere. The hand-stitched rabbit plushie rolled out, completely exposed in the ambient light. Laney’s hand, which had been reaching to gather the scattered items, froze. She picked up the rabbit, her thumb lightly tracing the small, slightly crooked ‘D’ she’d embroidered on one of its ears. “This bunny…” She lifted her head, her gaze piercing me. “Why do you have this?” 5 In that instant, I felt the blood drain from my entire body. How could I explain? Say it was a common design? It was a unique piece, made by her. Say I was holding it for Grant? Grant had walked out empty-handed. My mind was a catastrophic mess of fear. Before I could form a single coherent thought, Grant’s voice shrieked from the doorway. “Jamie Brooks! What the hell—did you just steal this?!” He stormed over, snatched the bunny from Laney, his face contorted in manufactured rage. “I’ve been nothing but good to you, given you money and a place to stay, and you knew this was Laney’s engagement gift to me! Why would you steal it?!” The room erupted in whispers. Contemptuous stares stabbed me like a thousand needles. “Oh my God, you can’t trust anyone. He looks so quiet and harmless, but he’s a thief.” “That’s absolutely disgusting, stealing your boyfriend’s gift. Is he some kind of lowlife with a fetish?” “He’s probably just jealous of Grant. Trying to get the Croft heir’s attention? Pathetic.” I opened my mouth to defend myself. Grant suddenly pulled me into a feigned embrace, and in a voice only I could hear, he hissed into my ear: “You say one word, and your grandmother’s surgery money is gone. Every cent.” “Take the fall. I’ll transfer you five grand later.” 6 That five thousand dollars was my grandmother’s vital next month’s medical payment. Every shred of my dignity, every ounce of my mounting bitterness, was worthless against that cold, necessary number. I dug my fingernails into my palms, the pain a single tether to reality. I lowered my head, my voice raspy and unrecognizable. “…I’m sorry. I stole it.” “It was so cute, I had a moment of stupidity… I apologize.” 7 Grant smiled, a look of smug benevolence on his face. “Fine. Since you’ve confessed, I won’t press charges.” He turned to Laney and took her hand. “Laney, don’t be upset. Jamie comes from nothing. He’s never seen nice things before. He just had a moment of weakness.” Laney shot me a cold, penetrating look, thick with distaste and aversion, as if I were a piece of refuse. She didn’t speak. She simply took the rabbit that I had just touched and dropped it into the nearest waste bin. “It’s tainted now. Trash.” She shrugged. “I’ll make you a new one, babe.” A crushing weight slammed into my chest. That rabbit was made from hours of her effort—I’d watched her work on it on video—and now, because my fingers had grazed it, it was garbage. The game resumed, the atmosphere now tense and strange. Unfortunately, I lost. The one holding the King card was none other than Laney Croft. She leaned back on the sofa, twirling an eyeliner pencil between her fingers. Her eyes flicked to me, and a small, cruel smirk twisted her lips. “Dare, hmm… Let’s go with this: Pick an opposite-sex person here and feed them something.” She paused, then added: “No hands. Mouth to mouth.” The room went completely silent. It was pure, undiluted humiliation. But I had no right to refuse. I scanned the faces. Everyone avoided my eyes as if I carried a contagious disease. Just as I felt the blood rushing to my face, a plump, aggressively sleazy girl named Tasha Rourke stood up. She was known for her promiscuous reputation. “Since no one wants the honor, I suppose I can lower myself to help out.” She offered a predatory, leering smile. Someone handed her a long, thin pretzel stick. Tasha bit one end, signaling for me to take the other. I looked at her shiny, oily face, my stomach turning a violent somersault. I leaned forward, trembling. Just as my lips were about to touch the pretzel, I couldn’t stop myself. I turned my head and gave a small, dry retch. “Enough!” Grant finally stepped in. He didn’t want the spectacle to ruin his image. “Laney, let’s not take this too far. It’s gross.” Laney didn’t press it. She threw the card down. “Fine. Let’s wrap it up.” Tasha sat back down, disappointment etched on her face, and shot me a murderous glare as she left. After the dinner, I drove Grant back to his apartment. At the entrance to his building, his phone pinged. Five thousand dollars hit my account. “Keep your mouth shut, and there will be more where that came from.” He strode into the house in his expensive loafers. I sat in the car, staring at my phone screen. The burner phone—the one I used to text Laney—suddenly lit up. The message from her was so soft, so honey-sweet, it could drip off the screen: Hey, babe. Guess I took care of that disgusting little gopher for you tonight. He looked completely crushed. Don’t let a lowlife like that ruin your mood. XOXO. I stared at the words, and the tears I’d held back all evening finally broke. 8 The next day, I was working my shift at The Buttercup bakery. I still needed tens of thousands of dollars for my grandmother’s full course of treatment, and Grant’s sporadic payments weren’t enough. The lunch rush was over, and the shop was quiet. The bell above the door jingled, and Tasha Rourke walked in. She walked straight to the counter, not buying anything, just staring at me. “Jamie Brooks, right? Last night wasn’t very satisfying. How about we pick up where we left off somewhere else?” She reached across the counter to grab my hand. I recoiled violently. “Ms. Rourke, there are security cameras. I advise you to back off.” “Oh, playing the victim now?” Tasha sneered. “You steal Grant’s throwaways. You’re desperate for cash, aren’t you?” “Work for me. I’ll give you fifty grand. Fifty times five grand.” She rounded the counter and grabbed my wrist with surprising, brutal force. “Let go!” I struggled, but she was like a solid wall of muscle. In desperation, I grabbed the nearest object—a sharp ballpoint pen—and slammed it down into her hand. “Agh!” Tasha cried out, releasing my wrist. Blood immediately pooled on her skin. I used the opportunity to sprint toward the back kitchen. “You little bastard! You stabbed me!” Tasha’s eyes were bloodshot. She grabbed a chair and chased after me. Just as she was about to tackle me, the shop door was kicked open with a thunderous CRASH. A slender figure in a tailored black suit stormed in and delivered a vicious, textbook-perfect roundhouse kick to Tasha’s stomach. Tasha flew backward like a sack of rocks, smashing into the wall, where she collapsed, groaning. I stared, utterly stunned, at the woman who was now standing between us. It was Laney Croft. Why was she here? How did she have that kind of strength? Laney calmly smoothed the fabric of her skirt and looked down at Tasha. Her voice was pure ice. “You dare cause a scene in my territory? Do you have a death wish?” Tasha recognized the danger. Her fear was palpable. She scrambled to her feet and fled, tripping over herself. The shop fell silent. Laney slowly turned, her focus landing on me. I instinctively flinched. She didn’t move. She just pulled a pack of tissues from her pocket and tossed it to me. “Wipe your face. You’re filthy.” I caught the tissues and murmured a thank you. “Don’t read too much into it.” Her voice was as remote as ever. “You’re Grant’s property. If something happens to you, he’ll be inconvenienced.” “I just don’t want to deal with his complaints.” Of course. I gave a dry, self-deprecating smile. Any absurd flutter of hope died instantly. “I understand, Ms. Croft. Thank you.” My replacement arrived. I gathered my belongings and prepared to leave. Laney followed me. “Get in. I’m heading to Grant’s place anyway. I can drop you off.” Before I could refuse, she unlocked the passenger door and gave me an unyielding look. I had no choice. I got into the passenger seat. 9 The silence in the car was heavy. Laney didn’t remember. But we had met years ago. I was fifteen. My parents had divorced, remarried, and neither wanted the burden of a teenage son. I was kicked out and living on the street. That night, I was huddled outside a corner bodega, starving. I needed fifty dollars for a textbook fee the next day, and I was completely broke. I tried asking the local pizza joint if they needed a dishwasher, but the owner waved me off. “Beat it, kid. You’re bad for business.” Just as I was sinking into despair, a clear, crisp voice spoke behind me. “How much do you need?” I looked back. A girl in a private school uniform was standing there, holding a bottle of water, looking down at me. Laney Croft back then had none of the ice she carried now. She was clean and luminous—an angel. I sniffled. “Fifty dollars.” She pulled a hundred-dollar bill from her wallet and handed it to me. “Keep the change.” I froze, shaking my head violently. “No, I can’t take charity.” I ran into the bodega, got the bill broken, and ran back, handing her the fifty-dollar change. “Consider it a loan. I will pay you back.” I gathered my courage and asked, “What’s your name?” She took the money back, smiled faintly, and said, “Delaney Croft.” That single smile lit up my entire gray, desolate adolescence. Unfortunately, she had long forgotten the desperate, dirty boy outside the deli. Now, her focus, her affection, was entirely on Grant Harrington. The light turned red. The car stopped. Laney picked up her phone, her elegant fingers tapping away at the screen. The next second, my phone, in my pocket, vibrated.

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It was three a.m. I’d just managed to settle the baby, my entire body aching, when I picked up my phone and scrolled past a post on a daddy-forum: [URGENT! Girlfriend is pushing hard. How to divorce my wife while she’s still breastfeeding?] A few jokers had commented below: [Tough luck, buddy. The law protects the ‘lactating liabilities’ until the milk dries up. You’d need her to file first.] The phrase lactating liabilities made my stomach clench with cold, physiological revulsion. I was about to close the app when I saw an unusually detailed reply. [Pro-tip: Take your paternity leave and go on a two-week trip with your parents. Wait for her to hit rock bottom from solo-parenting exhaustion. When you file, everyone will just assume she’s suffering from postpartum psychosis.] An ice-cold shiver crawled up my spine. Just hours ago, my husband, Adam, had finalized the tickets for a trip next week—a “paternity leave” vacation to The Caribbean to attend his sister’s ‘graduation.’ I turned my head to look at Adam, who was deeply asleep next to me, and in that instant, I made a decision. Later, I would recall this moment. Much later, when he was begging me on his knees. 1 Adam dropped the trip bombshell during dinner. The incision from my C-section was throbbing, a dull ache beneath the mesh maternity underwear. “Can’t we wait until I’ve finished the first six weeks?” I asked quietly. His face instantly clouded over. “Claire! How can you be so selfish! My parents have been looking forward to Madison’s ceremony for years!” I wanted to laugh. His sister, Madison, a twenty-something with no ambition, had used their parents’ retirement savings to get a vanity degree abroad. The one-year course had been creatively stretched into three. I took a deep breath, trying to be reasonable. “I just had major abdominal surgery. I was counting on you to take your paternity leave and help me.” “Then have your mother come help,” he waved a dismissive hand. “You’re an only child; it’s the least she can do.” My heart sank. My parents had bankrolled so much for our little family. They’d even put down the deposit for a swanky postpartum retreat for me, which Adam’s mom, Sharon, had insisted we cancel. She’d promised she could “handle the baby care,” and they took the cash instead. Now, they’d banked the money and still expected my mother to step in. The issue caused tension that night. When our daughter, Zoe, cried, Adam pretended to be asleep, pulling the covers over his head. When Zoe’s wails continued, Sharon, sleeping in the guest room, didn’t bother knocking before storming into our bedroom. “Claire! What are you doing?” I scrambled to pull the blanket higher over my chest. “Mom, I’m nursing Zoe. Could you knock next time, please?” Sharon glared at the baby in my arms and scoffed. “A girl, and you treat her like the Duchess of Cambridge! Just quiet her down, don’t wake my son! This household relies on his income, you know!” I scoffed internally. Adam made about eighty thousand a year, but half of it went straight to his sister’s upkeep. The rest was sunk into his car payment and eating out. I hadn’t seen a single cent go into the joint account. Whenever I dared ask him to buy diapers or formula, he’d lecture me about being financially irresponsible and frivolous. The sad irony? My own seventy-thousand salary covered the mortgage (which my parents gifted us the downpayment for), the utilities, and the $300 monthly allowance for his mom. Suppressing a surge of anger, I forced a question: “Mom, could you maybe pitch in and mix a bottle of formula for me?” Sharon instantly exploded. “Formula? What are you, made of money? Why aren’t you just breastfeeding? It’s free!” I inhaled slowly. “I’m not producing enough. Zoe is still hungry.” Sharon wrinkled her nose in distaste. “Fine. But I have to go pack for the trip.” As soon as she left, I reached for Adam’s phone on the nightstand. The passcode was still our wedding anniversary. I checked his main social media and messaging apps, finding nothing immediately incriminating. But the original poster mentioned his girlfriend was “pushing hard.” Maybe it wasn’t Adam? I changed tactics and searched for anything related to Madison. Madison’s Instagram was wide open: endless photos of parties, shopping sprees, and exotic trips. I scrolled through them one by one. Finally, three months back, in a set of photos from a beach vacation, I saw the flicker of something wrong. It was a casual shot of Madison and another girl, arms around each other, laughing at the camera. My eyes snagged on the other girl’s wrist. She was wearing a watch—the limited-edition automatic I’d saved up for a year to buy Adam for his birthday. He’d practically cried when I gave it to him. “Honey! I’m the luckiest man in the world!” Now, that watch was on a stranger’s arm. I zoomed in, carefully studying the girl’s face. She was beautiful, with the bright, carefree radiance of someone who had never had to worry about a thing. I saved the photo. 2 The next morning, Adam grimaced and rolled over at the sound of Zoe’s cries. “Claire, feed her.” In the past, I would have instantly pushed through the pain of my episiotomy stitches and felt a wave of guilt for disturbing his rest. But today, I just lay there, my expression calm. “My stitches are too sore, I can’t move. Go warm up the pumped milk in the fridge. The bottle sterilizer has a clean one.” Adam froze. He hadn’t expected me to delegate a task so directly. He paused for a few seconds before reluctantly dragging himself out of bed. “Why are your stitches suddenly bothering you? You were fine yesterday.” “Postpartum recovery is a roller coaster, darling,” I lowered my eyes, masking the cold steel in my gaze. “Thank you for helping, honey.” That last sentence seemed to appease him, easing the resentment in his movements. He fumbled clumsily through warming and feeding the milk. I watched him from the bed. Sunlight streamed through a gap in the blackout curtains, illuminating the dust motes in the air. Everything looked normal. But I knew: something had irrevocably shattered. After the feeding, Adam went back to scrolling on his phone. Holding a now quiet Zoe, I began my careful probing. “Is the Caribbean trip all sorted? Have Mom and Dad finished packing? Do you want me to look over their lists?” Adam didn’t look up, his thumb flying across the screen. “It’s all handled. Don’t worry about it, just focus on your recovery.” A faint smile played on his lips, and it was excruciatingly irritating. “What’s the exact address for Maddie’s ceremony? I’ll send her a care package—some nice treats from home. I bet she’s homesick,” I continued, my voice gentle. Adam’s scrolling finger paused for a fraction of a second. His tone, however, remained casual. “Don’t bother. She can buy anything she needs there. Besides, we’re taking her tons of stuff.” “Oh, really? Like what? I’m looking for ideas for later.” He sounded impatient now, finally looking up at me, a slight furrow in his brow. “Just some clothes, snacks, toiletries. Why the sudden interest in Maddie today?” I laughed inwardly. I used to genuinely treat his sister like my own. I never questioned the money transfers or the extravagant gifts. Now, I realized my foolishness. That money hadn’t been just for her. “No reason. We’re family. A little concern is appropriate.” I smiled, dropping the subject. Over the next few days, I became abnormally compliant and considerate, offering no further objections to the trip. The night before they left, Adam spent a very long time in the bathroom. The water rushed, drowning out any other sound. I stood outside the door with Zoe, seeing only his vague, shifting shape through the frosted glass. Hah. He was probably reporting the itinerary to the “girlfriend who’s pushing hard.” A dull ache settled in my chest, but mostly, I felt numb. I silently walked away and pulled the property deed and the pre-nuptial agreement from the back of the bedroom dresser. This apartment was bought outright by my parents with their life savings; it was my separate pre-marital property. Adam’s family had symbolically contributed some money toward renovation costs, but my name was the only one on the title. I traced the raised lettering on the cover. A plan, clean and sharp, crystallized in my mind. 3 The day they left, Adam dragged two enormous suitcases. His parents were dressed to the nines, their faces beaming with the undisguised euphoria of escaping childcare. “Okay, honey, we’re off. Take good care of yourself and the baby.” Adam gave me a perfunctory hug at the door. I resisted the urge to push him away instantly. Sharon also offered a hand-squeeze, an act of false comfort. “Claire, you’ve been a star. We’ll be back as soon as Madison’s ceremony is over.” I smiled and nodded. “Maddie’s graduation is a huge deal. I can handle things here. You all deserve a good vacation.” Adam looked at me, a flicker of something complicated in his eyes, quickly replaced by the relief of his impending freedom. He practically bolted out the door, not even bothering to glance back at the stroller where Zoe lay. You won’t blame me, Adam. I thought. I gave you one last chance to say goodbye to your daughter. As soon as the door clicked shut, I called the real estate agent downstairs. “Whoa, Claire,” the agent, Mike, sounded surprised. “Didn’t your husband already have my contact info? Why are you calling me?” I froze. My eyes narrowed instantly. “What do you mean? What did my husband contact you about?” “Adam called a few days ago to ask for a rush-sale quote on the condo. I told him to hold off, the market’s flat right now.” My heart turned to ice. Adam wasn’t just planning to leave me; he was already trying to liquidate my assets. “Yes, it is a rush sale,” I said, my voice steady. “Arrange a viewing as soon as possible.” Mike glanced at the baby in my arms. “Got it. I’ll send the paperwork to Adam’s WhatsApp later.” I cut him off. “No. Text it to me. He’s traveling internationally with his parents right now, so he won’t be checking his phone.” Mike raised an eyebrow in shock. “He’s traveling internationally? He left you alone right after giving birth?” I gave a dry, self-mocking smile. The thing that shocked an outsider was utterly normal to his family. After Mike left, I called my best friend, Jenna, who was a sharp family lawyer. “I have a case for you. A slam dunk: A divorce during the post-recovery period.” Jenna was immediately confident. “Absolutely. Who in their right mind picks a fight with a woman who’s just had a baby?” Seeing my silence, she sensed the gravity of the situation. “Wait—is it you?” I gave a wry chuckle. “Yep. Adam cheated. And planned my isolation.” Jenna gasped and immediately ordered me to stay put while she raced over. I was exhausted from solo-parenting when she arrived. Seeing her familiar, trustworthy face, I finally broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. Jenna simultaneously consoled me and cursed Adam’s entire lineage. “That pathetic loser! How dare he betray you! Did he forget the lengths he went to convince you to marry him?” Adam and I had been college sweethearts. I was the good student, from the affluent family, with a string of admirers. Adam was the most unremarkable of them all. But he was persistent and seemed so devoted. When I had the flu, he ran to a dozen pharmacies to find my specific medication. When I had appendicitis, he carried me to the hospital, running for over an hour. It was these small acts of devotion that ultimately won me over. Now, at my most vulnerable, he was plotting to discard me. I took a deep breath, pulling myself out of the crushing emotional tide. “Jenna, I need you to do two things for me.” 4 While I waited for Jenna’s investigation results, I was impossibly busy. On one hand, I was a single parent to a newborn—dealing with the agonizing pain of engorgement and fragmented sleep. On the other, I was a real estate shark—working closely with the agent, coordinating viewings, and negotiating with buyers. My price was significantly below market value, and the title was clean. I quickly secured multiple cash offers. Meanwhile, I began swiftly packing up Zoe’s things and mine. Laughably, everything Zoe and I owned fit into a single suitcase. When Zoe was born, I’d wanted to buy a simple changing table. Adam had called me high-maintenance. Sharon had chimed in, saying I had “princess airs but not the princess budget.” I was dumbfounded. I was an only child from an affluent family whose parents had bought us a million-dollar condo. How was that not a princess budget? As for Adam’s and his parents’ belongings, I called a professional moving company and had everything boxed, cataloged, and donated to Goodwill or hauled away as trash. Three days later, Jenna sent me an encrypted file. I opened it: clear flight manifests, hotel reservation records, credit card statements, and a series of photos. The flight destination was Bangkok, Thailand, with a connecting flight to Phuket. They had never set foot in the States. The hotel was a high-end resort in Phuket—a sea-view villa. The reservation was under Adam Adams and his parents and Madison. But on the check-in day, a fourth guest was added, with an extra charge. The consumption receipts showed couples’ spa treatments, romantic dinners, and even a chartered private snorkeling trip for two. The photos were slightly grainy but unmistakable. Adam, in a floral shirt, his arm around a girl’s waist, laughing as they shared a coconut. Another photo showed Sharon and Gary, Adam’s parents, sitting on beach chairs, smiling warmly at their son and the girl, who were playing on a jet ski nearby. They looked as close as a prospective daughter-in-law. Jenna’s summary: “Brooke Linton, 25, unemployed, friend of Madison’s from her overseas stint. Frequent contact with Adam for the past six months. Madison was the facilitator.” A violent wave of nausea hit me. I ran to the bathroom and retched until I was dizzy. It wasn’t morning sickness; it was pure, physiological disgust. Afterward, I splashed cold water on my face and looked at the woman in the mirror: pale, slightly swollen, dark circles under my eyes, clothing stained with breast milk. I wiped my face and went back to the living room. The best cash offer was accepted. The deed transfer was expedited. I signed all the paperwork. A week later, Adam and his parents returned, lugging huge shopping bags, their faces glowing from the vacation. They pushed open the door and found a strange couple standing in their living room. Adam was stunned. “Who are you? Why are you in my apartment?” The new owner held up the deed. “The previous owner sold the place to us.” Adam snatched the paper, saw the new name on the title, and his face instantly went white. Sharon shrieked. “This is impossible! This is our home!” Just then, the doorbell rang. “Delivery for Adam Adams.” Adam ripped open the envelope, pulling out a Divorce Petition. My phone instantly exploded with calls and messages from him: “Claire, where are you?” “What did you do with the apartment?” “I’m sorry, let me explain…” “Please, just give me one more chance…”

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I am Riley. I’m known as the walking, breathing, human bad omen. The kind of person whose bad luck is so potent, a stray dog will trip over its own shadow just passing me on the street. My best friend, Sadie, who I’d been attached to since kindergarten, got sweet-talked into a “crypto investment” scheme that turned out to be a Pig Butchering compound in Southeast Asia. She called me, crying, begging me to find a way to get her out. To save her, I walked straight into the lion’s den, offering myself up as the next mark. On my first day at the compound, The Apex, the small-time thug assigned to watch me slipped on a patch of dry concrete and shattered his kneecap. A compound fracture. The next day, the supervisor tried to force me into the server room to learn how to run the scam. The moment my finger touched the keyboard, the entire network system went dark, the main transformer blew sky-high, and the sky lit up with fire. On the third day, the sector boss, far from punishing me, decided to reward me. He’d barely dropped his trousers when the rusty ceiling fan above his head broke free and swung down, severing his… well, let’s just say it earned him an emergency trip to the med bay. In three short days, the compound was chaos—alarms blaring, walls crumbling, and everyone running around like headless chickens. A month later, the head of the whole operation called the international police hotline himself. I heard the sobbing on the line. “Officer, please! I’m begging you, come and get this walking disaster and her friend! We surrender! We confess!” … 1 Inside the main office of The Apex compound. Viper, the operation’s manager, gripped the phone receiver so hard his knuckles were white. His face was etched with sheer terror. “Hello?! Hello!! Don’t hang up! Sir! I’m serious!” “I am a scam artist! I’m trying to confess! I have two hundred victims locked up here! I’ll give you everything!” “I only have one condition: you need to send a private jet—no, send a rocket—to take the woman we call Riley, the Plague, off my hands!” “The faster the better! We’ll pay the travel expenses! Double the rate!!” A voice came through the receiver: “Sir, impersonating a wanted felon to report a false emergency is a crime.” “And try to make up a more believable story. A scammer offering to buy the victim’s ticket? Do you think we’re idiots?” The dial tone hummed. “Son of a—!!!” Viper slammed the desk phone onto the ground. Screeeech— A shard of the receiver bounced into a live socket. A flash of blue light, and the massive fish tank boomed, shattering. Several expensive Asian Arowana fish flopped desperately on the wet floor. Viper shrieked, scrambling onto the genuine leather sofa to escape the chaos. “See?” I took a slow sip of my tea, sitting calmly in the chair across from him. “I told you. I have the Jinx. A built-in, inverse causality engine. You didn’t believe me, and you tried to call the cops on yourselves.” “Now look. Even the authorities think you’re insulting their intelligence.” Viper spun around, his eyes shot through with red veins. In the past three days, I wanted ice water, the ice machine exploded; I needed to use the restroom, the sewage backed up and flooded the cafeteria; I wanted to watch the evening news, the satellite dish fell off the roof and crashed through the finance office. “Riley…” Viper gritted his teeth, his hand instinctively reaching for the pistol tucked into his waistband, but he hesitated, then drew it back. “Fine. You don’t want to leave, do you?” Viper took a deep, shuddering breath. “Then you won’t. Get her! Throw her in the Pit! The lowest level!” “That sub-level dungeon is nothing but mud and dead men. There is no way you can tear down the compound from there! Lock her up until she rots!!” The door slammed open. Rattler, a one-eyed enforcer limping on a crutch, stormed in with a few of his men. “Viper, she’s mine!” Rattler fixed his one good eye on me. “This bitch broke my leg! Before she goes to the Pit, I’m collecting some interest!” He advanced on me, swinging a leather whip embedded with steel barbs. “Rattler, don’t be stupid! Just take her…” Viper tried to warn him. I sighed, setting down my teacup. “Rattler, if I were you, I wouldn’t swing that whip.” “Shut your damn mouth! I’m going to carve that smug look right off your face!” Rattler swung his arm in a wide arc, the whip cutting the air as it screamed toward my face. I didn’t move. I counted to “Three.” Snap! The tip of the whip hooked onto the massive crystal chandelier hanging from the ceiling. The hanging bracket instantly snapped. CRASH!! The chandelier plummeted, smashing directly onto Rattler’s head. Rattler didn’t even manage a cry. He was instantly buried under a mountain of broken glass and twisted metal. His exposed legs twitched twice, then went still. The office went silent. The lackeys stood frozen, mouths agape. Viper remained perched on the sofa, his face a ghostly white. “Get…” He pointed a frantic finger at the doorway. “Get her out of here… get her out now!! She is a goddamn monster!!” “Don’t touch her! Use the riot poles! Keep your distance!!” A chaotic struggle ensued. A squad in padded riot gear pushed me out of the office using two-meter-long poles. As I was being prodded away, I gave a small wave to Viper. “Oh, and… remember to fix the fish tank. That exposed wiring is a fire hazard.” “GET OUT!!!” Viper’s roar echoed behind me, followed by another muffled CRASH. … The Pit was located on the third sub-level. The iron door groaned open, and a wave of putrid stench washed over me. “Get in, you little freak!” A guard shoved me with a pole into the pitch-black, fetid water and quickly slammed the door shut. Splash! The dirty water rose past my knees. I found my footing, and from the darkest corner, I heard a faint whimper. “Riley…?” The voice was hauntingly familiar. I whipped my head around, using the dim hallway light filtering through the bars to make out the figure huddled in the corner. It was Sadie. Sadie, who was pathologically obsessed with her appearance, was huddled in the muck. She was covered in bruises, her face so swollen I barely recognized her, and she was desperately clutching half a piece of moldy bread. The fury inside me spiked to a boiling point. “Sadie!” My throat choked up. I rushed over and pulled her into a tight hug. “Why are you so stupid!” Sadie sobbed hysterically into my shoulder. “I told you to call the police! Why did you come here? They’ll kill you!” “I did call,” I said, stroking her back. “But the police said a cross-border raid takes time. I was afraid you wouldn’t last that long, so I came to check in.” “What good is checking in! This is a death wish!” Sadie cried harder. “It’s okay,” I wiped the mud from her face. “I have my little… thing. Remember?” Sadie paused, the memory of all the bizarre, unbelievable incidents that had surrounded me since childhood flashing through her mind. Like in middle school, when the teacher made me go on stage to read a poem, and the moment I opened my mouth, the entire stage collapsed. Or in high school, when I tried to sneak into a sketchy internet cafe for an all-nighter, but before I could even open the door, the police raided and shut the place down. “But… this is different. They have guns…” Sadie pointed desperately at the guards outside the iron bars. We weren’t the only ones in the Pit. There was a man with a broken leg, Ben, who was tricked into construction work. And a young college student with glasses, Trevor, locked up for failing to meet his coding quota. They watched me with dull, vacant eyes. “Save your breath, newbie,” Ben leaned against the wall, his voice a hoarse whisper. “Once you’re in the Pit, you’re just waiting to die. See those wires up there? If they feel like it, they’ll turn on the juice, and we all become grilled fish.” I looked up at the few frayed wires dangling precariously above the water. I sighed and spoke to Ben with complete sincerity. “Try not to be too pessimistic, man. In my experience, if they try to electrocute us, the transformer will most likely explode first, or the guard flipping the switch will be the one who gets shocked. The people who try to hurt me usually end up leaving faster.” Ben stared at me like I was a complete lunatic. The words had barely left my mouth. The iron door above the Pit was pulled open. A drunken guard, reeking of stale booze, unzipped his fly, ready to relieve himself down below. “Here you go, you little pigs! Drink the General’s holy water! Hahahahaha!” Ben and Trevor swallowed their rage, bowing their heads in humiliation. Sadie screamed, burrowing herself deeper into my arms. I frowned, a knot of pure disgust tightening in my stomach as I looked at the guard. The next second, a piercing scream sliced through the night. “AH!! It’s stuck!! It’s stuck!!!” The guard’s hand jerked, and the liquor bottle he was holding smashed onto his toe. He slipped on the wet floor and fell headfirst into the Pit. Plop! He landed right next to the drooping electric wires. The water splashed the wires, creating a shower of blue sparks. “Er-er-er-er…” The guard thrashed and convulsed wildly in the water, his eyes rolling back. Luckily, he landed far enough away that by the time the current reached us, we only felt a slight, buzzing tingle. Sadie and I were completely unharmed. The guard, however, started foaming at the mouth in seconds, passing out cold. His face was submerged in the sewage, bubbling faintly. The Pit went utterly silent. Ben’s jaw dropped, nearly dislocating. Trevor adjusted his bent glasses, pointing a trembling finger at me. “Th-that… was you too?” I shrugged, a look of innocence on my face. “He just wasn’t careful. See? Bad intent meets bad karma. That’s just how the universe works.” The unconscious guard in the water, while satisfying, also spelled serious trouble. Not long after, the changing shift noticed something was wrong and the alarm instantly blared. “Escape! An attempted escape!!” The piercing siren echoed throughout the compound. The iron door was brutally kicked open. A dozen powerful flashlights blinded us. This time, it wasn’t just thugs. The crowd parted, and a middle-aged man in a traditional Chinese-style jacket, spinning two iron walnuts in his hand, strolled in. Behind him were Viper and a company of heavily armed mercenaries. This was the compound’s true power, the actual behind-the-scenes boss: Silas Blackwood. Silas looked at the guard floating in the water, then at me, and grinned. “Interesting.” His voice was gravelly. “Pull the body out. As for the others, take them all to the main yard.” We were herded to the main courtyard. It was late at night, but the compound was lit up like a football stadium. Hundreds of “marks” were violently woken up and forced to stand around the perimeter to witness the execution. Silas sat on a massive armchair, idly toying with a golden Desert Eagle handgun. “I am a man who believes in fate the most, and yet, I believe in fate the least.” Silas pointed the muzzle of the gun at me. “I hear you’re the Walking Calamity? The jinx who killed several of my best men?” I stood in the cold wind, shielding the trembling Sadie behind me, meeting his gaze directly. “Mr. Blackwood, some things are better left believed than dismissed.” “Hahahahaha!” Silas roared with laughter, then instantly dropped his expression, his face darkening. “Go to hell with your bad luck! In this world, I am God! I am fate!” He made a sharp gesture. Two mercenaries rushed forward and grabbed Sadie. “Let go of me! Riley! Help me!!” Sadie struggled wildly. “Stop!” I tried to lunge forward, but two gun barrels were instantly pressed against my temples. Silas grabbed a fistful of Sadie’s hair, pressing the muzzle of the Desert Eagle against her temple. “Riley, is it?” Silas grinned viciously, his finger resting on the trigger. “You think you’re such a jinx? Come on! Jinx me now! Let’s see whose luck runs out faster—your bad mojo, or my bullet!” Sadie’s face was white, tears streaming silently down her cheeks. “Riley… don’t worry about me… run…” Watching this, I clenched my fists. “Silas.” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to remain calm. “I’m a jinx, not a monster. The debt is between you and me. You want to kill someone? Kill me. Let her go.” “You don’t get to bargain with me!” Silas roared, “Get on your knees!!” BANG! He fired a shot into the air. “Kneel! Or the next bullet blows her brains out!” Sadie shook her head frantically, her eyes full of pleading. “No… Riley, have some backbone… don’t kneel for this scum…” “Beat her!” Silas gave the command. A mercenary next to him slammed the butt of his rifle into Sadie’s back. Pugh! Sadie gasped, spitting out a mouthful of blood, collapsing limply to the ground. “Sadie!!” My eyes burned with fury. “I’ll kneel!” I ground my teeth, bending my knees. If it meant saving Sadie’s life, my pride was meaningless. But. I looked up, staring intently at Silas, my eyes icy cold. “Silas, I truly did not want to kneel.” “This bow is too heavy for you to bear.” “It’ll take years off your life.” My knees slammed hard onto the rough ground. In that moment. It felt like a shackle snapping. “Hahahahaha! Look, everyone! The Jinx is kneeling!” Silas roared with laughter. “What causality engine, what walking calamity? When faced with my gun, you’re all just dogs on a leash!” The surrounding mercenaries and thugs joined in the mocking laughter. “Silas, now that I’ve knelt, can we discuss…” I fought back the nausea in my throat, ready to negotiate her release. “Who told you you could speak?” Silas’s face twisted in rage. He lifted his foot, and his military boot drove hard into my shoulder. Thump! I was knocked off balance, sent sprawling onto the ground, my cheek scraping painfully against the rough dirt. Before I could get back up, the military boot was planted squarely on the side of my face. “You want to save her? Fine.” Silas looked down at me, the dirt from his sole grinding against my skin. “The kneeling was for my fallen men. Now, I want you to kowtow.” “Make it loud! You knock your head, and I’ll consider letting your little friend suffer a little less.” “Don’t! Riley! Don’t listen to him! He’s an animal! He won’t let us go!” Sadie’s voice was raw with crying, but two burly men held her down, unable to move. I was prone on the ground, my mouth full of the metallic tang of blood and the earthy stench of mud. But I looked at Sadie, bruised and bleeding nearby. Even knowing he was lying, I couldn’t risk the chance that he wasn’t. “Fine.” I pushed up with my hands, slowly lifting my torso, then slammed my head down hard. Dong! One. “Oh, that wasn’t loud enough! Didn’t you eat breakfast?” Silas mocked, digging a finger into his ear. DONG!! Two. A sharp pain exploded in my forehead. Blood traced a line down my brow bone, obscuring one eye. My vision was smeared red. “Hahahahaha! Keep going! Don’t stop! You don’t stop until I tell you to!” Silas laughed hysterically. He turned, waving to his men behind him. “What are you idiots waiting for? Take out your phones and record this! Send it to the outside world! Let those clueless marks see what happens when you cross me!” I mechanically repeated the motion of slamming my head down. Until— “Alright, this is boring.” Silas suddenly kicked my ribs. I heard a distinct crack. The shattering pain made me instantly curl into a fetal position. “I’m tired of playing.” Silas accepted a cigar, took a long drag, and then flicked the smoldering ash directly onto the back of my hand. Sizzzz— The smell of burning flesh hit the air. But I still didn’t make a sound, only staring intensely at him. That look made Silas deeply uncomfortable. “Damn, that gaze is bad luck.” Silas swore, his murderous intent fully ignited. “I thought about keeping you around for a bit, but it looks like you genuinely want to die.” He waved his hand. “Bring the oil drums.” “Since this bitch’s head is so hard, let’s light them up like lanterns. Give the others a show and warm things up.” Sadie had stopped crying. She closed her eyes in despair, seeming to accept her fate. Several mercenaries leered as they dragged over cans of gasoline. I struggled to prop myself up on one elbow, my breathing ragged with blood. The blood from my forehead ran into my mouth. But I smiled. “Silas…” My voice was a raw croak. “I just knocked my head nine times.” “Nine, the number of closure. I paid the cosmic debt.” “Now, it’s yours to settle.” Silas froze for a moment, then flew into a rage. “Still talking nonsense when you’re about to die! Pour the gas! Pour it all!!” Two mercenaries lifted the drums. WHOOSH! The acrid gasoline drenched me from head to toe, stinging my cuts. At the same time, to prevent any final resistance, dozens of mercenaries raised their guns. “Send them off!” Silas grinned, clicking his lighter. In that fraction of a second, with the lighter already ignited and flying toward us— My lips curled slightly. “See you in hell, you piece of trash.” The lighter in Silas’s hand traced an arc in the air, falling towards our gasoline-soaked bodies.

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