The day my biological parents, the titans of industry who had lost me at birth, finally found me, I was already pregnant. And I had absolutely no idea who the father of the child in my belly was. They were instantly consumed by a furious shame, declaring that the bastard child had to be aborted. The Dawson family name would not be tarnished by such a scandal. Hearing this, a wild, ecstatic joy surged through me. So my family was that powerful. Powerful enough to casually dismiss the bloodline of the undisputed king of New York’s elite, Alexander Sterling himself. This was… this was perfect. 01 “Monica, hurry and get your sister a glass of water.” “And remember, from now on, you two are sisters. You must be as close as can be, treat each other well, and never let any discord between you become a source of gossip for outsiders.” My mother clutched my hand tightly, her voice heavy with meaning as she instructed the young woman beside me—the one who had been raised in my place. Monica immediately agreed, her face a perfect mask of obedience. My father and brother watched the scene of sisterly affection unfold, nodding in satisfaction. She padded over to the refrigerator, poured a glass of ice water, and carefully presented it to me. “Here you are, sister.” The moment my fingertips brushed against the frigid glass, I recoiled as if burned, a flash of embarrassment on my face. “I’m sorry, Monica… I’m pregnant. I can’t drink anything cold right now.” The smile on Monica’s face froze. Her eyes darted to my stomach with a strange, calculating look. In an instant, the air in the opulent living room seemed to die. My mother’s hand, which had been holding mine with such warmth, snatched away as if she’d touched a viper. A hollow sense of loss I couldn’t quite name began to spread from the pit of my stomach. 02 “You’re… married?” “No.” “Do you have a boyfriend, then?” “No.” “You only just graduated from high school.” “Yes.” “Then who,” my mother’s voice was dangerously low, “is the father?” “I… I don’t know.” 03 After that interrogation, a long, suffocating silence descended. The atmosphere was so heavy with judgment it made me shrink in on myself. Gone was the warmth and passion they’d shown when they first found me. Now, the gazes of my father, my mother, and my brother were like daggers, pinning me to the velvet couch. Only Monica seemed at ease, sitting quietly to the side, idly examining her own perfectly manicured nails. I found myself mesmerized by the simple, graceful movement. After a moment, I subconsciously began to mimic her, twisting my own fingers together. The small act calmed my nerves. I was so focused, I didn’t notice the storm clouds gathering on my family’s faces, their expressions turning darker by the second. Finally, my father broke the silence. His face was a mask of cold fury. “What in God’s name is that supposed to mean?” 04 My mind instantly conjured his image. Aloof and cool, a man of few words but overwhelming intensity… I only knew his first name was Alexander. I had no idea what his last name was. Our meeting, as he put it, was a complete accident. But in my eyes, it was the perfect, cliché, romantic encounter between a bartender and a billionaire. I’d been working a shift at a high-end club in Miami when he, exquisitely handsome and dead drunk, had collapsed into my arms. His hands had begun to wander, lighting fires everywhere they touched. I hadn’t been able to resist. I’d dragged him into the nearest private restroom. I assumed after that one night… we would go our separate ways. But he became a ghost. He started appearing again and again. On my walk home from work. Inside my tiny apartment. In places I never expected. Each time, he would leave his wild, possessive marks all over my body. At first, I was lost in the thrill of it. But soon, I grew afraid. I started trying to avoid him, to hide from him. But he always found me, effortlessly. He would grip my chin, his eyes burning into mine. “Why do you run?” “Aren’t you tired of me yet?” I’d whisper, trembling. He would just laugh, a cold, humorless sound, before pinning me beneath him once more. Thankfully, after a couple of weeks, he finally disappeared. I celebrated for days. I wasn’t an idiot. I had seen his Rolls-Royce, his Bentley, and a garage full of supercars whose names I didn’t even know. One of them, I think, was a Bugatti. His whole demeanor, the quiet confidence that radiated from him, screamed of a world of wealth and power I couldn’t even imagine. A man like that was never meant for someone like me. I had been lucky enough to enjoy his beautiful body for a short time. I was content with that. He’d never given me a dime, so what else was there to do? But then… I found out I was pregnant. I’ll admit, for a fleeting moment, I considered keeping the baby. Boy or girl, I knew my child would be beautiful. How could it not be, with a father that handsome? But I quickly crushed that ridiculous fantasy. This child couldn’t be born. The grandmother who had raised me was gone. How could a single mother with no family and a baby in tow ever hope to find a good husband? My life was just beginning; I didn’t want to make it a struggle. But the thought of his commanding presence, his chilling intensity, his raw, primal nature… it terrified me. What if he found out I’d gotten rid of his child without his permission? The consequences were unimaginable. I was trapped. Finally, mustering every ounce of courage I possessed, I sent him a text. I’m pregnant. Since I couldn’t decide, I would leave the choice to him. Whatever he decided, the blame wouldn’t be on me. Three days passed. He never replied. I cursed him a thousand times in my head. What a classic, heartless bastard. In a fit of anger, I blocked his number and all his social media accounts. A part of me regretted it, but it felt good to have the last word. Just as I was steeling myself to go to the clinic alone, my millionaire parents found me. They told me I was their long-lost daughter. It felt like a miracle. I imagined a new life, a better life. Which brought me to the scene in the living room. I had never intended to hide the pregnancy. When I saw the Mercedes they picked me up in, the magnificent mansion they called home, I knew the Dawsons had to be wealthy. If Alexander ever came looking for me after the abortion, I figured my new powerful family could protect me. 05 I glanced nervously at my father’s stony face, preparing to tell them everything. “Dad, I only know his first name is Alexander.” She doesn’t even know his full name? The disgust in their eyes was a physical blow. I hung my head in shame, my hands twisting in my lap. My mother took a deep, steadying breath. “What do you want to do?” I looked up, my voice urgent. “I want to get rid of it.” The tension in the room instantly evaporated. My father, mother, and brother all let out a collective, relieved sigh. “But…” I began hesitantly. My brother, Mark, cut in impatiently. “But what?” “He’s… he’s a very scary person,” I stammered. “I’m afraid…” Mark cut me off with a scornful laugh. “You grew up in some backwater town. What kind of ‘scary’ person could you possibly have met there?” My mother added proudly, “You’ve just returned, so you don’t understand our family’s standing. Here in New York, aside from a few of the old-money dynasties, there’s no one we need to fear. As long as we have the Sterlings on our side, we’re untouchable.” “Sterling… wait, his last name couldn’t be…” she started, then glanced at me and laughed at her own foolishness. A girl from the sticks and the heir to the Sterling empire? The idea was absurd. I felt their disdain, but it didn’t sting as much as it should have. I was used to it. Growing up, besides my grandmother, no one had ever looked out for me. No one respected me. As long as this new family, for the sake of their reputation, didn’t openly abuse me and gave me some spending money, it was already a thousand times better than my old life. Finally, my father made the decision. “In three days, Mark will take you to the clinic.” “You carry our family’s blood. To be found pregnant out of wedlock right after we bring you home… if word got out, it would be an utter disgrace.” I nodded. “Can’t we go tomorrow?” My father turned away, refusing to even look at me. “We have a major family event in the coming days. You’ll be attending. You’ll understand when you get there.” “Okay, Dad.” A little flutter of excitement went through me. Three more days wouldn’t make a difference. 06 “Mark, how many cars do we have?” I asked, stroking the sleek lines of the sports car in the driveway, my eyes wide with wonder. My brother preened under my admiration. “This one’s mine. A Porsche 718. Cool, right?” “Mom doesn’t like to drive. Dad has a Maybach, and Monica drives a Porsche Panamera. All together, they’re worth a few million.” I put on my most impressed face. “Wow, we’re so rich!” Mark was pleased. “You know, you’ve been behaving yourself these past couple of days. If it weren’t for…” His eyes flickered down to my stomach, and his voice went cold. “Look, when Monica gets tired of her car and wants a new one, I’ll have her give you her old one. You’re my sister, after all. Can’t have you embarrassing me when you go out.” My heart leaped. “Thank you, Mark! You’re the best!” But deep down, a seed of unease was planted. I remembered Alexander’s garage. It seemed… infinitely more impressive than my entire family’s collection combined. Stop it. Don’t think about that deadbeat. Once this baby is gone and I’ve recovered, I just need to be quiet, stay out of the way, and be grateful for the scraps they throw me. It’s better than anything I had before. As for Alexander… he was a world away in Miami. What were the chances he’d ever find me here in New York? Even if his family was richer than mine, what could he do from so far away? 07 Three days later. I was dressed in one of Monica’s old gowns, riding in her white Panamera, on our way to the five-star hotel owned by our family. Monica was breathtaking. A vibrant red couture gown, flawless makeup—she was the center of attention everywhere she went. I, standing beside her, was nothing more than a plain, forgettable shadow. “Honestly, sister, you shouldn’t even be here,” she said, her voice a low murmur. “I’m worried you’ll get nervous and make a fool of yourself. That would be a huge embarrassment for our family.” “But the news that the Dawsons found their real daughter is already out, so you have to make an appearance.” “Just remember,” she instructed, “all you have to do is smile and say as little as possible. The less you say, the fewer mistakes you’ll make. Understand?” I nodded eagerly. “Don’t worry, Monica. I’ll do exactly as you say.” Monica gave me a small, dismissive smile. She was quite pleased with the situation. She had been preparing all sorts of schemes to deal with me, the so-called ‘true heiress,’ but it turned out I had done all the work for her. Showing up pregnant by some nameless man had already destroyed my reputation with our parents. She didn’t have to lift a finger. Yesterday, our parents had assured her that I wouldn’t see a single penny of the Dawson fortune. They would support me for a few years to save face, then marry me off to a suitable business partner with a modest dowry. My return was actually a benefit to her. There was no need to be cruel. What was my name again? Oh, right. Nina. Monica continued to brief me on party etiquette, and I listened intently, trying to memorize every detail. 08 It wasn’t until we arrived that I understood the magnitude of the event. It was the engagement party for the heirs of the two most powerful families in New York. The kind of event that would dominate the society pages for weeks. And it was being held at our hotel. No wonder my father had postponed my trip to the clinic. The entire family had been working around the clock to prepare. As the car pulled up, I stared at the grand, imposing building and sighed. Nina, Nina, you really have the worst luck. To be born into all this and still manage to get lost. I told myself. Now, what wasn’t yours to begin with, you can’t have. Just save up some money, find a nice, normal guy to marry, and build a quiet life. That’s your path. With that thought, I felt a sense of peace settle over me. I consciously lowered my gaze and walked half a step behind Monica. Seeing this, Monica’s red lips curved into a satisfied smile. “Sister, I’ll wire you fifty thousand dollars later. After your procedure tomorrow, buy yourself something nice to help you recover.” “I also have a small apartment in the city. You can have it,” she added generously. “It can be overwhelming at home. If you need some peace and quiet, you can move in anytime.” A genuine, surprised smile bloomed on my face. “Monica, you’re so good to me! It’s a deal!” She seemed even more pleased with my easy compliance.

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Zombie apocalypse hit without warning. My new husband was killed before my eyes, his blood on my face as he gave me time to flee. I ran, gasping, until I found shelter in an abandoned high-rise, barely alive. Next day, my parents called. My mom was in hospital with a heart attack, they said, demanding I go care for her. Panicking, I yelled that the world was ending, streets swarmed with undead, begging them to hide. They scolded me: “Your own mother’s in hospital, and you don’t care! That’s a lie even a kid wouldn’t believe!” “What zombie apocalypse? You watch too much sci-fi!” Cold dread filled me—something was wrong. Desperate to check, I headed for the hospital. I didn’t get far. The horde saw me. I was dragged down and eaten alive, screaming till my throat broke. Then I blinked. Back in the abandoned building, when my parents first called. I had respawned. Shaking, I asked carefully: “Mom, Dad, are you safe? Anything… weird happening outside?” They sounded confused but sure: “Top private hospital—nothing can happen. Come now, Harper!” 1 Covered in grime and dried blood, shivering in the freezing, unfinished tower, I froze at their words. The urgency in my father’s voice only escalated. “You are our only daughter, Harper! When family is in crisis, you don’t just turn your back!” “And bring your credit cards. We’re short three thousand dollars for your mother’s cardiac procedure.” I stared out the panel-less window at the groaning, shuffling corpses in the street below, my knuckles turning white around my phone. How was this possible? We lived in the same city. How could I be trapped in a living hell while they were sitting comfortably in a hospital? If a zombie virus had broken out, the hospitals would have been ground zero. They should have fallen first. I swallowed hard, looking at the monsters pacing below. “Mom, Dad, it’s not safe outside!” “There are zombies everywhere where I am! Arthur… Arthur was bitten right in front of me! He’s dead!” “Are you telling me everything is completely normal on your end?!” A heavy silence hung on the line for two seconds before my father’s voice exploded in pure rage. “What kind of garbage are you spewing, you ungrateful brat!” “You just don’t want to pay the medical bills, so you’re spinning these ghost stories!” My mother’s weak, theatrical sobbing filtered through the speaker. “Harper, my sweet girl… I’m at death’s door, how can you be so heartless?” Tears of pure frustration spilled down my cheeks. “Mom, I swear to God I’m not lying!” “There are monsters outside, there is blood everywhere! Please, just lock the doors and hide!” My father was having none of it. “Still making excuses? Your mother is having a heart attack, and instead of rushing over, you invent this absurd fantasy?” “Let me make this clear. If you don’t show up today, we will disown you. We’ll pretend we never had a daughter!” I stared blankly at the glowing screen, my brain short-circuiting. Was I going insane? The rotting creatures were right there, fifty feet below me! With shaking thumbs, I opened my news feed. The headlines were about celebrity scandals, stock market surges, and a new pop star’s album release. Not a single mention of a biohazard or an apocalypse. Twitter, Instagram, TikTok. Every platform was perfectly normal, filled with influencers and cat videos. It was as if I was the only person on the planet who could see the end of the world. My father delivered his final ultimatum. “We worked our fingers to the bone to send you to college. Now that you’ve got a fancy job in Seattle, you think you’re too good for us?” “If you abandon us now, your mother and I have nothing left to live for. We’ll just refuse treatment and wait to die in this room, so we won’t be a burden to you anymore!” 2 I had no choice but to beg them not to do anything drastic. “Okay, okay, just wait for me. I’ll find a way to get there.” “Please don’t do anything reckless, I swear I’m not lying…” I barely managed to calm them down, but my family group chat was already exploding. An avalanche of aunts and uncles were tearing me to pieces. Aunt Sarah fired the first shot. “I hear Harper won’t even cover her mother’s hospital bills?” “She was always a selfish child. Look at how she turned out!” Uncle Robert chimed in right after. “Her parents treated her like a princess, and now she leaves them to rot. She’s soulless!” My cousin Jessica added her own venom. “Well, she married that rich tech CEO. She doesn’t care if the rest of us live or die.” One by one, the entire family piled on, drowning me in digital vitriol. Reading their messages, my body shook with rage. Desperate to clear my name, I initiated a video call in the group chat. I was going to point the camera out the window and show them the nightmare. Perfect timing. Below me, a pack of undead were currently tearing into a fresh corpse. The sight of the ripping flesh and spraying crimson made my stomach heave. But on the screen, my relatives pointed at the gruesome display and burst into laughter. “Oh my god, Harper, do you think we were born yesterday?” “Is this some B-movie you downloaded?” “You think playing a movie clip is going to fool us?” “You’re using cheap CGI to get out of paying a few thousand dollars? Are we a joke to you?” Hot tears of desperation streamed down my face. “This isn’t a movie! It’s real!” “They are literally right outside!” Nobody believed me. Uncle Robert sneered. “Cut the crap, Harper. Go to the billing department.” “Your mother’s heart is giving out, and you have time to play Hollywood director?” Furious, I shoved my phone out the window, panning across the devastated street. “Look closely! Look at the detail! These are real!” The street was littered with overturned cars, some still billowing black smoke. Dismembered limbs and pools of gore stained the asphalt. But Uncle Robert just barked at me. “Enough! You’re going to give your mother another stroke!” “Stop this nonsense and get to the hospital, or just start planning her funeral!” He disconnected the call. I collapsed onto the concrete floor, overwhelmed by a suffocating despair. Why didn’t anyone believe me? Had my mind completely fractured? Driven by a frantic need for validation, I uploaded the videos everywhere. Facebook, Twitter, local forums. Within minutes, my coworkers started texting me. “Harper, nice prank. The makeup effects are sick.” “But posting this stuff during work hours? HR won’t like it.” Then, my manager called. “Harper, you’ve been AWOL for two days. Have you been playing video games this whole time?” “People covered for you, saying you were sick from overtime. Clearly, we were mistaken.” “You’re fired. Come clean out your desk and get the hell out of my company.” 3 I tried to explain the quarantine, the zombies, the fact that I was barricaded in an abandoned construction site, but he just called me a lunatic and hung up. Refusing to give up, I dialed Lily, my best friend since college. I asked her to look out her window. Lily’s voice was bright and cheerful. She said it was a beautiful, sunny day in downtown Seattle. “Harper, are you under too much stress?” “Do you want me to help you find a therapist? What you’re saying is really scaring me…” My arm fell limp, the phone dropping from my ear. Lily was my soulmate. She would never gaslight me. But the bites from my past life. The memory of the teeth sinking into my neck. The blood of my husband currently crusting under my fingernails. My senses screamed that the apocalypse was real. Yet the rest of the world insisted everything was fine. Why? My phone buzzed. It was Mom. “Honey, please… please come to the hospital…” Her voice was a fragile whisper, terrifyingly weak. “The pain in my chest is unbearable. The doctors say I need the stent right now.” “But without the deposit, they won’t take me into surgery.” “You’re my only hope, Harper. Don’t let me die…” She broke down into a wretched, gasping sob. Listening to her cry, the tears I’d been fighting back finally broke free. “Mom, I’m not lying to you.” “I am in real danger!” But her crying only grew more heartbreaking. “Do you hate me, Harper?” “Is this because I was too strict with you when you were little?” “I know I made mistakes. I’ll never pressure you again.” “Just have mercy on your mother. Come see me one last time before I go.” I bit my lip so hard I tasted iron, my entire body quaking. Her words were like daggers in my chest. Doubt began to rot my certainty. Was I schizophrenic? Maybe I was having a psychotic break. Maybe there were no zombies. Maybe Arthur was still alive, and I had hallucinated his death. I pinched my arm, digging my nails in. It hurt. I looked out the window. The monsters were still there, gnawing on bones. They were real. But why was I the only one who could see them? To find the truth, I had to bet my life. I had to go to that hospital. If I was crazy, they could lock me up. If I wasn’t, at least I would die knowing what was real. I took a deep, shuddering breath and spoke into the phone. “Hold on, Mom. I’m coming.” Her sobs quieted into breathless relief. “Okay… okay, Mommy’s waiting…” Before leaving, I scavenged. I found heavy-duty construction canvas and duct tape, wrapping my arms and legs in makeshift bite armor. I gripped a rusted steel pipe tightly in my hands. To anyone normal, I looked like a deranged patient escaping an asylum. But I knew I wasn’t crazy. 4 I crept out of the unfinished building. The air was thick with the metallic tang of blood and decay. Every step was calculated. The undead had hypersensitive hearing. The crunch of gravel could be a death sentence. Weaving through back alleys, I relied on the muscle memory of my past death, avoiding the choke points that had doomed me before. But as I neared the city center, the horde grew too dense. There were no blind spots left. Just as a pack of biters cornered me in a dead-end alley, a manhole cover at my feet slid open. Another survivor. The creatures lunged, their jaws snapping inches from my face. In a blur of motion, the man grabbed my ankle and yanked me down into the darkness. The heavy iron cover slammed shut above us. The screeching and clawing against the metal echoed above. I leaned against the damp brick wall, hyperventilating. The man stared at me in disbelief. “Are you suicidal? Running toward the city center alone?” “That’s where the infestation is the worst!” He looked to be in his thirties, wearing grease-stained maintenance coveralls. I looked at him, and a wave of pure euphoria crashed over me. My mind wasn’t broken! This was real! At least one other person in this godforsaken world saw the monsters too. “You see them, right? The zombies!” I grabbed his arm, my voice trembling with manic relief. He recoiled. “What kind of question is that? The streets are flooded with those freaks. A blind man could see them.” I nearly collapsed in gratitude. “But I called my family! My friends! They all said the world was fine! They said I was hallucinating!” The man furrowed his brow, confused. “Where is your family?” “Seattle General. My mom’s having a heart attack. I have to get there.” I reached for my phone to show him the texts, but the battery was dead. The man fell silent, shaking his head grimly. “Hospitals were ground zero. They’re dead zones now. No living souls left.” “I’m telling you, don’t throw your life away.” But I couldn’t stop. “I have to. She’s waiting for me.” He looked at me with a mix of pity and frustration. “Did you not hear me? The hospital is a slaughterhouse! Your mother is either a corpse or one of them! You can’t save her!” I offered him a sad smile, thanked him for saving me, and ventured alone into the subterranean labyrinth. I had to see the truth for myself. Using the sewers, I bypassed the blockades and surfaced right outside the hospital gates. Just as I climbed out, the hospital’s glass doors shattered. A horde of patients in pale blue hospital gowns poured out, their guttural roars piercing the air. The stench of rotting flesh hit me like a physical blow. They were sprinting toward me. I hesitated, considering retreating into the sewers. If I stayed, I would repeat my brutal demise. But then, my eyes locked onto their clothes. I noticed the pattern of the dried blood. In that split second, my brain detonated. I finally understood why this apocalypse had happened.

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When I was ten, my parents died in a car crash. They were on their way to pick my brother up from prison. At the wake, I stared at the man kneeling before their caskets, his forehead pressed to the floor. It was my brother, Cole, freshly released after a five-year sentence. I ran at him, shoving him with all my might. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t been in prison, they wouldn’t have gone to get you! They would still be alive!” Cole staggered from the force of my push but didn’t look up. He just pressed his head harder against the cold floor. From that day on, I never called him brother again. 1 My mother kept her treasures in a small metal box. As a child, my curiosity was a force of nature. I waited until the house was empty and pried it open. Inside, there was only a single, yellowed ultrasound report. The report read: [Cord Blood Match Successful. Donor: Fetus. Recipient: Cole Anderson (Firstborn Son)] Cole was my brother, fifteen years my senior. For as long as I could remember, he had been in prison. My parents never spoke of his crime. But every time they came back from a visit, my mother’s eyes were swollen shut, and my father would chain-smoke on the porch all night, enveloped in a silent, suffocating cloud. Before I turned ten, my entire concept of my brother was a blurry name, a stranger who made my parents weep, and the sole reason for my existence. Yes, I knew. I wasn’t a child born of my parents’ love; I was proof of their love for him. My mother had a weak constitution. She risked a late-in-life pregnancy for one reason: Cole had leukemia, and the only thing that could save him was the cord blood of a newborn sibling. The day I was born, my brother’s transplant was a success. And I became a “useful tool” in our family’s home. But fate has a twisted sense of humor. The golden child, wrapped in all my parents’ devotion, committed a crime so terrible it landed him in prison. I was five years old. I have no memory of what he did. It didn’t matter. What mattered was that I was finally promoted from “tool” to their one and only child. That bliss didn’t last. The year I turned ten, Cole was released. My parents left early that morning, their faces bright with hope, ready to give their son a new beginning. Then the call came. A truck with failed brakes had slammed into their sedan. My father died on impact. My mother held on until she got to the hospital, where she used her last breath to tell me one thing: “Anna, sweetie, take care of your brother.” I didn’t understand. Why was I, a child, being asked to care for him? I was the one who needed to be taken care of. Before I could argue, her eyes fluttered shut for the last time. At the funeral home, I looked from the stiff smiles on my parents’ black-and-white portraits to the strange man kneeling before their coffins—the brother I hadn’t seen in five years. He knocked his head against the concrete, a rhythmic, sickening thud. Blood seeped from his forehead, mixing with his tears. Relatives whispered behind their hands, their pitying glances like needles on my skin. “Poor thing, an orphan at her age…” “And now she has to live with a killer. What kind of life will that be?” I balled my fists, my nails digging into my palms. That’s when I charged him. “This is your fault! If you hadn’t been in prison, they wouldn’t have been driving to get you! They wouldn’t be dead!” Cole swayed but didn’t look up. He just knocked his head harder against the unforgiving floor. The night after the burial, Cole found me sitting in the dark living room. He wore my father’s old, ill-fitting clothes. His eyes were sunken, making him look like a walking skeleton. “Anna,” he said, his voice a dry rasp. He reached out to touch my hair. I flinched away. “Don’t touch me,” I said. His hand froze in midair, then slowly fell to his side. 2 We lived in a small town where secrets were a foreign concept. Everyone’s business was everyone else’s entertainment. Soon, the whole town knew the story: Cole Anderson was back from prison. A murderer. Not only a degenerate but a bad omen who’d gotten his own parents killed. And his little sister, Anna, was now stuck with him. When I went back to school, my homeroom teacher paused during roll call, her eyes lingering on me. “Anna, I know things are difficult at home. If you need anything, please talk to me.” Every head in the classroom swiveled to stare at me. During recess, a group of boys surrounded my desk, smirking. “Hey Anna, did your brother really kill someone?” “How’d he do it? With a knife or a rope?” “Are you gonna kill someone too?” I buried my head in my arms and pretended I couldn’t hear them. On the way home, girls from the next class over pointed at me. “That’s her. The one whose brother was in jail.” “Stay away from her. The sister of a killer can’t be any good.” I ran home and threw my backpack on the floor. Cole was in the kitchen, fumbling with an egg, wearing one of our mom’s old aprons. “You’re back?” He turned, forcing a smile. “Dinner’s almost ready. I made your favorite, noodle soup with an egg.” I stared at his face, which looked so much like our father’s, and something inside me snapped. “Why did you come back?! Why didn’t you just die in there?! Do you have any idea what people are saying about me? They call me the murderer’s sister!” The water in the pot boiled over, hissing on the stove. Steam blurred his face. He turned off the heat, his back to me, his shoulders trembling slightly. After a long time, he finally spoke. “…I’m sorry.” That night, I heard him crying in the living room. It was a suppressed, wounded sound, like an animal caught in a trap. I didn’t go out. I hugged my mother’s pillow and told myself: I hate him. I owed him no understanding, no sympathy. If it weren’t for him, my parents would be alive. If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be the town freak. He was the one who needed my blood to live, and this was how he repaid me, by dragging my life through the mud. I was done with him. I hated him. 3 Cole started working. He hauled bricks on a construction site during the day and bussed tables at a diner at night. After that, he’d come home and glue cardboard boxes for a local factory until dawn. His health was poor, likely a side effect of his transplant. He coughed constantly, and his face was always pale. But every cent he earned, he spent on me: a new backpack, new clothes, even the expensive novels I’d mentioned offhand. I had to admit, he was taking good care of me. But the world I lived in was still a swamp. In eighth grade, I placed first in my class. For the parent-teacher conference, he borrowed a decent shirt and combed his hair neatly. The moment he walked into the classroom, the whispering started. “Is that Anna Anderson’s brother?” “He looks so quiet. You’d never guess…” “It’s not like they have ‘murderer’ tattooed on their foreheads.” He kept his head down the entire time, his hands clenched tightly on his knees. On the way home, I walked behind him, watching his slightly stooped back. “We should move,” I said suddenly. He stopped but didn’t turn around. “Where?” “Anywhere,” I said. “Anywhere but here, where everyone knows what you are.” He was silent for a long time. “Okay.” A month later, we moved to the state capital, three hundred miles away. Cole used all his savings to rent a tiny one-room apartment with a bunk bed. He found a job at an electronics factory, working rotating shifts on the assembly line. The first night, I lay on the unfamiliar top bunk, staring at the cracks in the ceiling. “Hey,” I said into the darkness. A rustle from below. “Yeah?” “Why did you really go to prison?” Silence. A long, suffocating silence. Just when I thought he wouldn’t answer, he spoke, his voice low. “…I did something wrong.” “What did you do?” “Something terrible,” his voice was as soft as a sigh. “Anna, don’t ask.” “All you need to know is that I’m sorry. For what I did to you, to Mom and Dad… that’s enough.” I rolled over, facing the wall. Always the same. Always. I was never entitled to the truth. 4 Turns out, fairy tales can come true. After about six months at the factory, Cole caught the eye of the owner’s daughter. Her name was Valerie. She was five years younger than Cole, a recent college graduate sent by her father to learn the family business. They said the first time she saw Cole on the assembly line, she was completely captivated. I had to admit, Cole was handsome. Even malnourished and perpetually exhausted, he’d inherited the best of our parents’ features: deep-set eyes, a straight nose, and a kind of broken beauty in his silence. Valerie’s pursuit of him was the talk of the factory. She brought him lunch, bought him medicine, and even stayed with him through his late-night overtime shifts. His coworkers all nudged him. “Come on, Cole! She’s the boss’s daughter! Marry her and you can skip twenty years of hard labor!” Cole always just shook his head. “I’m not good enough for her.” It went on like this until Valerie’s father, Mr. Hayes, the factory owner, asked to speak with him personally. Cole came home very late that night. He sat in the dark living room, smoking one cigarette after another. He never smoked. “What’s wrong?” I finally asked. He stubbed out the cigarette, his voice hoarse. “Mr. Hayes… he knows I was in prison.” My stomach dropped. Of course. The background check. It was over. He would lose his job, and we would have to run again. “He asked me what happened back then,” Cole continued. “I told him everything.” I closed my eyes in despair. “And then what?” “And then…” Cole looked up, his eyes gleaming unnaturally in the dark. “He said there’s an auspicious date next month, and he asked if I wanted a traditional wedding or a modern one.” I stared at him. He’s lost his mind. That was my first thought. Mr. Hayes had to be insane to want a murderer for a son-in-law. Good, he’s insane. That was my second thought. After all, the Hayes family was rich. Who wouldn’t want to latch onto a family tree like that?

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In my past life, my sister married the son of our county’s old money dynasty and became a pampered socialite. But the fairy tale quickly turned into a nightmare of backstabbing and betrayal. She was poisoned and crippled by her husband’s mistress, dying a slow, agonizing death. Meanwhile, the poor farm boy I married was revealed to be the long-lost heir to a powerful family from the capital. Consumed by jealousy, my sister lured me to a secluded park and stabbed me with a butcher knife until I was a human sieve. Now, reborn, I watch as my sister shoves the wealthy heir aside and grabs the farm boy’s hand with unwavering determination. “Sister, I’m stealing your destiny this time. It’s your turn to be poisoned to death by a mistress!” But my dear sister, there’s something you don’t know. I’m bound to a Husband-Boosting System. It’s not that I have a golden destiny. It’s that whoever I marry is destined to become a tycoon. 1 “Dad! Mom! I’m marrying Shane Roberts!” Seeing my sister, Laura, push Griffin Blackwood away and cling to Shane’s arm, my mother froze mid-sentence. It hit me then. I had been reborn. This was the day my sister and I were supposed to choose our husbands. A second later, my mother smacked Laura’s hand away, stomping her foot in frustration. “Laura, are you insane? Shane is a dirt-poor nobody from the next village over! His family can’t even afford a brick house! Are you going to marry him and starve?” Realizing her slip, my mother turned to me with an awkward smile. “Uh, Hannah, I mean, marrying Shane isn’t so bad! His little mud-brick cottage is probably very cozy, cool in the summer, warm in the winter… practically as good as Griffin’s villa!” My father slammed his pipe on the table. “Stop this foolishness! We are your parents, and this is our decision, not yours.” “Laura, you’ve always been delicate. I paid the matchmaker a fortune to find you a good match. You’re going to throw away a life of luxury to marry a farmer? I won’t let you suffer your whole life!” My mom chimed in, forcing a laugh. “Exactly! Your sister has always loved farm work. She’s strong and sturdy. Marrying that country boy is perfect for her. You stay out of it. Would your parents ever do you wrong?” But Laura just pouted, snatched a kitchen cleaver, and held it to her own throat. “I don’t care! I’m marrying Shane, and if you don’t let me, I’ll die right here!” My parents leaped from their chairs and scrambled to grab her. Their favoritism wasn’t entirely without reason. Laura was only a year older than me. When she was born, our family was so poor we couldn’t afford formula. Since my mother couldn’t produce milk, our aunt in the city took Laura in and raised her. Laura went to a vocational school in the city, but after three years of unemployment, she moved back to our village. She was twenty-one, and I was twenty. I thought my parents would be distant with the daughter they never raised, but I was wrong. They saw Laura, raised in the city, pale and beautiful like a swan, and then they looked at me, tanned and calloused from twenty years of farm work, and they were instantly ashamed of their coarse country daughter. From the day she returned, they treated her like a princess, vowing to marry her off to a wealthy family. The matchmaker brought two men: Griffin Blackwood, the heir to the county’s wealthiest family, and Shane Roberts, a young farmer from the neighboring village. Griffin was immediately taken with the beautiful Laura, and she was ecstatic at the thought of marrying into wealth. That left me with Shane. On the verge of becoming a socialite, Laura couldn’t resist taunting me. “Well, you know what they say, every pot has its lid. I was born for a life of luxury, Hannah. Don’t be jealous. You were just born to be a farmer’s wife, hahaha!” But less than a year after her wedding, Laura’s life was a constant war against Griffin’s endless parade of mistresses. One day, while Griffin was out of town, one of the women snuck into their villa and poisoned her water. Laura collapsed, vomiting blood. They saved her life in the ICU, but the poison left her mute, blind in one eye, and plagued by violent seizures. She wasn’t expected to live long. Meanwhile, the poor farmer I married, the one who lived in a dilapidated mud-brick house, had his life turned upside down. One day, a convoy of black cars rolled into our village. A powerful man from the capital had come to take Shane home. It turned out Shane was his only son, lost in a tragic accident years ago. Shane took me with him back to the capital. We moved into a sprawling mansion, with luxury cars and a staff of servants. We were living a life our village neighbors couldn’t even dream of. When my sister found out, she was consumed by rage. She took a train to the capital and tricked me into meeting her. The moment I arrived at the park, she pulled out a butcher knife and began stabbing me, again and again, in a frenzy. “Why?! I married the rich one and I’m dying, while a country hick like you gets everything?! It’s not fair! I’ll kill you! I’ll kill you!” Within minutes, she had turned me into a bloody sieve. I died on the cold ground. My thoughts snapped back to the present. I wasn’t the only one who had been reborn. So had Laura. Why else would she be so desperate to choose Shane? But dear sister, you’ve made a fatal mistake. It wasn’t my destiny to be rich. It’s that I have a Husband-Boosting System. Whoever I marry becomes destined for greatness. This time, you want the farm boy? Fine. I won’t fight you. Let’s see how you change his fate without my system. 2 My parents, terrified of Laura’s threats, reluctantly agreed to let her marry Shane. And so, once again, I was treated like a spare part, handed off to Griffin Blackwood, the man she had rejected. As the decision was finalized, Laura leaned in and whispered in my ear. “Surprise, little sister. I’m back. I’ve stolen your golden ticket, and I’m off to become the darling of the capital’s elite. You can have my old life. Have fun being poisoned and disfigured by Griffin’s mistresses before you die a miserable death!” I remained calm, offering a faint smile. “Oh, really? Well, congratulations, then.” Soon after, Laura eagerly married Shane, settling in to wait for her fabulous destiny to unfold. And I married Griffin Blackwood, the heir to the county’s old money. In the wedding car, Griffin leaned back, a toothpick dangling from his lips. “Let’s get one thing straight, Hannah. I’m rich, I’m handsome, and you’re not going to be the only woman in my life. The only reason I’m marrying you is because you’re a simple country girl with no connections. You’ll be easy to manage. Once you’re in my house, you’ll live a comfortable life, but you will stay out of my business with other women. Got it?” I nodded obediently. “Don’t worry. I know I’m not good enough for you. You wanted my sister. I’ll be quiet. Just please don’t divorce me.” I already knew that Griffin, despite his wealth and good looks, was a notorious playboy. Most of his affairs weren’t even his doing; women threw themselves at him. He was a rich, handsome man—who was he to say no? That’s why, even when he married my sister in our past life, the women never disappeared. But honestly, besides his cheating, Griffin wasn’t a bad person. He didn’t gamble or do drugs, and he spent most of his time helping his father run their family business. In my past life, after my sister was poisoned and left a disabled wreck, Griffin had a complete wake-up call. He hired the best lawyers to ensure the mistress received a life sentence, and he nearly bankrupted his family paying for my sister’s medical care. Though she eventually died from complications, Griffin never remarried and never touched another woman again. He dedicated himself to the business, expanding their fortune tenfold and becoming a nationally recognized entrepreneur. So no, Griffin wasn’t just a spoiled brat. He was just young and reckless when he got married. No one is perfect. He wasn’t a lost cause. That night, after the wedding guests had left, Griffin stumbled into our room, reeking of alcohol. He shot me a cold look. “Don’t even think about a wedding night. You’re just a tool to get my parents off my back. I’m going to see my girlfriend. You can go to sleep.” I wasn’t flustered. I just spoke softly. “It’s cold out. You should wear a jacket. And try to be back before dawn, so Mom and Dad don’t see you.” Griffin froze, staring at me in disbelief. “Wow. You’re taking this surprisingly well.” He turned and left. Less than twenty minutes later, someone burst through the front door in a panic. “Help! Mr. Blackwood crashed his car on the county line! He was drunk… they think he has internal bleeding! He needs to get to a hospital now!” Everyone in the house was asleep. I threw on a coat and ran outside. I didn’t have a license, and on a snowy night like this, there were no taxis. Without a second thought, I hoisted all six-foot-two of Griffin onto my back and ran through the snow to the nearest emergency room. The hospital had a blood shortage. Without blinking, I donated half of my own blood to save him, passing out from the strain. The next morning, Griffin woke up and saw me, pale and so weak I couldn’t even stand. His eyes turned red. “I was such a bastard to you, and you still saved my life. You’re a fool.” I managed a weak smile. “You can be a bastard, but you’re still my husband.” With that, Griffin pulled me into a tight embrace and cried like a child. 3 Just then, the door to the hospital room slammed open, and my in-laws rushed in. The moment my mother-in-law saw me, she started screaming. “You jinx! The first day you’re in our family, you put our son in the hospital! What kind of wife are you? You can’t even keep an eye on your own husband on a snowy night?!” My father-in-law, his face livid, pointed a finger at me. “He is our only heir! If anything happens to him, I will hold you responsible!” They lunged toward me, ready to strike, but Griffin scrambled to hold them back. “Dad! Mom! Calm down! It’s not Hannah’s fault! It was my fault! I left her on our wedding night to go see another woman and I crashed the car! If she hadn’t given me half her blood—so much that she almost didn’t wake up—I would have bled to death last night!” My in-laws stared, first at Griffin, then at me, their faces a mask of disbelief. “Is… is that true?” “This country girl loves you that much?” A passing nurse couldn’t help but chime in. “Of course it’s true! Can’t you see how pale and weak your daughter-in-law is? She gave your son over four pints of blood last night! She almost died herself!” My mother-in-law stammered, “But… but how is that possible? I heard she was forced to marry into our family for the dowry—” “That’s enough, dear!” my father-in-law interrupted, his tone changing completely. “If Hannah saved our son’s life, even after he abandoned her on their wedding night, then she is the best daughter-in-law we could ever ask for. There’s no room for doubt!” He paused, then slapped his thigh. “Since she saved Griffin’s life, it proves her love is genuine. Daughter-in-law, as soon as you’re recovered, I’ll add your name to the deed of the villa I bought for Griffin. And do you prefer a BMW or a Mercedes? Dad will get you one, so you have something to drive around in!” The sudden reversal in their attitude left me speechless. I knew they looked down on me and had been planning how to win them over, but I never expected it to happen this quickly. I gave them an awkward smile. “Griffin is my husband. I had to save him, no matter the risk. But… I don’t have a driver’s license…” “Not a problem!” my mother-in-law beamed. “Once you’re feeling better, I’ll enroll you in the best driving school, and we’ll order the car. By the time you get your license, the car should be delivered!” A week later, Griffin’s father personally drove us home in his Mercedes. Because I was still recovering, they hired an extra maid just to take care of me. A month later, I had my license, my brand-new BMW arrived, and my name was on the deed to the villa. At the party celebrating our recovery, all of Griffin’s relatives toasted me respectfully, calling me a selfless hero who had saved her husband. I had officially been accepted by the family. I remembered my wedding day vividly. These same relatives had drunkenly mocked me, calling me a peasant who had married a prince. Even my in-laws had sneered that I was a coarse, ugly girl, and that Griffin marrying me was like planting a rare orchid in a pile of manure. Griffin had heard it all and just laughed along with them. Now, just over a month later, everything had changed. Most importantly, during our recovery, Griffin’s phone rang constantly with calls from his other women. And right in front of me, he answered every single call and broke up with them, one by one. The night of our recovery party, Griffin deliberately stayed sober. As soon as it got dark, he eagerly pulled me into our bedroom. “Wife, tonight we’re going to make this marriage real.”

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“Company policy. No spouses allowed.” The lie. The mantra. He’d been saying it for eight years. Eight years, sixteen corporate retreats, and I had been left behind every single time. Today, while sifting through a box of old photos, I stumbled upon a group picture from their company’s retreat last year. Several couples were smiling brightly in the front row. I recognized his coworker, Mark—Mark’s wife was standing right beside him. And there was Dan from Sales, with his wife, too. My husband, Trevor, was standing in the second row. Beside him, stood a woman in a white, knee-length dress. I used to own an identical dress. I’d thrown it out three years ago. 1. I stared at the photograph for a long time. White, floral print, cinched waist, falling just above the knee. I bought it at a mall boutique three years ago for $99. I only wore it once, to my mother’s birthday dinner. Then it disappeared. I asked Trevor about it. He said the cleaning service must have accidentally tossed it. I believed him. Now, that same dress was on another woman, standing right next to him. I zoomed in on the photo, desperate to see her face. The pixelation was too poor, offering only a blurred outline: long hair, slender frame, not very tall. Her hand was resting lightly on Trevor’s arm. The gesture was natural, easy—like muscle memory. I heard the sound of a key turning in the lock. The door opened. Trevor was home. “Back already?” I put my phone down, face up on the cushion. “Long day at the office?” “Mhm. Finalizing the West Coast project.” He kicked off his shoes. “Did you eat?” “I did.” I watched him walk into the bathroom to wash his hands, his movements the same as they’d been for eight years. Familiar. “The company retreat is next month,” I said. “Lake Haven Resort, right?” His movements stalled. “Oh?” “I saw it on Lisa Kwan’s post—Mark’s wife. She sounded excited.” Trevor turned off the faucet and dried his hands. “That’s the Sales Department retreat. Tech isn’t necessarily going to that one.” “But don’t Sales and Tech usually go together?” “It depends on the year.” He walked out, his expression neutral. “Management hasn’t finalized the venue yet.” I nodded, letting it drop. He went into his study, saying he needed to hop back on the computer to wrap up some emails. I sat on the sofa and pulled up the photo again. It was taken in front of a grand resort entrance, a sprawling lawn in the background. I recognized the place. Two years ago, after his retreat, I asked him where he’d been. He said it was just some dull, rustic B&B—nothing special. The photo clearly showed something far from rustic. I opened my browser and searched the place. Four stars. Dinner service runs about $150 a head. Some dull, rustic B&B. Right. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Have you eaten, Nat?” “Yes, Mom.” “Is Trevor home?” “In his study, working late.” “Tell him not to overdo it. Look after his health.” “I know.” After hanging up, I walked to the study door. It was slightly ajar. Trevor was on the phone. “…Don’t worry about next month. I’ll handle everything.” His voice was low, careful—as if he didn’t want to be overheard. “Alright. Talk soon.” He hung up. I knocked. “Come in.” I pushed the door open. “Who was that?” “A client.” His eyes remained glued to the monitor. “It’s about the project rollout.” “You’re still talking projects this late?” “Yeah, overseas client. Time difference.” I didn’t press him further. Back in the living room, I saved the retreat photo to my phone’s camera roll. Later, as we lay in bed, he automatically pulled me close, his arm draped across my waist. “Are you feeling okay lately?” he asked. “Fine.” “The retreat next month—it might be three or four days.” “Mhm.” “You’ll be okay by yourself?” “I’ll be fine.” He kissed my forehead. “Go to sleep.” I closed my eyes, listening until his breathing settled into the slow, steady rhythm of deep sleep. Eight years. Eight years, sixteen retreats. Every single time, he’d told me it was company policy: No spouses allowed. Every single time, I had believed him. But in that photograph, every other man’s wife was there. Only mine wasn’t. I opened my eyes, staring at the ceiling. His hand was still on my hip, warm and familiar. Yet suddenly, that hand felt utterly foreign. 2. The next day was Saturday. Trevor said he had to go into the office for half a day to take care of some urgent paperwork. “Will you be back for lunch?” “Should be.” I watched him leave, then I went straight to my computer. I navigated to his company’s corporate website and clicked the “Employee Events” tab. It was a gallery of photos: retreats, holiday parties, anniversary dinners. I went through them, year by year. 2016 Retreat: Miami. Trevor was in the photo. Standing beside him was a woman. Not me. 2017 Retreat: The Rockies. Trevor was there. Standing beside him was the exact same woman. Still not me. 2018 Retreat: San Diego. The same woman. 2019, 2020, 2021, 2022, 2023, 2024. Every year, every single photo, she was there. She wore different outfits, changed her hairstyle, but her features were the same: a delicate, oval face, single eyelids, and a small dimple when she smiled. I didn’t know her. I had never seen her. Yet she had been standing beside my husband for eight years. My hands started to tremble. I saved every single one of those photographs. When I was done, I picked up Trevor’s phone. He never used a password. He always said, “We don’t need secrets, Nat.” I found a contact named “Veronica C.” and opened their message thread. The latest message was from 11:00 PM last night. Trevor: Did you get home okay? Veronica: I did. Thanks for today. Trevor: Get some rest. Veronica: [Kiss emoji] I scrolled up. The day before. Veronica: Did you book the hotel for the retreat next month? Trevor: Yes, The Intercontinental at Lake Haven. Veronica: The same suite as last year? Trevor: Mhm. Lake view. Veronica: *Can’t wait ~* A searing knot tightened in my stomach. I kept scrolling. One month ago. Trevor: Wear the blue dress for the client dinner. Veronica: Okay! Are you wearing a tie? Trevor: The one you gave me. Veronica: Our matching one! Make sure no one notices. Trevor: Who cares if they notice. Three months ago. Veronica: Did your wife ask where you were going again? Trevor: No. She never asks. Veronica: She’s so easy to fool. Trevor: She’s not easy to fool, she just trusts me. Veronica: Then you should be better to her. Trevor: I know. Six months ago. Veronica: What should I wear for the holiday party this year? Trevor: You look good in anything. Veronica: Your wife won’t be there, right? Trevor: No. She never is. Veronica: Perfect. I can dress up then. Trevor: Whatever you want. A year ago. Veronica: Can I post the photos from the Maldives? Trevor: Sure, just block Nat. The Maldives. A year ago. I remembered. A year ago, I was three months postpartum. That was the time he said the company retreat was mandatory and that the dates were inflexible. I was home alone with a newborn. He was in the Maldives. With her. I put the phone down, struggling to draw a full breath. The front door opened. Trevor was back. “What’s wrong?” He saw my face. “You look terrible.” I just stared at him. I had looked at this face for eight years. I woke up next to it, and I went to sleep next to it. I thought I knew everything about him. Now I realized I knew nothing at all. “Nothing,” I managed, standing up. “I’ll start on lunch.” “I’ll do it. You go rest.” He rolled up his sleeves and walked into the kitchen. I stood there, watching his back. That back was familiar, too. But what did familiarity matter? She was just as familiar with that back. Maybe more so. 3. On Monday, I took a personal day. I went to Trevor’s office building. Not to see him, but to see Lisa Kwan, who worked in HR. Lisa was my high school friend. She’d been at Trevor’s company for five years. “Well, this is a surprise,” Lisa said, genuinely shocked. “I was in the neighborhood. Wanted to grab a coffee.” We walked to a nearby cafe. “Does Trevor know you’re here?” “No. I thought I’d surprise him later.” Lisa smiled. “You two are so sweet.” I forced a smile in return. “So,” I said, trying to sound casual, “I was thinking of coming along for the next company retreat. Are spouses allowed?” Lisa paused. “Spouses? Of course they are.” “Oh. Trevor always told me company policy was strictly no family.” Lisa’s face changed. It was subtle, but I saw it. “No, that’s not right. We’ve always allowed spouses at the retreats. The company even covers half the cost.” My heart stopped for a beat. “Always?” “Since I started, yes. You didn’t know that?” “Trevor said…” I couldn’t finish the sentence. Lisa saw the look on my face. She reached across the table and took my hand. “Nat, what’s going on? Is something wrong with you and Trevor?” “No.” I shook my head. “Maybe I misunderstood.” “Don’t lie to me.” Lisa lowered her voice. “Tell me. Has Trevor been…” I looked at her, silent. She sighed. “The truth is… I’ve wanted to tell you for a while, but I didn’t want to interfere.” “Tell me what?” “Trevor brings a woman to every single event.” My hand began to tremble. “We all assumed it was you. His wife. But then one time, I saw her name tag. It said, ‘Veronica Crystal.’”

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My mother, Viola Miller, operated on a single, ruthless tenet: Only the strong survive. I learned that lesson young. At four, she looked me dead in the eye and told me I was an orphan she’d “taken in”—and that I’d be promptly shipped back if I failed to be compliant. I mastered the art of observation before I learned to tie my shoes. When I was ten, she used her connections to intentionally fail me, making me the oldest, most openly ridiculed student in my elementary school class. “This is an exercise,” she’d explained with a wave of her hand. “It’s about building your capacity to withstand the judgment of others.” At sixteen, Mom announced she had late-stage cancer. I quit school and took any job I could find to pay for her treatment. I worked myself ragged, almost collapsed at my station. But when I woke up, she declared the cancer was just a joke—another test. The final straw came at twenty-five, when she deliberately overlooked my younger brother, Preston, seducing my girlfriend. When I slapped them both, she merely frowned. “Losing control over something so trivial? Your inner strength is still lacking, Jaxon.” Then, as compensation, she announced she was making her signature dish—out of the emotional support dog I had secretly kept for ten years. She smiled, holding a forkful of meat toward me. “Smell good?” “I bet you’ll be the one who eats the most,” she challenged. “Wanna wager?” I didn’t just lose it this time. On New Year’s Eve, I leveled the house. 1 The lingering scent of the holiday feast hadn’t faded, but the dining room was already a catastrophe. Dishes lay smashed across the floor; my mother’s signature meal was now garbage. Chairs and tables were missing limbs, and even the TV and sofa hadn’t been spared. The extended family stood stunned. Opposite me, Preston stared blankly at the new, expensive trousers he’d pestered Mom into buying—now shredded rags. His handsome face twisted into a mask of fury. “Jaxon! Are you completely insane?!” The sight of his contorted features was suddenly menacing. It was hard to believe that just a minute ago, he’d been all smiles, smugly spitting out a bone. “Ugh, what do you feed it? The meat’s too lean. No flavor. Dog meat needs a little fat to really be good!” I scoffed, dropping my gaze, entirely deaf to his rant. That only stoked his anger. He turned to Mom, clutching her arm and whining, “Mom, look at him!” Viola didn’t speak. She only patted Preston’s hand gently in a gesture of comfort. Then, she turned to me, her eyes flat and cold, holding a look of absolute disdain. “Just because I cooked a dog, you ruin a perfectly good holiday dinner?” “You’ve never thrown a tantrum this big before. Have your wings finally hardened, darling? Ready to rebel?” Her indifferent tone made my breakdown seem pathological, out of place. Of course, she had done this before. To develop my “inner strength,” my mother had a habit of killing, cooking, or getting rid of every single pet I ever managed to cherish. In fifth grade, my teacher gave us pets to foster responsibility. I chose a beautiful goldfish. I nurtured it until it was the size of an egg, only for my mother to “accidentally” pour it down the drain. Later, I got a little duckling. I took it everywhere, practically inseparable. One day, I couldn’t find it. Frantic, I tugged on my mother’s sleeve, begging her to help me search. She held up a butcher knife, still dripping blood, and smiled faintly. “Looking for the duck?” “It’s right here.” She watched me cry hysterically, even as I hyperventilated. She only furrowed her brow, speaking with the tone of someone deeply disappointed. “If you can’t endure such a small thing, how will you handle the storms of the real world later on?” I was only ten. After that, my birds, my pet turtle, the stray cat I rescued—every creature I considered a friend became a ghost under my mother’s knife. I stopped bringing anything alive into the house. Patches was the only exception, the dog I raised in secret when I was on the brink of a nervous breakdown. He was the reason I could function like a normal person. I had hidden him for a decade, but Mom found him anyway. “Apologize to your brother.” “And… you will replace all this damaged furniture yourself by tomorrow. Don’t make me say it twice.” My mother’s voice dragged me back to the wreckage of the present. I saw the look of smug triumph on Preston’s face. I lifted my head, meeting her gaze. “Why should I?” “You cooked my dog; I smashed your house. That sounds fair to me. Why would I apologize to a man who ate my friend?” Preston burst out laughing. “Friend? You treat a dog like a friend? Hahahaha, that’s rich.” “Then again, someone like you probably has no real friends. Gotta treat an animal like your confidant, huh?” Every word was laced with contempt, devoid of any respect for me as his older brother. I had to wonder: when did my relationship with Preston become so venomous? Perhaps… it was the moment he realized that the best way to get Mom’s approval was to deliberately oppose me. I reached out and delivered a hard, swift slap across Preston’s face. In a few seconds, his cheek swelled like a dinner roll. The force was far greater than the day I caught him cheating with Hailey. The room finally fell silent. When Preston realized what had happened, his shriek threatened to take the roof off. “Jaxon! You hit me?! Are you looking for a death wish?! I’ll kill you!” His high-pitched screaming made my skull ache. I raised my hand again, intending to shut him up. But Mom intervened. Her tone was still deceptively soft and gentle. “If you touch your brother again, you need to be very careful…” As she spoke, her fingers brushed lightly over the crystal pendant around her neck. My pupils instantly constricted. I slowly lowered my hand. Whenever I tried to fight back, my mother would use the last relic left to me by my grandmother, Edith, as leverage. Edith had been the single sliver of light in my life, a small, fragile barrier between my mother’s endless psychological warfare and my own breaking point. She would hold me, comfort me, and find ways for me to breathe, allowing me to keep going. Tragically, in an attempt to protect me, she got into a huge argument with Mom. The strain triggered a fatal heart attack. Just before she died, she clutched the crystal pendant, her eyes wet with tears. “Don’t blame your mother.” “She’s only… she’s only confused for now.” Soon after, Mom snatched the crystal from me. Since then, she had found the perfect piece of collateral to control me, allowing her to comfortably continue her “great educational philosophy.” I don’t think Edith ever imagined Mom would become this. While I was lost in that thought, Preston took his chance, delivering a vicious kick to my stomach. I was knocked over, rolling onto the floor. Sharp porcelain shards dug into my palm, making me look far more pathetic than him. “Serves you right!” Preston adjusted his shirt, satisfied. I trembled, pulling the ceramic out of my hand, and stumbled back to my feet. Mom narrowed her eyes at me. “Apologize to your brother.” He had provoked me first. Yet, somehow, I was always the one at fault. I clenched my jaw, refusing to utter those three words. Seeing her hand move to the necklace again, I closed my eyes and mumbled, “I’m sorry.” Preston cupped his ear. “What was that? Did you leave your vocal cords at home? I can’t hear you.” Knowing he was deliberately taunting me, I could only repeat myself. “I’m sorry.” “Louder!” “I’m sorry.” Preston grinned, like a rooster that had won the fight. “See? Why make things hard on yourself?” He threw himself into Mom’s embrace, laughing brightly. Viola’s smile instantly returned. “Your New Year’s gift is in your room, darling. Go open it.” “Awesome!” My brother ran off, his earlier rage completely vanished. Mom turned back to the remaining relatives, waving her hand dismissively. “It’s just my oldest son being difficult. Ruined everyone’s evening. I’ll treat you all to a late supper and fireworks later. Everything’s on me.” The relatives exchanged nervous glances, but said nothing. They shuffled out the door, following Mom’s instructions. Before leaving, she turned her head, studying me for a few seconds, a hint of regret in her expression. “All these years, and you’re still so weak. You are not worthy to be my son.” Then, she was gone, leaving me alone in the house facing the endless darkness. I don’t know how long I stood there. Until a low, husky laugh echoed through the dark room. 2 After hastily bandaging my hand, Mom ordered me to take a platter of fruit out to the patio. When I arrived, my Aunt Carol and Aunt Susan were gathered around Mom, showering her with praise. “Viola, I’m so jealous of you. Your husband makes a fortune, he owns a company, and you must have several houses by now?” Aunt Susan sighed. “Tell me about it,” Aunt Carol chimed in. “And your son is so well-behaved. I hear your youngest is going to study abroad after the new year. Nothing like my useless boys.” “When will we ever be this comfortable? It’s just infuriating how easy you have it.” Mom took a sip of tea, accepting their envy as her due. When my parents first started their business, they struggled immensely. They lived in their car, slept on park benches, and did every degrading thing imaginable. They were so worn out that they almost jumped off a bridge. But then Dad, Rob Miller, stumbled into a massive financial windfall, and his business took off. Soon, they had cars, houses, and a company. Since then, Mom often repeated: “Thank God my inner strength was enough to persevere. Otherwise, we wouldn’t have made it.” So, when I was born, she began to implement her so-called “success theory” on me. My entire life had been held firmly in her grasp. I asked her once, I fought with her once: Why me? Why did I have to suffer all this? “One person is enough for the necessary training,” she replied. And so, she showered all her love and approval on my brother. My name is Jaxon. My brother is Preston. One name means nothing to her; the other gets everything. It was sickening. I set the fruit platter down and turned to leave. “I’ve already quit your job at the art studio,” she called out. “Loafing around all day—how will you ever amount to anything?” “I’ve spoken to an old acquaintance. Starting after the New Year, you’ll work as a factory hand at the glass plant. Six AM to ten PM, no days off. It’s a fine opportunity. Your character needs to be refined. Now, get out.” My head began to throb again. I rubbed my temples and walked to an empty chair nearby. Preston immediately gathered some of the younger cousins and deliberately approached me. “Hey, let’s play a throwing game!” he announced. “Yeah!” Their happy shouting circled my ears, intensifying my headache. I was about to leave when an object in Preston’s hand caught my attention. They were tossing… my grandmother’s crystal pendant! I immediately shot out my hand to snatch it, but Preston tossed it to the next cousin, who then tossed it back to him when I got close. They encircled me, laughing hysterically. “Come get it! I have it!” “Haha, it’s mine now! Jax, you’re too slow!” Back and forth, I chased the relic, panting heavily. I knew they were treating me like a performing monkey, but I couldn’t stop. “Fun! Hey, Preston, catch!” A younger cousin threw the crystal high into the air, but Preston was still laughing, distracted. By the time he fumbled for it, the pendant completed a perfect arc and fell onto the concrete patio in front of him. “No!” I heard a sharp, brittle sound. The crystal shattered into three pieces. The kids instantly froze, their laughter dying in their throats. I rushed forward, gathering the shards and clenching them in my palm. The veins in my arm bulged. Mom noticed the commotion and walked over. She spotted the broken pieces on the ground immediately. Preston whined, his voice thick with tears. “Mom, I… I didn’t mean to.” For the first time, she snapped at him. “Who told you to play with that?! That was your grandmother’s!” Before she could say more, another voice cut in. “It’s just a cheap piece of crystal. We’ll buy a new one.” “Preston, come here.” “Look what Daddy brought you.” Hearing the newcomer’s voice, Mom’s dark expression instantly melted into a radiant smile. “You’re back, Rob?” “Look at you, so busy you missed dinner. I’ll make you the leek dumplings you love later.” Dad smiled and nodded. “Good.” Preston, overjoyed, took the gift box from Dad. “Thanks, Dad!” The three of them looked perfectly harmonious. It was as if they forgot I was their son, too. Preston hid behind Dad, sticking his tongue out at me. He looped his arm through Dad’s and started to walk away. I stretched out my arm, blocking their path. “You broke my property. You think you can just walk away?” Dad frowned, clearly annoyed. “What do you want?” In his eyes, I was no different from a toddler—just a nuisance. I sneered, just about to speak. Mom delivered a swift, hard slap across my face. “Get back to your room!” I stumbled, nearly falling. The shattered crystal in my palm flew out, crashing onto the ground again. Like the fleeting affection I’d always craved from this family, it was now in pieces. The final, fragile tie to this house was gone. Mom instinctively opened her mouth, ready to scold me again. But after a moment, she regained her composure. She glanced at me, her expression complicated. “Clean up the garbage. Don’t be a public disgrace.” She turned to join Rob and Preston to go set off fireworks. Suddenly, my laughter erupted behind them. It started low and shaky, then built into a wild, manic roar. I was done waiting. The favor I would never receive, I wouldn’t wait for anymore. Expectation, I realized, was a weakness. I flexed my wrist, a sense of readiness surging through me. Before, I might have hesitated, thinking of consequences. But now, I had nothing left to lose. I was utterly alone. I wanted to see if the woman who constantly preached about inner strength could truly endure what was coming. I moved with startling speed, grabbing Preston’s hair and yanking him backward, then kicking the back of his knee, forcing him to his knees. He cried out in pain. “What are you doing?! Let go of me!” I looked up, grinning darkly. “What am I doing?” Then, I slammed his head down onto the concrete, right onto the shards of the broken crystal. “I want you to apologize to Edith!” It had only just begun. 3 Thump! Thump! Thump! Again and again. Each impact was heavy, dull, and solid, like a muffled hammer driving into a chest. The sound of his head hitting the floor, coupled with Preston’s wails, echoed across the patio. No one reacted. Not Rob, not Mom. They stood frozen, watching me slam my brother’s head onto the shattered crystal a dozen times. It took a long minute before a relative rushed forward, finally tearing us apart. When I looked, large patches of blood were already seeping from Preston’s forehead, running down his cheek. He clutched his face, sobbing toward Mom. “Mom! My face hurts! I’m going to be scarred, aren’t I?!” Mom frantically pulled him close, her voice soft as silk as she comforted him. “It’s shallow, darling. The cut is very shallow. You won’t have a scar.” “It’s okay. Don’t be scared.” Preston buried his face in her shoulder, crying uncontrollably, and Mom gently patted his back. To any outside observer, it was a profound display of maternal love. I looked over at Dad. His face was beet red. He pointed at me, spitting venom. “Look at what you’ve done! How could I have sired such a cruel, heartless monster?! That’s your brother! How could you lay hands on him like that?!” My brother? I twitched my lips, offering no argument. The relatives exploded in chatter, pointing and whispering. “How could that child be so vicious? My God.” “Attacking his own brother like that—it’s terrifying!” “Look at him. He must be crazy. Let’s stay away before he hurts someone else.” I pretended not to hear them. I used to agonize over whether I’d done something wrong to deserve their coldness. Now, I decided: if I didn’t get their love, I didn’t get it. It wasn’t a necessary thing. I leisurely brushed the dust from my hands. “Are you done with the lecture?”

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Three days after my C-section, my husband—the man who had just sealed his eternal bond with his newest obsession on a private island—finally showed his face. He was cooing at the baby, a strange, pinched smile on his face, when he casually dropped the first bombshell. “The little guy’s tougher than we thought, isn’t he? That bleeding scare you had in the third month didn’t faze him at all.” He leaned closer, his voice low and devoid of warmth. “Actually, that wasn’t a miscarriage threat from eating the wrong thing. It was an infection. I was with her, didn’t clean up, and then came to you. That’s how you got it.” He paused, a flicker of pride in his eyes. “My poor little Tatum was just worried you were going to monopolize me. She came up with the idea to slow you down. Can’t blame the girl.” I met his gaze, my eyes wide with incredulity and sickness. He shrugged, then flicked two hundred thousand dollars into my account as a casual “sorry.” “Don’t stress yourself out while you’re healing, Evie. A First Lady has to be gracious. The baby’s healthy, and no one is actually going to threaten your position.” Watching his back as he walked away, I didn’t scream, didn’t rail, didn’t shatter the way I had the last few times. Instead, I looked at the grand total in my account—a cool $5.2 million. I had the last payment. The final price to buy back my freedom. From now on, I wouldn’t have to keep a vigil over a man who had stopped loving me—if he ever had. 1. Harrison “Harry” Price chuckled, a tight, controlled sound, and pushed his phone toward me. The screen displayed a quick, unforgiving photo of my face from moments ago: the raw, stunned horror when I realized he was the reason I was fighting a postnatal infection. My eyes were puffy, my skin sallow; the horizontal shot magnified every bit of misery. I instinctively reached for the phone to delete the image. He smoothly pulled it away. “A shame to waste such a perfect shot. I told her I’d capture your face when you heard the news.” “Tatum’s been sulking because you had my son. She hasn’t let me touch her in three days. I had to use you to coax her back.” His cynical indifference was a slow, deliberate carving knife, shaving away my dignity until nothing but bone was left. He discussed his infidelity with the same airy tone one might use to debate the dinner menu. The man who, on our wedding day, had vowed eternal fidelity had, long ago, betrayed every single word. Ding-dong. His special notification tone for her rang. It was a voice note. Tatum’s voice was too loud, too bright. “Oh my God, Evie looks terrible! Childbirth really does make you ugly. I am never having a baby!” She switched to a purring demand. “You have to use protection with me, Harry! I won’t turn into a drab, yellow-faced wife!” Harry’s eyes crinkled in amusement. Gone was the performative indignation he’d shown years ago when she’d first called me too ordinary for him. “Of course not, sweetheart. The Price legacy requires a legitimate heir, but my pretty plaything is just here to keep me happy.” He laughed. “Are you feeling better now? Let’s review that position we tried last week. Go wash up and put on that sheer bodysuit. I’ll be there soon.” The voice note ended with a whoosh. He snapped the phone shut, his face glowing with a smug, satisfied hunger. He noticed my glistening eyes, gave my cheek a patronizing squeeze. “It is a bit slack, isn’t it? Relax, Evie. It’s not the first time you’ve heard me flirting with her. Why the distress? She’s just a diversion. The novelty will wear off, and I’ll find the next one. You have the child. Your position is unshakeable. Get some perspective.” He slid his hands into his pockets and strolled out, his steps light and easy. He called her a diversion, but in the last two years, his need for “novelty” had known no end. And the “unshakeable position” was a title anyone could challenge. Ten minutes later, my phone pinged with a debit notification from a pharmacy. The purchase: three boxes of Durex Ultra-Thin, Strawberry Flavor condoms. Immediately after, a text message from him arrived. [The emergency stash is running low. You’ve been paying for more lately. Top it up.] Looking at the deliberately provocative message, I felt none of the raw, searing rage that had driven me to crash their rendezvous spots the first time I saw a charge for birth control. I simply opened the delivery app, found the address I knew was Tatum’s, and ordered five more boxes. Thirty minutes later, the final two hundred thousand dollars of the ‘compensation’ hit my account. The total was exactly $5.2 million. I calmly screenshotted the transfer history and sent it to his mother, Victoria Price, who was handling some private business overseas. [The payment is complete. Let’s finalize the divorce agreement quickly.] 2. The first ‘compensation’ transfer from Harry had come when I stumbled upon his lewd texts with his secretary. We fought, I shouted, I hysterically begged him to stop, and in the chaos, he shoved me. I fell and had a miscarriage. That night, he signed over ownership of every liquid asset he could, kneeling before me, pleading for one last chance. I didn’t take the assets. I gave him a different condition. “From now on, every time you violate my trust, you owe me two hundred thousand dollars. When the total hits five point two million, I walk away for good.” He thought it was a desperate, angry joke. I never told him the real reason for the exact number. Long before he begged me not to divorce him, his mother, Victoria, had. Harry had paid off my bankrupt gambler father’s millions in debt to marry me. Victoria told me I could only divorce when that debt—plus a significant sum for “pain and suffering”—was repaid. I knew she wasn’t truly demanding the money. She was trying to use me to tether her son, who had inherited his father’s fickle blood. When I first found out I was pregnant again, I wanted to terminate the pregnancy. But Harry came home, playing the devoted husband, treating me with the tenderness he hadn’t shown since we were dating, claiming he finally wanted a real family. It lasted until the fifth month—the safe point of no return for an abortion. Then, his old habits returned with a vengeance. After sending the text, I received the draft of the electronic divorce settlement. I let out the breath I’d been holding for months. The day I was discharged to the specialized postpartum care center, Harry came to pick us up. The nurse was in the back with Max and a mountain of baby gear. I took the passenger seat—a place I hadn’t sat in years. The seat was reclined wide. When I reached for the adjustment knob, my hand snagged on a scrap of ruined, black pearl-lace lingerie. “That girl is wild, Evie. She wants to try every corner of the house. And the car.” He smirked, looking for the familiar flush of hysteria in my eyes. I simply took my hand away, leaving the pathetic garment exactly where it was. He was momentarily stunned, then let out a dismissive snort. “Impressive control. You’ve become much more generous. It’s a good thing you sent those five extra boxes yesterday, or her clinging would’ve been unbearable. If you’d been this understanding sooner, we might already be planning for a second baby.” I didn’t reply, resting my head back, feigning sleep. A few minutes later, that distinctive notification tone rang again. A knot tightened in my stomach—the familiar prelude to disaster. Sure enough, he slammed on the brakes, pulling off onto a deserted shortcut that cut through a construction zone. “You two wait here. Tatum has a terrible toothache. I’m dropping her off at the dentist. I’ll be back for you shortly.” He unlocked the doors, practically throwing my oversized diaper bag out, and yanked me out of the car. With a screech, the car sped away. The nurse looked at me, confusion mixing with outrage. I ignored the deep ache in my C-section scar and pointed to a black SUV rounding the corner behind us. “We’re taking that one. It’s my mother-in-law’s car.” The nurse looked at me, then the fast-approaching luxury vehicle. I simply smiled. A year ago, I had believed his empty promise to wait and had stood abandoned in the freezing cold until I became hypothermic. He’d only returned to scold me for calling the police and interrupting his quality time with Tatum. Since then, I never traveled with him without a backup plan. Being left behind was simply a known quantity now. That night, Harry returned to the spot, breathless and frantic, having found us gone. “Why didn’t you call me once you got a ride? I drove all the way back here to look for you!” “I sent you a text. You didn’t see it.” His eyes flashed with anger. “Then why didn’t you call? I thought something terrible had happened!” I paused for a beat, then gave a slow, smooth reply. “You told me never to call you when you were with Tatum.” 3. The last time, when the baby was misdiagnosed with Down syndrome, I was so terrified I could barely stand. I called him, only for Tatum to take the phone and switch to video. She was wearing a tight nurse uniform, giggling hysterically. “Evie, Harry said if the baby’s sick, you treat it. If you can’t, you abort it. Calling him won’t help.” “We’re role-playing right now. We don’t have time for your check-in calls. He said he might record something for you to use as a lullaby later.” She hung up, and Harry quickly followed with a text. [From now on, only text me. If I don’t respond, I’m with someone else. Don’t interrupt.] He froze, processing my words, then his lips curved into a satisfied half-smile. “Finally listening to reason. Good, that earns you a star. Though that time, I genuinely didn’t know it was about the baby, or I wouldn’t have let her talk like that.” He pulled two necklaces from his pocket. One was a heavy, pure gold locket for Max. Max cried the moment Harry’s hand touched him, as if repulsed. Harry flinched, then handed me the other, a cheap, diamond-chip necklace. “Here. I saw this at the auction yesterday when I was with Tatum. Thought it might suit you.” It was from the auction, but I’d seen it on Tatum’s Instagram feed: a throw-in, a free gift that came with a $2-million pink diamond, practically worthless. He went to put it around my neck. I flinched back, shrinking away from his touch. His brows furrowed, his eyes darkening with immediate displeasure. “What is this? I compliment you, and now you’re playing hard to get?” A bitter, cold wave of self-mockery washed over me. He still thought I was so easily placated by these pathetic gestures. “You misunderstand, Harry. I’m highly allergic to this particular material.” His face stiffened. He seemed to have forgotten the millions he’d spent years ago to have a custom, hypoallergenic wedding band made for me. In the past, when I still desperately hoped for his affection, I would have accepted anything he gave me, even if it caused a rash or discomfort. Anything for a flicker of his approval. I had run myself ragged chasing that last gasp of our relationship. And for what? This. After that day, he found the perfect excuse not to visit. I was relieved, using the quiet time to focus on my recovery, physical therapy, and Max. His social media, however, was a constant feed: today, Ferris wheels with Tatum; tomorrow, filming a low-budget commercial; mornings spent cooking her breakfast; afternoons hitting viral restaurants; and, occasionally, rich and chaotic nightlife posts at 3 AM. Everyone in his company was buzzing, calling her the longest-lasting mistress, speculating on when he’d finally toss out the “old wife.” From the fifth month of my pregnancy until the day I gave birth, I brought up divorce countless times. But Harry refused. He didn’t want to give up the illusion of a picture-perfect family. If he had agreed earlier, I might have even accepted being “kicked out.” The day before I was due to sign the final divorce papers, we hosted Max’s first-month celebration. Harry arrived, dramatically, with Tatum on his arm. He even led her to the seat beside him—the seat of the Lady of the House. He held the baby, cooing at him. Tatum leaned in close. “Hello, little man. I’m your stepmommy.” The silence in the room was deafening. Every guest’s face froze. Before anyone could speak, Harry smiled, looking only at me. “I forgot to mention, Evie. Tatum brought a gift for Max. She’s going to be his godmother.” Tatum slid a heavy gold bracelet onto Max’s wrist, her eyes full of venomous triumph as she looked at me. “I’ll help you take care of the baby, Evie. We’ll do it together.” Ignoring the heat of my mother-in-law’s hand trying to clamp down on mine, I smiled faintly and calmly took Max from Harry’s arms. “How thoughtful. A spiritual advisor recently told me Max’s astrological sign was too strong; he needed a God-Parent to absorb the bad karma and prevent disaster.” I looked pointedly at Tatum. “You are truly a saint, Tatum, to solve this problem for me. I accept the gift. Thank you for taking on Max’s bad luck.” Their faces instantly crumpled. Tatum’s eyes filled with tears. “It’s okay, Evie. Anything for Harry’s child. Taking on his bad luck is nothing—I would die for him.” She sniffled, looking piteously at Harry. “Maybe I should just leave now. I’m too tainted. I don’t want to spread my misfortune to everyone else.” She picked up her purse and began to leave. Harry glared at me, ready to follow her. Victoria grabbed his sleeve, her eyes sharp. “It is your son’s celebration. You will not chase a tramp out the door in front of all these people! Are you trying to shame our family forever?” Harry hesitated, about to retort. I spoke first, smiling at Victoria. “Let him go, Mom. Max is the only star tonight.” Victoria sighed, releasing her hold. “Get out! And if you ever bring that trash here again, don’t bother coming back yourself!” Harry searched my face, looking for the familiar desperation and cruelty that always reassured him. But I gave him nothing. I simply turned away, raising my glass of iced tea to toast the guests. The party wasn’t a triumph of etiquette, but at least Max was too young to remember it. And I was fine. Tomorrow, I would have the divorce papers. Victoria took us back to the family estate for our final night there. Max fell asleep on the sofa, and Victoria went to fetch a handmade blanket for him. 4. Suddenly, the massive front door slammed open. Harry stormed in, cradling a sobbing Tatum in his arms. “Evelyn! I underestimated you! Where is the bracelet? Give it back! You won’t believe it—Tatum came down with a mysterious fever this afternoon, and then she was in a car accident on the way to the hospital.” He was breathless, enraged. “I thought it was a coincidence until I ran into a traveling missionary who knew exactly what happened! You put a curse, a hex, on that bracelet to bring her bad luck! How can you be so maliciously wicked?” This from the man who called me superstitious when I prayed for days after my bleeding scare. I laughed, a short, cold sound. “And you believed that? It was a casual dig. You think I’ve been out of the house, three days post-surgery, finding a missionary to put a jinx on a piece of jewelry? Which chapel, Harry? Ask your missionary.” He stammered, unable to answer. Tatum, however, was already taking action. She pulled a prayer amulet from her bag and walked toward Max. “It’s okay, Evie. Maybe I just have a weak constitution. But this is a blessed amulet from the chapel. I want to trade it for that gold bracelet.” I stepped in front of Max. “I won’t take your amulet. I’ll return the bracelet tomorrow. Max is sleeping. I need you to leave now.” Harry glared, his eyes bloodshot. “Why can’t you give it to me now? What are you going to do with it?” Before I could speak, Harry grabbed the sleeping baby. “What are you doing? Don’t touch him!” Tatum seized Max’s arm, forcibly yanking the bracelet off. “Evie, I’m doing this for you. No matter how much you hate me, you can’t use a child to do evil! If you continue this way, the bad karma will come back on him! We have to take it off now!” Max cried out in pain and shock. My heart lurched. I lunged forward, hitting Tatum with a searing slap across the face that sent her tumbling. “Stop lying! I told you, I did nothing! Don’t you dare touch my son!” Tatum looked up at Harry, her face wet with manufactured tears. The next second, Harry’s eyes were blazing red. He shoved me violently, sending me staggering backward, and carelessly dropped Max back onto the sofa. He rushed to Tatum, helping her up with agonizing care. “We’re trying to save you and the baby from sin! Look at you, Evie! You’re insane!” The unhealed C-section scar collided with the sharp corner of the coffee table. A white-hot, ripping pain exploded through me. But the cold dread that settled over me was worse: he had zero concern for his own flesh and blood. Victoria, rushing in at the sound of the cries, helped me up. She scooped up a screaming Max. She spun around and slapped Harry across the face. “You animal! A tiger doesn’t eat its cubs, but you’re worse than your own father! You abuse your son for a tramp!” “You will regret this! Get out! Get out of my house! Don’t ruin our last night together!” “It was her fault…” Harry’s frantic eyes suddenly went still. He looked from his mother to me. “What do you mean, last night?” But before he could finish, Tatum collapsed into a dramatic faint on the floor. He instantly lost focus, scooping her up in his arms. As he reached the door, he glanced back at me. A flash of pure, unadulterated panic crossed his face. “I’m coming back tomorrow for the bracelet! Don’t try anything!” Victoria slammed the door shut, tears streaming down her face. The next morning, the household manager quietly returned with the freshly stamped, final divorce certificate. I didn’t wake Victoria. I placed the certificate beneath the gold bracelet, nestled it all inside the velvet box he’d used to present my expensive, custom wedding ring. I left the box conspicuously on the living room table. Looking down at Max in his bassinet, I spoke with a lightness I hadn’t felt in years. “Time for a new life, little one.” He suddenly grinned, his eyes crinkling into happy crescents. In the sound of his innocent, unknowing laughter, we boarded the plane that would take us to a new world.

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I donated blood, pro bono, for a sick little girl. The doctor, a woman with tired eyes, glanced from the girl to me and murmured, “You two look so much alike.” On an absurd impulse, I plucked a single strand of hair from the girl’s head and sent it off for a DNA test. The results confirmed it. She was my biological daughter. But I had only given birth once, fifteen years ago. So then, whose son was the boy I had raised for over a decade? 01 I sat in my car, the DNA report spread flat on the passenger seat. 99.99% The memory of the hospital, just days ago, flashed in my mind, sharp and insistent. It had been a corporate wellness event—a voluntary blood drive. Lying on the cot next to mine was the recipient, a frail-looking girl named Annika Hayes. The nurse, pulling the needle from my arm and applying pressure to the gauze, took a casual look at us both. “Mrs. Harper,” she’d said, “you and this child are practically twins. The eyes especially—like they were stamped from the same mold.” I had simply smiled then, dismissing it. But as I stood to leave, the girl, Annie, looked up at me, her voice barely a whisper. “Thank you, Auntie.” I froze. Those eyes. The subtle curve of her brow. The stubborn set of her lips when she held them tight—it was a mirror image of my own youth. An utterly ridiculous thought, a monstrous, impossible whisper, took root and overwhelmed me. As I left the hospital, I’d pretended to brush a loose curl from her shoulder and, in the process, discreetly took a sample. Now, this report confirmed that the ridiculous thought was a bloody, life-altering truth. Annika Hayes was my biological daughter. But my only child, the boy I had raised for fifteen years, was Preston Sinclair. Fifteen years ago, I gave birth to Preston at St. Jude’s Private Hospital. It was a terrifying delivery; I hemorrhaged, went into shock, and was wheeled out in a hazy, barely conscious state. When I finally woke, my husband, Weston—Wes—was standing there, holding a swaddled blanket. His eyes were red, but he was smiling. “Jocelyn, it’s a boy. You did it. Our heir.” My mother-in-law, Beverly Sinclair, was beside herself. She snatched the baby from Wes, cooing about the “Sinclair legacy” and their “future Chairman.” She didn’t even glance at me. At the time, submerged in the joy of first motherhood and the exhaustion of surviving, I hadn’t thought twice. Now, the entire memory was a patchwork of gaping flaws. Wes’s eyes, I recalled, had held not just excitement, but a raw, barely contained panic. When I asked what was wrong, he’d simply attributed it to the stress of almost losing me. A pathetic lie that I had swallowed for fifteen years. And Preston. He never resembled me. All our friends and family commented that he was a carbon copy of Wes. I’d never doubted it. He was my husband, after all. He was the father. The air in the car thickened, pressing on my chest until I could barely breathe. This wasn’t a soap-opera mix-up at the hospital. This was a calculated, insidious theft—a robbery of my life and my bloodline. Outside the window, the city lights blurred, casting my reflection in fractured, dancing colors. I wasn’t crying. I was beyond tears. Only a freezing, terrifying certainty remained. I picked up my phone, my fingers white-knuckled around the case, and called my assistant, Amy. “Amy, I need two things done immediately,” my voice was unnervingly steady. “First, use all our resources. I want the archived staff records from the maternity ward at St. Jude’s Private Hospital, fifteen years ago. Every nurse, every orderly, and where they are now.” “Second, immediately file a motion with the bank to freeze every joint account, every fund, stock, and liquid asset held by Weston and myself.” “Ms. Harper, is everything alright?” Amy sounded concerned. “Just do it. Now.” I hung up and started the engine. The cold steering wheel anchored me to reality. Driving home, the familiar road felt foreign. The house I had painstakingly designed, every stone placed with my own heart, now looked like a magnificent cage—a stage for a fifteen-year farce. I unlocked the front door. Laughter echoed from the great room. “Dad, that move was weak!” “Watch it, kid, I’ve still got some magic left!” Wes was cross-legged on the silk rug, battling Preston in a virtual game on the 80-inch screen—a picture of perfect, loving fatherhood. Until today, this scene had been the bedrock of my life, the reward for every sacrifice. Now, it was utterly grotesque. 02 I walked past the leather sofa, bent down, and pulled the power cord from the wall. The explosive game audio died instantly, the enormous screen plunging into silence. “Mom! What the hell?” Preston shot to his feet, annoyed. “I was about to win!” Wes looked up, his face losing its easy smile. “Jocelyn? What’s wrong? You’re home early.” His residual grin made his pleasant demeanor look revoltingly false. Ignoring Preston, I walked straight to the coffee table and tossed the folded DNA report in front of Wes. “What’s this?” he asked, picking it up casually. But as his eyes registered the line, “Probability of Relationship: 99.99%,” and the names, Jocelyn Harper and Annika Hayes, the blood drained from his face with sickening speed. His usually composed, aristocratic features turned to a crumpled white mask. His first instinct was to ball the paper up, his hand shaking violently, trying to hide it. “W-where did you get this trash? It’s a fake! Jocelyn, this isn’t funny!” His transparent terror vaporized the last shred of my marital loyalty. I let out a single, cold laugh, pulled out my phone, and hit ‘play.’ “Hello, this is the Metropolitan Forensics Lab. How can I help you?” “Hello, I’m calling to confirm the results for case number XXXX.” “One moment… Confirmation: The client, Ms. Jocelyn Harper, and the tested subject, Annika Hayes, are confirmed as biological mother and daughter.” The clear, professional recording hammered the final nail into the silence of the room. Wes’s hand dropped, the crushed report tumbling onto the rug. He swayed, completely undone. “Jocelyn, listen to me, there has to be a mistake… a coincidence… I—” He was incoherent, his eyes darting everywhere but at me. Preston, wide-eyed and terrified, looked between us. “Mom? Dad? What are you talking about? Who is Annika Hayes?” I took a deep, steadying breath, suppressing the violent hatred in my core. I spoke to Preston with forced calm. “Preston, go to your room now. Your father and I need to have a private discussion.” Unwilling, but frightened by the palpable tension, he backed away and disappeared, closing the door softly. With just the two of us left, I cut through Wes’s pathetic attempts at defense. “I only have one question for you.” I waited for his frantic eyes to meet mine. “Where is my daughter?” His eyes swam, lips trembling, unable to form a single word of plausible denial. When silence failed him, he tried for emotion. He stepped toward me, reaching for my hand. “Jocelyn, all these years… our marriage… Don’t you trust me? I would never—” I recoiled violently, taking a step back to avoid his touch, my gaze full of raw disgust. “Don’t touch me. I feel contaminated.” The words struck him like a physical blow. I didn’t give him a chance to recover. From my designer handbag, I pulled out a second document—the asset freeze confirmation my attorney had just sent. “All our joint assets, funds, and stocks have been temporarily frozen since four o’clock this afternoon.” I watched his face contort with shock as I continued, each word a shard of ice. “This house? I bought it entirely before our marriage. My name is the only one on the deed.” “Now, get out of my home.” Wes stared at me, as if he were seeing me for the first time. The pliable, cooperative wife who always consulted him was gone, replaced by a cold, calculating stranger. “Jocelyn, you’re insane! You’re going to destroy our family for some flimsy, out-of-the-blue report?” he roared, the mask of the refined gentleman shattered. I walked to the front door, pulled it open, and let the chilly night air rush into the sterile living room. I pointed to the darkness outside. My voice was a frigid whisper. “Until you account for the location of my daughter, you’ll see zero benefit from the life you stole.” “Get out.” 03 The next morning, I was woken by a high-pitched, piercing wail from the front lawn. I didn’t need to look to know who it was. I put on my silk robe and slippers and descended the grand staircase. Beverly Sinclair was sitting on my spotless marble walkway, slapping the ground dramatically and howling like a banshee. Wes stood nearby, looking hollow and haggard, dark circles ringing his eyes—he hadn’t slept. When I opened the door, Beverly’s lament instantly ratcheted up in volume. “Oh, the shame! The tragedy! Why did the Sinclair name have to be cursed with such a malicious woman! How could you do this to my son? Kicking him out, freezing his money! You must have a lover, Jocelyn! You must have birthed some bastard and are now trying to frame my poor Weston to steal our legacy!” She shrieked her accusations, her eyes spitting venom, as if I were the betrayer. A few neighbors were already peeking out their windows. I leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed, watching the pathetic theater unfold. I waited until she was breathless, her throat raw from the effort. Then, I spoke, flatly. “Are you done with your performance, Beverly?” The howling stopped abruptly. “If you are, please get up. The marble is cold. We need to keep you healthy, Mother, so you can watch the next act.” My quiet tone, devoid of warmth, made her flinch. She scrambled up, pointing a manicured finger at my face. “You vicious snake! You wish me ill!” Wes chimed in, stepping to her defense. “Jocelyn, you’ve gone too far. Let my mother inside, and let’s discuss this like adults.” “Discuss?” I smiled, a chilling expression. “This is my house, not yours. You have no authority to invite anyone in.” I focused on Beverly. Her reaction was too extreme. A normal mother-in-law, believing a simple fight was happening, would be focused on mediation. But she instantly launched into an aggressive, pre-emptive strike about “adultery” and “stealing the legacy.” It reeked of guilt. I stared into her flushed, agitated face. “Mother, why are you so upset? Is it the fear of the truth coming out, or are you trying to cover for your son’s crime?” Before she could counter, I reached inside and pulled a second envelope from the console table. This report had been rushed overnight by my security team. I withdrew the report and presented it to her. “This is the DNA profile for Weston Sinclair and Preston Sinclair.” “The result confirms they are father and son.” Both Wes and Beverly froze. I continued, my gaze dissecting Beverly’s face like a surgeon’s scalpel. “However, there is no biological relationship between me and Preston.” “Which means Weston had an affair, fathered a child, and then, fifteen years ago, brought that child home for me to raise.” I locked eyes with Beverly, asking the question I already knew the answer to. “You love this ‘grandson’ so much, Beverly. You must have known all along he wasn’t my son, didn’t you?” Her manic wails instantly ceased. The color drained from her face, leaving her sickly pale. Her eyes swam with panic and fury. She tried to speak, but her lips only twitched. Seeing his mother’s collapse, Wes rushed to steady her, screaming at me. “Jocelyn! Stop your slander! Don’t torment my mother!” I watched the exchange with cold detachment. Beverly’s response was entirely wrong for a woman who had just discovered her son was a cheat. She wasn’t angry at Wes; she was terrified of me. Her reaction wasn’t shock; it was the fury of a plan being exposed. In that moment, the vague, horrific suspicion in my mind solidified into certainty. This wasn’t just Weston’s idea. He was merely the executor. The true orchestrator, the architect of this monstrous lie, was the woman standing before me—the self-proclaimed pillar of the Sinclair family, now shaking with fear and exposure. 04 I closed the door, shutting out the disgusting scene. The sudden silence in the great room was deafening. I leaned against the door, the strength draining from my body. Worse than betrayal was the complete, meticulous calculation of it all. I pulled out my phone. The private investigator had already sent the address and file. High efficiency. I changed into simple clothes, skipping makeup. I had to see with my own eyes the life they had stolen from my daughter. The address was in the old, forgotten side of the city—a maze of low-income housing I’d never seen. I drove my sleek Mercedes through the narrow streets. The buildings were grime-caked tenements, the stucco flaking off in huge patches to expose the bare concrete beneath. The air was thick with the smell of damp rot, cheap oil, and stale garbage. I parked and looked up. Balconies were draped with faded, mismatched laundry, like distressed flags. My daughter. Living here? Following the unit number, I climbed to the fifth floor. The stairs were dim, unlit, the concrete steps sticky underfoot. I stopped before a dented metal door with a faded ‘Welcome’ magnet stuck crookedly to the corner. My heart hammered against my ribs, each beat sharp with agonizing pain. I raised my hand and knocked. After a long pause, the door cracked open. A woman with a waxy, numb-looking face peered out, her eyes wide with suspicion and alarm. It was her: Deidre, the woman from the PI’s photo. I didn’t speak. I simply shoved the door hard. Deidre stumbled back, trying to slam the door shut, but I wedged my shoulder into the frame, forcing my way in. The scene inside stole the air from my lungs. It was a single room, maybe three hundred square feet, all belongings visible: a worn mattress on a cheap frame, a battered chest of drawers, a tiny folding table. The room was dim, the single window half-blocked by the adjacent building. And there, at the small table, sat my daughter, Annika. She was wearing a thin, washed-out hoodie, doing homework under the glow of a small, cheap desk lamp. She was painfully thin, her wrists delicate, looking like a sickly sprout starved of light. On the table next to her textbook was a cup of watery instant ramen with a few pathetic shreds of green onion floating on top. That was her dinner. At the noise, Annie looked up. Her eyes, identical to mine, were filled with a raw mix of shyness and fear. My throat tightened. The grief was so overwhelming it felt like a seizure.

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I was staring at job listings online, a casualty of a year-end layoff, when I scrolled past a forum thread. [What’s the fastest way for a girl to make money?] The top comment made my blood run cold. [Definitely finding a Sugar Daddy. Mine gives me ten grand a month, remembers my favorite food, and even tracks my cycle. His only downside is his high sex drive—he loves to keep me wrapped up all night. But he’s gorgeous!] Someone replied: [How do you find a guy like that? Is he single?] Her reply: [He has a girlfriend, but he hasn’t touched her in months. He says she’s dull as wallpaper in bed, zero fun. As for how we met? He accidentally hit me with his car in Miami earlier this year.] I stopped breathing. In March, Brooks Hawthorne was on a business trip in Miami and had an incident where he’d accidentally bumped a girl with his car. My fingers went numb. I kept scrolling. [Today I just mentioned I was feeling down, and he left his girlfriend to come buy me a new bag.] Attached was a photo of tightly clasped hands. On the man’s index finger, there was a fresh, shallow cut. It was the exact spot where Brooks had nicked himself this morning while slicing a grapefruit for me. 1 I slammed the phone onto my lap, my heart hammering against my ribs. It can’t be him. I closed my eyes, trying to convince myself. Not the Brooks who would warm my icy feet in his lap during winter. Not the Brooks who remembered every one of my obscure favorites, whose eyes still glowed when he spoke about me. We’d been together for seven years. We were woven into the fabric of each other’s lives. Besides, our engagement party was the day after tomorrow. The design for the invitation suite? He’d personally overseen every detail. It had to be a coincidence. I took several deep, shaky breaths and reopened the thread. The comments section was a toxic mix of envy and disgust. Her replies became increasingly arrogant. [Why so bitter? She’s holding the spot but doesn’t know how to keep him interested. She deserves to be sidelined. Men need spice, not a silent statue.] [My Sugar Daddy even pulled strings to get her fired and put me in her old position.] [Now his girlfriend is jobless, and he’s only giving her five grand a month, but I get ten! LOL.] Each word felt like a physical stab to the chest. A week ago, I was let go from my company with no explanation. HR was vague, mumbling something about a “corporate restructuring” decided by the senior board. I came home and curled up in Brooks’ arms, devastated. He kissed the top of my head. “It’s just a job, Maya. Let it go. I’ll give you five grand a month.” “Stay home, arrange flowers, binge-watch shows, or go shopping and have high tea. You don’t need the stress.” I told him I didn’t want to be his ‘little kept woman.’ He smiled, his eyes full of what I now realize was pity. “I want to take care of you, Maya. Only you.” Only you. The words still echoed, yet now they brought on a bone-deep chill. My hands were shaking as I clicked on SweetTinsley’s profile. Her latest update: [Day 244 of being spoiled by my man. I casually said I liked it, and the next thing I know, he’s carrying it out the door for me!] The photo showed a man’s back as he paid at a department store counter. Brooks had left this morning in a different suit. But the shape of his shoulders, the precise way he stood—I could have traced that silhouette blindfolded. My stomach lurched. I scrolled down. [Day 215 of being spoiled by my man. They’re getting engaged, but I designed the invitations! I love Honeysuckle—it means bonds of devotion. Pretty, right?] The invitation she posted was identical to the one in my desk drawer. Brooks had handed it to me, his gaze full of what I’d mistaken for deep affection. “Honeysuckle,” he’d murmured. “It means loyal love and lasting bonds. It survives the winter. It’s us, Maya.” Loyalty. Bonds. How perfectly cruel. [Day 198 of being spoiled by my man. Today is his and his girlfriend’s seven-year anniversary, but he ditched her to take me to a new movie!] I remembered that day. I’d taken the day off, cooked his favorite meal, ordered a custom cake, wrapped his gift, and lit all our scented candles. All I got was a text: “Emergency at the office, babe. Gotta deal with it. I’ll be late.” I hadn’t doubted him for a second. I’d even told him to take care of himself. My fingers were ice cold, gripping the phone. I scrolled to the very first post. [Just ran into my dream guy! He accidentally clipped me with his car, but he was so sweet and insisted on taking me to the ER… He has a girlfriend, though. Don’t care. A man this perfect is a crime to miss! Time for the other woman playbook!] Edited on March 4th, 2025. The day Brooks hit that girl. “Ugh—” I ran to the bathroom, dry-heaving until my throat was raw. Tears and snot smeared my face. The person in the mirror had wild, red-rimmed eyes. A madwoman. Seven months and twenty-two days. Two hundred and forty-four days. All those nights he was “working late,” “taking a meeting,” or “handling an emergency.” Every moment I’d spent worrying about his stress and hard work, he was with her. He had even personally destroyed the job I valued so much, just to make room for her. He knew what that job meant to me. He knew! After a long time, I gathered myself, propped up the phone, and took screenshots of every single post and comment. When Brooks got home, he was still in the same suit he’d left in this morning. No suspicious scent. He carried a bag containing my favorite, hard-to-get takeout from across town—the one I’d mentioned wanting last night. Seeing my red eyes, he rushed over, cupping my face in his hands. “What’s wrong? Did you watch another sad movie?” Just as he finished the sentence, the doorbell rang. He frowned slightly. “Probably the building manager. I’ll get it.” He opened the door, and a sickly sweet female voice floated in. “Hi, delivery for… Mr. Hawthorne.” The voice was identical to the one on SweetTinsley’s last video. Brooks froze, quickly thanked the person, shut the door, and came back holding two milkshakes. “Saw a line at that new place on the way back, thought you might want one, so I had them deliver it. Didn’t want the dinner getting cold while I waited.” It was a perfectly smooth explanation. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Brooks. Is there anything you’re keeping from me?” 2 He stalled, the straw in his hand halfway to the cup. Then, his expression returned to normal. He smiled, pressing the milkshake into my hand, and ruffled my hair. His voice was a familiar blend of teasing and loving exasperation. “Maya, did you watch one of those stupid TikTok videos testing your boyfriend again? Those are all fake, you know, just for clicks.” “Besides, how could I ever keep a secret from you?” Before he could finish, his phone buzzed. He glanced down and quickly silenced it. “You start eating before that gets cold. I need to take a quick call. Project emergency.” His pace was a little too fast as he headed for his study. I looked down at the Matcha Green Tea Latte in my hand. Condensation dripped onto my skin, freezing cold. I am severely allergic to matcha. He has never forgotten that. Until now. Until he had a more important concern. He emerged a few minutes later, the familiar look of apologetic fatigue already on his face. The look he wore every time he had to leave me for “work.” “Maya—” he started. “Is it the office again?” I cut him off before he could fabricate a lie. He paused, then nodded, seizing the opening. “Yes. A last-minute contract needs signing. I have to go handle it right now.” I looked into his eyes. “Can you not go?” His expression hardened for a second. “Maya, don’t do this.” “You know I’m doing this for us. All this pushing, all this effort… it’s for our future.” “I need to prove to my mother that Brooks Hawthorne can make it on his own, without a dime of family support. I need to give you the best life.” Brooks’ mother, Camilla, had never liked me. The reason was simple: my background was too ordinary, even broken, to match the Hawthorne family name. Brooks was a trust-fund golden boy. Before me, his life was perfectly mapped out, including a suitable fiancée. He had defied his family for me. His mother, furious, cut him off completely, casting him out. She vowed that if he could build his own empire in five years—without any family assistance—she would accept me, and our relationship. So for five years, Brooks hadn’t stopped working for a minute. And I had been just as relentless, working to better myself, terrified of becoming a burden. I was afraid his mother’s spiteful words—‘She’ll only drag you down’—would come true. Camilla never gave up trying to drive me away. From the initial half-million-dollar bribe to a million, and then, a month ago, the check she’d casually slid across the table. A hundred million dollars. The condition: leave her son. I had never taken it. Because I loved Brooks. I believed he loved me. I stubbornly believed that true love could overcome all obstacles, all prejudice, all class divides. Until this moment. The faith I’d held so tightly was beginning to fracture. His phone buzzed again. He glanced at it and didn’t even bother to make an excuse this time. “Maya, I have to go. Eat your dinner.” He didn’t wait for my response. He turned and strode out the door. I grabbed my phone and followed. In the underground garage, I saw them. 3 She was wrapped around him like a koala bear. Brooks’ large hand was supporting her hip, and he adjusted her, steadying her hold. His voice reached me, a soft tone of mock-chiding laced with indulgence. “I told you to wait in the car. Who gave you permission to come upstairs? Trying to stay in bed all night?” She clung to his neck, pouting. “Yes, I want my man to love me hard.” “Besides, I’m smart. I brought those two milkshakes up and told him I was the delivery girl. Relax, your precious girlfriend won’t find out.” Brooks chuckled softly and pinched her nose. “You’re too smart, baby. But don’t do that again, understood? You can have anything you want, but you cannot let her find out. That’s my bottom line.” She huffed and shook her body against him. “You sound so tired, running back and forth. You change your clothes every time, terrified she’ll notice something. Do you really love her that much?” Brooks paused. “Yes. I love her. That’s why I can’t let her find out. I can’t let her be hurt.” “What about me?” “You are my favorite little thing, after her.” “Hmph. Then you have to stay with me tonight. The whole night. No going back home.” Brooks leaned down and gave her a quick, soft kiss on the lips. His voice was gentle. “Deal.” Then, he opened the car door, placed her inside, and got in beside her. A moment later, the car began to rock gently. I slid slowly down the cold concrete pillar behind me, sinking onto the floor. It turned out that peak heartbreak was silent, tearless. After an eternity, the rocking stopped. The engine roared, and the car sped out of the parking garage. I opened my phone and found the number I hadn’t saved. I dialed. Brooks’ mother, Camilla, answered. I watched the taillights disappear and spoke calmly. “The one hundred million. I accept your offer to leave your son.” In the tea room, Camilla Hawthorne set down her teacup, a small, knowing smile touching her lips. “Changed your mind?” she asked. “Last time, you said you’d sooner die than leave Brooks.” I didn’t touch the tea in front of me. “He betrayed me.” She raised an eyebrow, unsurprised. “Because of the other girl?” Her tone was utterly flat. “I’d heard whispers. I just didn’t expect you to be the one to find out first.” She seemed to sense I wasn’t there for small talk. “Send me your bank details. The money will be transferred within three days.” She looked at me, her gaze like a sharpened knife. “Keep your word. If you try to contact him again, you know the consequences.” I stood up and left. I received a text from Brooks a few minutes later. [Maya, emergency project meeting tonight. Can’t make it home. Get some rest and don’t wait up for me.] I sent him the photo I had just taken in the parking garage. [Are you really at a meeting? Or are you with another woman?] 4 The message went unanswered. I sat in the living room all night. Brooks came home just as the sun was rising. He saw the untouched takeout boxes on the coffee table. He rushed over, his face etched with worry. “Maya?” He reached out to check my forehead. “Your color is awful. Are you sick? You haven’t eaten a thing.” I turned my head away from his touch. His hand froze in the air, his movement awkward. I looked up at him, my voice parched. “Did you get the text I sent last night?” He frowned, pulling out his phone, feigning confusion. “What text? I was at the office all night dealing with a major crisis. My phone was probably on silent. I didn’t notice.” Just then, SweetTinsley posted a new update. [Day 255 of being spoiled by my man. His girlfriend found out we were hooking up and sent him a text. I secretly deleted it for him! I’m such a clever girl!] The accompanying photo showed a man’s back, wrapped only in a towel. So that’s it. My stomach felt hollow, too empty even for nausea. I managed a slight, bitter curve of my lips and pulled my gaze away from the phone. I looked at Brooks, who was still pretending to check his notifications. “Maybe it didn’t go through,” I said. He visibly relaxed. He pulled me into a tight hug, resting his chin on my hair. His voice was dripping with relief and tenderness. “You little worrywart. You scared me.” His arms still felt warm, and his scent was achingly familiar. But I only felt an icy isolation. “I’ve been too busy lately. Leaving you alone all the time, no one to eat or sleep beside. It’s my fault.” He spoke in a low, loving murmur, the picture of devotion. “But it’s all worth it. Tomorrow is our engagement party.” “I’ve planned everything. I’m going to make sure everyone knows that you, Maya Lynn, are the only woman Brooks Hawthorne will ever choose.” I stayed silent in his arms. I thought of the year he was cut off from his family and had to start from scratch. I’d just graduated from college. He had nothing. We lived in a cramped, damp basement apartment. We shared one cup of ramen, and he gave me the only piece of processed meat. His eyes were shining. “You’ve suffered with me, Maya, but I promise you this—one day I will give you the best life.” The tears I shed then were real. My sympathy was real. And the light in his eyes? Perhaps it had been real, too. If I hadn’t seen that thread. If I hadn’t seen those images in the garage. I would still be here, foolishly, utterly, wholeheartedly trusting and loving him. Until I ran out of oxygen. The next day, at the engagement venue. Brooks had personally overseen the decor. Every corner was draped in the Wild English Rose, the flower I’d once said represented resilient, yet romantic, life. The room was full. Only his parents’ table remained conspicuously empty. I wore the gown he’d designed for me, standing by his side, accepting congratulations. He held my hand tightly, his face beaming with manufactured happiness. The officiant was halfway through his overly sentimental opening speech when Brooks’ phone vibrated. He glanced at it and quickly silenced it. Just as the officiant was about to announce the exchange of rings, the phone vibrated again. This time, Brooks didn’t immediately shut it off. He gave me an apologetic smile and whispered, “Company emergency. I have to take this. I’ll be right back.” He released my hand and moved behind a nearby pillar. I stood in my place, watching his back as he answered. The distance wasn’t great. I could see that at first, he listened with a hint of irritation. Then, his face went instantly pale. “What? Which hospital? I’m coming now! Tell her to wait for me!” He hung up abruptly, not even bothering to compose himself. He turned, rushing over to me in a few hurried steps. “Maya, I have an urgent personal matter I need to deal with immediately.” “I’ll come straight back once it’s handled, I promise. Wait for me.” Before I could reply, he spun around and bolted from the room. The entire hall fell into a stunned silence, followed by a rising tide of whispers. Everyone’s eyes were on me. The officiant, completely lost, attempted a shaky recovery. Just then, my phone vibrated. A bank notification: the wire transfer had arrived. And a text from his mother. [Money received. Remember our agreement.] Almost simultaneously, SweetTinsley posted an update. [Day 256 of being spoiled by my man. I purposely got clipped by a car to get his attention. He immediately ditched his girlfriend and ran from his own engagement party to see me! I told you I’m his favorite!] I screenshotted the post and dropped it into a PowerPoint presentation I’d prepared long ago. I walked forward and took the microphone from the mortified officiant. “Everyone,” I said, my voice steady. “The engagement is canceled. My apologies.” “Before I go, I have a small gift for you all.” I projected the file—titled ‘The Brooks Hawthorne/SweetTinsley Files’—onto the large LED screen. The first slide was SweetTinsley’s latest post. Ignoring the chaos erupting behind me, I lifted the hem of my gown, turned, and walked out. A taxi pulled up to the curb. I powered down my phone, took out the SIM card, and snapped it cleanly in half. Brooks arrived at the hospital to find that Tinsley’s injuries were minor. He was momentarily furious, but quickly reverted to the role of gentle comforter. “Tinsley, just focus on resting. I’ll come back tomorrow.” Just as he finished the sentence, his assistant called. “Mr. Hawthorne, Maya… Maya found out about Tinsley.”

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It was the week before New Year’s Eve when Denise, a fellow teacher, suddenly appeared at my desk with a bouquet of flowers, insisting they were for me. The card contained only a few sparse words: “Wishing Shirley a happy New Year.” The signature was a simple, single English letter: “B.” One look was all it took. I recognized his handwriting instantly, and the ghost of his face flashed in my mind. Against my will, the memories—those wretched, deeply buried things—began to claw their way back up. My fingers, gripping the small card, tightened into a white-knuckled fist. Moments later, with Denise watching, I walked the expensive arrangement straight over to the office trash can and dumped it in. That man. We were days away from walking down the aisle. But from the moment my brother’s name was etched onto a marble headstone, he and I ceased to have any connection at all. 01 My colleague, Denise, must have guessed the truth from my actions. After a long pause, she finally asked, “Was it him?” I didn’t answer, my focus fixed on the lesson plans I was writing. Denise sighed softly. “I heard he’s arranging a transfer back from out of state. Are you really going to keep this up when he gets here?” “You’ll be colleagues, Shirley. Besides, he was your brother’s closest—” “Denise.” I cut her off. “Beckett lost the right to that title five years ago. He was not a brother in the twenty-seven years of Logan’s short life.” She looked at me intently. “Shirley, it’s been so many years. Do you still hate him?” “Yes.” My reply was swift and cold, clipped with finality. Denise’s expression was startled. After a moment, she just shook her head and walked away. Leaving the school that afternoon, I ran into Mr. Henderson, the principal, who had been a professor to both my brother and Beckett. After a brief exchange of pleasantries, his tone shifted, becoming measured and complex. “I got a call this afternoon. Beckett is coming back.” I offered a noncommittal “Mhm.” The principal was silent for a moment, then offered his counsel. “Your brother was a very forgiving person. If he were alive, he wouldn’t want to see you two this way.” This way? As enemies? I didn’t understand why everyone kept telling me to let it go. Did they truly believe that once a tragedy occurred, the victim was somehow obligated to accept it? I had every right to my anger, to the moral high ground, yet they were constantly pressuring me. Colleagues, my boss, even my family friends. Why were they all speaking up for Beckett? I couldn’t fathom it, and I didn’t want to try. On the walk home, the evening wind was sharp, making my cheeks sting. I smoothed the anger from my face and walked slowly up the stairs to my apartment. I pushed the door open to the comforting sight of my parents and my husband, Ben, gathered around the kitchen island, making homemade meatballs for the sauce. Three-year-old Rosie, our daughter, sat on the sofa, happily poking at a small piece of dough she held in her hand. “Mommy!” Rosie’s eyes immediately spotted me. She dropped the dough and toddled over on her short, chubby legs. I bent down and scooped her up, kissing her soft cheek. She held up the oddly shaped piece of dough she’d been mangling and said sweetly, “Look, Mommy! This is the meatball I made for Uncle Logan.” I had to clench my jaw, fighting the sudden, fierce sting of tears. “That’s wonderful, Rosie-girl.” The steaming sauce and meatballs were eventually brought to the table. I placed a bowl of sauce and a few pieces of bread at the empty setting—my brother’s spot. It had been five years, but his place was always set, as if he might just walk in and join us. Rosie tugged on my sleeve, confused. “Mommy, why does Uncle Logan always stay in the square box?” She was pointing to the large framed photo on the credenza. “Why doesn’t he come out and eat the meatballs?” “Why won’t he ever play with me?” I looked at Logan’s photograph. He was forever twenty-four, frozen in the prime of his life. The air went still. My parents paused their movements, then resumed them, their grief a familiar, quiet hum. Ben squeezed my hand under the table, offering a silent anchor. I looked down at my daughter’s innocent, searching eyes, stroked her hair, and said nothing. If Logan were here, I thought, he would be the best son, the best brother, and the best uncle. But there was no if. For five years, I thought I had buried the wretched past, and the man connected to it, deep in the darkest corner of my heart. But the slightest movement, a mere breath of wind, was enough to make the scabs bleed again. 02 I ran into Beckett the very next day, right as I entered the school gate. Five years had passed, and the contours of his face hadn’t changed, but the boyishness was gone. His eyes were sharper, his expression more mature and intense, surrounded by an impenetrable, chilly air. Students passing by greeted me, but I barely registered them. My gaze was locked onto Beckett’s face, and my chest felt squeezed by an invisible hand, the pain so acute it stole my breath. A brutal thought flashed: If it had been him five years ago, and Logan was standing here instead, how much better everything would be. “How have you been all these years?” Beckett spoke first, his voice devoid of discernible emotion. I didn’t reply, turning on my heel to walk away, but his hand shot out, gripping my wrist with sudden force. He frowned, his voice taking on a desperate, almost pleading edge I hadn’t expected. “Shirley, I know what happened back then was my fault, but no matter what, I’m not ungrateful. I have never forgotten the kindness your family, the Samuel family, showed me. Can we just… let the past stay in the past?” I spun around fiercely, staring into his eyes, a tide of pure hatred rushing up and turning my eyes red-rimmed. “Beckett, who are you to decide when everything ‘moves on’?” His brows furrowed tighter. “Shirley, I know you’re still blaming me, but so much time has passed…” I cut him off. “Time doesn’t change what happened!” He was silenced, his throat bobbing. “I know that Gena and I wronged you and your brother back then,” he admitted, looking at me with a strained sincerity. “I came back this time because I want to apologize to you all face-to-face.” That sentence was a fuse. It instantly ignited the fury I had suppressed for five years. I yanked my hand free with such force that he stumbled back a step. “You don’t deserve to say his name!” I screamed, the tears finally bursting free and streaming down my face. I couldn’t bear to look at him for another second. I turned and fled. As I entered the office, a whirlwind of energy rushed toward me. It was my best friend, Tessa, who had just returned from a professional exchange program—and who had been Logan’s peer in their grad program. She grabbed my arm, her voice frantic. “I heard Beckett was transferring back and I drove straight through the night to get here.” She noticed my red eyes. “You saw him, didn’t you?” I nodded. Tessa immediately rolled up her sleeves, ready to storm out and find him. “That monster! How dare he come back! I’m going to tear him to pieces!” I quickly pulled her back, shaking my head. She stopped, looking at my pale face, her own eyes filling with sympathetic tears. “If it wasn’t for your parents and Logan helping him, he wouldn’t have even finished college,” she hissed, her voice full of scorn. “And he just turned around and got involved with your brother’s girlfriend. An ungrateful snake like that deserves every bit of karma that comes his way!” A familiar, throbbing ache spread through my heart. Yes, I thought. Beckett deserves every consequence. Back then, Beckett was Logan’s best friend and college roommate. He came from a poor background; his father had died young, and his mother was chronically ill. In their sophomore year, his mother passed away, and he couldn’t even afford the funeral costs. Logan came home and begged our parents for help. My parents, soft-hearted as they were, not only paid for the burial but continued to help him with living expenses. Later, he worked tirelessly, paying back every penny within a year. He even volunteered to tutor me for free for two years. Logan treated him like a brother; my father treated him like a second son. My whole family thought we had taken in a good, grateful young man. Who could have predicted that the person we treated as family would ultimately betray my brother and me in the most heinous way, shattering our lives? 03 The woman who was supposed to be my sister-in-law, but instead became the wedge in my relationship with Beckett, was named Gena. She was outwardly sweet and compliant, and my parents adored her. My wedding to Beckett was only weeks away; the invitations were already printed. But at every get-together, I would catch Gena looking at Beckett. That look was all wrong. It was too soft, too intimate, filled with undisguised longing, like a still, clear spring. She never looked at Logan that way. I tried to subtly warn Beckett a few times, but he always laughed, ruffling my hair and saying I was imagining things. “That’s going to be your sister-in-law, Scar. I know the code—a brother’s fiancée is off-limits.” He’d tease, “If Logan knew you were this jealous, he’d never let you live it down.” Seeing his seemingly open demeanor, I forced down the anxiety and pushed my suspicions aside. But it didn’t take long for their behavior to become overtly intimate. Joking and laughing together in front of me became routine. Once, Gena offered Beckett the half-finished coffee she’d been drinking. He took it without a second thought, finishing the cup in a single gulp. My heart seized up. I tore into Beckett when we were alone, arguing until my tears stained the carpet. “How can you do that? How can you do this to Logan? To me?” He fell silent, his head bowed. When he finally looked up, his face was calm, and he promised he would avoid any unnecessary interaction with Gena from then on. For a while, he did keep his distance. But I also keenly noticed his attitude toward me had grown cold, palpably distant. No fighting, no obvious conflict—just the warmth and affection vanished into thin air. My anxiety returned, sharper than ever. Three days before our wedding, I went to our new home to place the delicate, hand-painted porcelain vase I’d bought for the living room display shelf. I entered the code, twisted the handle, and pushed the door open. The scene before me instantly froze the blood in my veins. The bedroom door was ajar. On our festive, scarlet-red wedding bed, two figures were tangled together. Discarded clothes littered the floor, a sight that burned into my eyes. The porcelain vase in my hand crashed to the ground. The brittle shards scattered with a jarring, high-pitched smash. The noise startled the figures. Beckett wrenched his head around. Seeing me standing in the doorway, his face went instantly ashen. He practically shrieked, spitting out three words: “Get the hell out!” I was shaking violently, beyond the capacity to cry. I stumbled back, turning and blindly running out of the new house. My phone buzzed. It was a text from Gena. The single line of text was a poisoned dagger, stabbing straight into my heart. Sorry, sis. Some people you’re just not strong enough to keep. Tears burst forth. I collapsed on the curb, sobbing uncontrollably. I couldn’t understand how they could do something so vile. How could they betray me? How could they betray Logan? I had to tell him. He couldn’t stay in the dark. I fumbled for my phone, my fingers trembling, to call my brother. But before I could tell him anything, the accident happened. Logan crashed his car. Boom. My world disintegrated. 04 Logan was in a coma for a long time after the surgery. The doctor said his consciousness was intact, but his injuries were severe. They urged us—his closest relatives—to talk to him. If his will to live was strong enough, he might wake up soon. The police determined my brother had caused the accident by excessive speeding. They recovered his phone at the scene. It was battered but functional. I hesitated, then entered a few digits. It unlocked. The password was Gena’s birthday. I scrolled to his texts. The most recent message was a voice note from Gena. The date was the very day I had discovered Beckett and Gena cheating. My finger trembled as I pressed play. Her sickening moans and Beckett’s heavy gasps poured out of the speaker. I lunged for the trash can, violently vomiting. Tears streamed down my face, mixing with the bile. He was rushing, speeding, because they had sent him that. Because they had deliberately broken him. They had killed my brother. I hid the truth, not even telling my parents. They couldn’t handle the shock, not now. I went to the hospital every day to talk to Logan. I talked about our childhood, our growing up, every tiny, irrelevant memory. But whenever I neared the subject of Beckett or Gena, I deliberately circled around it, refusing to speak their names. A week later, Logan’s finger twitched. Before I could even register the relief, Gena arrived to visit. Through the glass of the ICU, I saw her leaning over Logan’s bed, murmuring something to him. When she saw me, she smiled—a sickeningly sweet curve of her lips. “Shirley, you’re here. I was just catching Logan up. We were talking about your wedding to Beckett, actually.” “He needs to hurry up and get better so we can all attend your ceremony together.” Her condescension and provocation were too obvious. I was shaking with suppressed rage. I hadn’t confronted her yet. That didn’t mean I had forgotten her betrayal, her sleeping with my fiancé, her breaking my brother. It certainly didn’t mean she could stand there, preening over his sickbed. Rage flooded my body. Ignoring the hospital rules, I burst through the doors, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her out. I kicked her hard in the lower abdomen. Gena hadn’t reacted fast enough. I slammed her against the wall. That was the moment Beckett arrived. He shoved me with brutal force. My head cracked against the wall with a dull thud. The pain stole my breath. He bellowed at me: “Shirley! What the hell is wrong with you?” Before I could speak, Gena cried out from the floor. “Beckett, my stomach! It hurts so much.” “The baby… our baby…” Her words froze me to the core. A baby? They had a child together? Beckett glared at me, then gently comforted Gena, “Don’t worry.” He swept her up in his arms and rushed her off to find a doctor. I remained on the floor, stunned, unable to move for a long time. Gena’s baby was fine, but I was utterly shattered. I forced myself to hide the pain and keep the truth buried. I returned to the ICU after dropping my parents home. As I approached, I saw a scene that made me nauseous. Gena was nestled in Beckett’s embrace. They were kissing passionately, heedless of their surroundings, right next to Logan’s bed. Gena’s voice was soft and sickly sweet. “Logan would bless us once he wakes up.” Beckett pulled her tighter, his voice low. “As soon as he gets better, we’ll tell him.” Just then, the monitoring equipment let out a deafening, continuous shriek. Logan’s fingers suddenly curled, and the steady rhythm of his heart on the monitor instantly flatlined, becoming a cold, straight line. “Doctor! Nurse!” I screamed like a madwoman, my voice raw and shaking. Nurses and doctors rushed in, and the room dissolved into chaos. The sound of the defibrillator whined relentlessly, the doctor’s frantic instructions hammering against my crumbling sanity. I rushed in, violently pushing Beckett and Gena out. “Get out! Both of you get the hell out of here!” Beckett’s face cycled through pale and white. He tried to speak, but the sheer, raw madness in my eyes drove him back. He pulled Gena away from the room. I sank down against the hallway wall, watching the frantic figures in the trauma bay, tears pouring down my face. The monitor’s scream continued, each beat hammering my fragile heart. I prayed desperately, over and over: Hold on, Logan. You have to hold on. But heaven didn’t hear my prayer. It took my brother away. I watched the tall, protective figure who had shielded me my whole life pushed into the cremation chamber. In a fleeting moment, he was reduced to a handful of ashes. … Sharing a city, let alone a workplace, with Beckett was simply too much. I shook myself back to the present, planning to go home and take a day off. Suddenly, the elevator stopped on my floor. Beckett rushed out, practically running, and clamped his hands onto my shoulders. His voice was trembling as he asked, “Why are they all saying your brother is dead?”

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