I found an earring in the passenger seat gap of my professor husband’s car. It was the style his favorite female student often wore. He glanced at it and explained: “It snowed today, so I gave two students a ride on the way. Probably dropped it accidentally.” I thoughtfully put it away and said to him: “It’s okay, no need to explain.” I knew the students Ethan mentioned. The only one who liked sitting in the passenger seat was his female student, Chloe. Because of her, I had countless hysterical arguments with Ethan like a madwoman, and threatened divorce many times. After my miscarriage, he was the first to concede, promising me he wouldn’t interact with her privately alone. Seeing my indifferent face, Ethan was stunned, unable to hold back his question: “Do you not care at all?” Once, my care for him was exchanged for countless arguments, endless tears, and the loss of my child. Now, I really don’t care anymore. Chapter 1 I didn’t answer Ethan. When we got home, he stopped me, his face filled with deep fatigue. Looking at me with complex eyes, “Why?” I smiled and asked softly: “Isn’t this what you wanted?” Ethan was silent for a moment, then explained again: “Chloe is my student. Today I didn’t just drive her, but another student too, that’s all. Why do you…” He didn’t finish the rest of his sentence. I silently added for him in my heart. Why do I always speculate on their relationship like this? He realized his slip of tongue and sighed helplessly: “I didn’t interact with her alone. She sat in the passenger seat because she gets carsick.” “Besides that, she is my student, I am her teacher, there is no relationship.” I didn’t speak. Ethan’s expression changed slightly, carrying imperceptible exhaustion and helplessness. “Emily, then what do you want me to do?” I looked at Ethan calmly. “I don’t want you to do anything.” “You don’t need to explain so much to me either.” Thinking of the earring in the car, I said again: “How about you send it back to her now? Otherwise, it’s unsafe for her to come over in the middle of the night.” Ethan’s face changed. Chloe had come to our door late at night twice looking for Ethan. The first time her lab report was accidentally left in Ethan’s car. She came to Ethan with red eyes in the middle of the night. Finally, Ethan drove her back. Half a month later, I found a lipstick under the passenger seat of Ethan’s car. Ethan explained lightly: “Probably Chloe dropped it accidentally.” He put it away naturally. I frowned, suppressing the strange feeling in my heart. Still asked nothing. Unexpectedly, Chloe came again in the middle of the night. Naturally reaching out to him, “Professor Clarke, give me back my lipstick.” Ethan took it out of his pocket and handed it to her, tone indifferent: “Be careful next time.” Chloe stuck out her tongue playfully at him, “Got it, Professor Clarke~” She skillfully acted coquettishly towards Ethan, making demands. I froze on the spot. That was the first time I quarreled with Ethan. At the end of the argument, he closed his eyes and rubbed his brows, “Emily, not everyone’s mind is full of these messy things like you.” “Chloe is different from you, she is excellent.” My tears were still hanging on my eyelashes. Staring blankly at Ethan. Ethan said no more, turned and left. Recovering from thoughts. Ethan stared at me tightly, seeming to want to see a trace of change on my face. Unfortunately, none. My expression didn’t change at all. When I turned to go upstairs, Ethan’s hoarse and expectant voice sounded behind me. “Emily, today is our fifth wedding anniversary.” “Do you remember?” If Ethan hadn’t mentioned it, I would have forgotten. Since Ethan started mentoring students, he only had one word for our anniversary. Busy. Last year’s anniversary, I called him nervously and excitedly. The one answering wasn’t Ethan. It was Chloe. “Mrs. Clarke, Professor Clarke is drunk. Do you want to call back when he is sober?” Hearing Chloe’s voice, I felt like a bucket of cold water was poured from head to toe. Ethan disliked others touching his phone, even I was no exception. The first year of marriage, I accidentally took his phone by mistake. Although he said nothing. But his expression wasn’t good. Since then, I never touched his phone again. However, Chloe could answer his calls without permission. Because of this, I had another big fight with Ethan. He slammed the door and left. Those meals and gifts I carefully prepared were left overnight just like that. I turned around, “Forgot.” Ethan’s expression froze, face full of disbelief. “Forgot?” I didn’t answer him again. Went upstairs, back to the room. Chapter 2 In the middle of the night, I was woken up by noises downstairs. Opened the door groggily, wanting to go down to see what was happening. Just walked to the stairs, heard Chloe’s voice. “I want to know what I did wrong? Professor, did Mrs. Clarke misunderstand something about us?” “You keep ignoring me, not replying to my messages.” “If so, I can go explain to Mrs. Clarke.” Speaking to the end, Chloe’s voice was already tinged with crying. Chloe is the only female student among the students Ethan has mentored for two years. Perhaps for this reason, others intentionally or unintentionally took extra care of her. Even Ethan mentioned her name much more often. After a long time, Ethan’s helpless voice sounded. “It has nothing to do with you, don’t blame yourself.” “Really?” Chloe asked suspiciously with a crying tone: “But, you ignore me.” “Mm.” Chloe finally smiled. I walked down slowly. Just happened to bump into Chloe throwing herself into Ethan’s arms, hugging Ethan’s neck tightly. I glanced, didn’t speak. Bypassed them to get water. Ethan’s face changed. Pushed Chloe away abruptly. Chloe wiped her face somewhat flustered, explaining to me carefully: “Mrs. Clarke, it’s not what you saw. I was just too excited, so…” I turned my head, smiled: “It’s okay, no need to explain.” “I want to rest, please keep it down.” Chloe’s face froze, subconsciously looking at Ethan. After sending Chloe away, Ethan came up to find me. “Emily.” He said somewhat tiredly: “There are problems between us, let’s talk properly.” I smiled: “What do you want to talk about?” “Talk about Chloe?” Ethan was silent. I sighed, looking at him with exceptionally calm eyes, calm as if looking at a stranger. “Ethan, I don’t think there’s anything to talk about. Chloe is your student, and your only female student. It’s normal for you to be good to her. I won’t be angry about these things, you don’t need to explain to me specially.” I said: “Nothing to explain, I understand all.” Ethan’s face turned white instantly. These were the words he said to me during our umpteenth argument about Chloe. Now I return them intact. He wanted to say something more, phone rang. It was Chloe calling. Ethan looked at me, hesitated. Finally picked it up, and turned on speaker. Chloe on the other end cried: “Professor Clarke, I got into a car accident, can you come over? I’m so scared.” Ethan frowned. “Did you call 911? Don’t worry, I’ll find someone to go over.” Hung up the phone. Ethan lowered his head dialing someone. Explained the matter in a few words then hung up. He looked at me, speechless for a moment. I spoke first: “If known earlier, how good if you sent her back just now.” Ethan was silent for a long time, then said: “It wasn’t convenient for me to send her.” I twitched my lips. The conversation with Ethan didn’t continue after all. He went back to the room. I was completely sleepless. Half an hour later, a very light door closing sound came from outside. Not long after, car sound rang. Ethan still went to find Chloe. I lay in bed, suddenly laughed. Chapter 3 Ethan and I met in the same competition in college. It was also me who pursued him actively. After three years of campus romance with Ethan, we got married after graduation. Two years after marriage, my relationship with Ethan was quite good. In the first year of his PhD, he won a breakthrough prize in physics. With his solid strength, he stayed at the university to mentor students after graduation. Becoming the youngest professor in the department. Ethan started to become very busy. Busy with experiments every day, frequent business trips, I understood all. Even on my birthday, he didn’t come back. No matter how lost I was, I still smiled and said it’s okay, work is important. I felt sorry for his hard work mentoring students. Afraid he wouldn’t eat well, I delivered meals to him whenever I had time. After a continuous year, he suddenly said: “No need to bring meals in the future, I can eat at the cafeteria, you running back and forth is too hard.” Later I found out, Ethan accepted a female student. When asked, he said: “Recommended by another professor, inappropriate not to accept.” I expressed understanding, didn’t ask more. Until I found Chloe often circling around Ethan. She was innocent and romantic, interesting in speech, especially good at acting coquettishly. Ethan, who hated noisy people so much, allowed a Chloe to turn around him, texting him to share life. When he returned Chloe’s lipstick, we had a big fight. Ethan felt I was making a fuss over nothing, “Emily, she is my student, don’t be too sensitive.” So, we had more and more conflicts. Quarrels became more frequent. All because of—Chloe. Even got to the point of divorce, but didn’t divorce in the end. Ethan didn’t agree. During that time, I was almost like a lunatic, checking Ethan’s phone neurotically, questioning his schedule. As long as he didn’t reply to messages, I started to think wildly. He took students to participate in competitions. I was questioning him crazily via messages. Until Chloe sent a voice message using his phone: “Mrs. Clarke, Professor is busy now, he will call you back when he finishes.” “I know you have strong controlling desire, but you have to pick time to make a scene with him~” “Can you not disturb him for now?” I couldn’t help it, sent many nasty words to Chloe. After Ethan came back, another big quarrel. He looked at me with disappointment: “Emily, how did you become like this?” “Do you know what impact your words will have on Chloe? If Chloe spreads those chat records, how will the school see me? And how will they see you?” “Have you thought about it?” Ethan didn’t mention a word about Chloe crossing the line. Only determined I was making trouble without reason. Until I fainted from being too emotional. Waking up in the hospital, informed by the doctor of pregnancy. Thinking of this, I touched my belly. Pity, I will never have children again. Ethan didn’t come back until the next morning. He didn’t explain anything to me. I didn’t ask either. Chloe was observed in the hospital for three days. After discharge, she sent many thank-you text messages to Ethan. After all, during the three days she was hospitalized, Ethan visited her whenever he had time. I didn’t ask a single word. Did what I should do. Didn’t even spare a look at Ethan. The other party hesitated to speak several times, but didn’t know what to say. After dinner at night, Ethan stopped me. Said to me somewhat hesitantly: “She was hospitalized these few days, as a teacher, it’s inappropriate for me not to visit her.” I froze for a moment. Thought Ethan would say something. Didn’t expect it was this matter. I raised a smile, “I understand, don’t worry I won’t trouble her.” “Anything else?” Ethan seemed unable to bear it anymore, questioning me with trembling tone: “Emily, enough.” “How long are you going to treat me like this?” He said: “You are different from before.” My smile faded. Ethan looked at me. “Are you blaming me? The child is gone, I am also very sad.” I looked at Ethan coldly. “Shouldn’t I blame you?” Ethan went silent instantly. I accidentally fell from upstairs. Ethan, who was almost home, turned back to send Chloe home because she said there was no car. Before I finished the rest of my words, the phone was hung up. When I was finally sent to the hospital, the child was gone. Doctor said if came a bit earlier, maybe could have saved it. Then came another bad news, my body was too weak. After this child was forced to miscarry, it would be difficult for me to conceive again. When Ethan knew, he knelt by my hospital bed blaming himself for two days. Begging for my forgiveness. After I was discharged, he started to change. Except for necessary communication, he no longer contacted Chloe privately. Would actively let me check his phone, report his whereabouts to me. But I don’t need it anymore. Too tired. And, I already bought a ticket to Chicago. I didn’t look at Ethan anymore, turned and went upstairs. Chapter 4 The day I left, Ethan’s team achieved another breakthrough and accepted an interview out of town. Also live-streamed. When the camera pointed at Ethan, he only said one sentence: “Thanks to my wife Emily.” The live broadcast room boiled, praising him as a loving husband. Chloe’s smile was a bit forced, but still finished the interview. I turned off the phone, went to the airport. Before boarding, Ethan called. Perhaps, this is the last call. Just picked up, heard Chloe’s cheerful voice on the other end. “Professor Clarke, you are amazing!” “Let’s celebrate well tonight?” I hung up the phone. Boarded the plane. Ethan subconsciously covered the phone, afraid of being heard by Emily. Hesitated, nodded. Chloe hugged his arm cheerfully, “Then Professor, it’s settled.” Ethan looked at the phone, only to find the call had long been hung up. The day he returned to Chicago. Chloe ran to his office in panic holding an urgent mail. “Pro… Professor, Mrs. Clarke sent this over.” “What is it?” Although puzzled, Ethan still took it. After opening and seeing clearly what was inside. His face changed instantly. Ethan slowly pulled out the two sheets of paper. When seeing clearly what it was, the office quieted instantly. Chloe stammered: “…Mrs. Clarke, what… what does she mean?” “Does she want to divorce you?” Ethan turned a deaf ear. Staring dead at the divorce agreement in hand, where Emily’s name was signed and fingerprint pressed. He never thought Emily would divorce him. Suddenly, his fingers felt something else in the file bag. His heart trembled. Understood what it was in his heart, but dared not believe. Ethan couldn’t control his shaking hands, pouring out the contents. A silver ring. Plain band, nothing on it. That was their… wedding ring. When just married, they didn’t have much money. Emily’s parents didn’t agree to her marrying Ethan. They felt Ethan came from a single-parent family, had nothing but good grades. Marrying would be suffering. Emily didn’t listen, eloped with the marriage license to register with Ethan. When picking wedding rings, others looked at gold jewelry. Only Emily picked this. He was unwilling, Emily pretended to be angry. “Just buy me expensive ones when you make money later?” Ethan’s eyes reddened instantly. He promised Emily to treat her well for a lifetime. But now, Emily wants to divorce him. “Professor Clarke?” Chloe called him twice again. Ethan came back from his thoughts. He didn’t sign. Put the things back. Chloe glanced at the agreement, complaining: “Mrs. Clarke is too insensible, knowing you just came back tired, still throwing a small temper.” “Professor, don’t worry.” “This isn’t the first time Mrs. Clarke mentioned divorce to you, didn’t she end up not divorcing?” Ethan frowned. Warned her in a deep voice, “Chloe, don’t say this kind of words a second time.” Chloe stuck out her tongue, a bit playful. “Okay.” But Chloe’s words also comforted him. When Emily made the biggest scene with him, they went directly to City Hall. But finally didn’t divorce. He determined, this was Emily throwing a tantrum again. When returning home, Ethan found Emily’s things missing by half. After coming back from Chicago, he was too busy to touch the ground. Didn’t go home. Looking at the empty house, he called Emily. Checked Emily’s messages repeatedly. Since the miscarriage, Emily changed a lot. No longer arguing or making noise with him, no longer asking about his whereabouts, nor actively texting him. Their chat page stopped at Ethan telling Emily about the business trip, the other party replied okay, after that it was his active sharing of life in Chicago, Emily didn’t reply. Thinking of this, Ethan edited a message to send to Emily. [Emily, when are you coming back?] But waited for a long time, Emily didn’t reply. Until before Ethan slept, phone vibrated. It was Emily’s reply. [If need to process procedures, I will go back.]

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The Department of Vital Records was the last place I expected to run into the ghost of my husband’s past. We were there to register our daughter’s birth. I was holding our newborn, three weeks old and swaddled tight, when the clerk at the window looked up. It was Piper, Adam’s childhood best friend—the one he always referred to with a sigh of responsibility and a faint, unattainable devotion. She stared at the infant in my arms for a beat too long, a subtle, cold assessment replacing the initial surprise. Then, a slow, manufactured smile spread across her face. “Well, isn’t this a coincidence,” she murmured, her voice laced with honey that always felt slightly sour to me. “By extension, I suppose that makes me her… aunt. What’s the little one’s name, Jenna?” “Sophie Grace,” I recited softly, the name we’d chosen meaning exactly what I wanted for her: a life of wisdom and favor. Piper glanced from me to Adam Miller, then back to me, tilting her head. “Lovely. I’ll make sure to expedite this for you both.” I watched as she typed the required information. The printer whirred, spitting out the final confirmation form. My eyes, as always, went straight to the most crucial line: the “Name” field. The breath caught in my throat. The world tilted. —ILLEGITIMATE— “What is this?” I demanded, the polite decorum of the office shattering around me. “It’s supposed to be Sophie Grace! This is more than a mistake, it’s… it’s outrageous!” Seeing my face, Piper let out a small, mocking puff of laughter, the sound muffled by the glass partition. “Oops? Did I make a typo?” she said, feigning innocence. “No, I don’t think so.” She leaned forward, her smile tightening into something cold and vicious. “A child conceived to force a marriage? In the eyes of some, the term is Illegitimate. I thought… it was rather fitting, actually.” “Jenna, dear, don’t you agree?” 1 Time paused. The frantic buzz of the fluorescent lights, the muffled crowd noise, the insistent BEEP of the waiting-list monitor—all of it receded into a distant, underwater hum. My ears were ringing, and the only sound that mattered was the heavy, sickening thump-thump of my own heart against my ribs. My daughter, startled by the sudden tension, began to whimper, a tiny, distressed sound. That cry was a key. It unlocked the blind fury that had jammed my throat. I fixed my gaze on Piper’s still-smiling face and spoke, each word a piece of shattered glass. “Whether this was intentional or a deliberate, malicious act, I want it corrected. Now.” Piper’s smile finally faded. She picked up a desk-side tumbler, sipped her water, and sighed with theatrical patience. “Oh, Jenna, don’t be like that. The system automatically submitted it. To make an alteration now would be a nightmare—a formal process, an incident report, managerial sign-off, the whole nine yards. It’s not something I can just undo.” She gave a helpless shrug, all officiousness and feigned empathy. “I’m sorry, but those are the rules. My hands are tied. Maybe… you two should just come back in a few days?” “How long is a few days?” My fingernails were digging painful crescents into my palm. “Who knows?” she chirped, a flash of pure malice in her eyes. “Days, weeks, maybe months. Anything entered into the system causes a ripple effect, you know. Big government bureaucracy.” “Piper!” Adam finally exploded, his voice loud enough to turn heads. “Stop the nonsense! This is a legal document! Fix this immediately!” Adam’s shout seemed to genuinely shock her. Her eyes widened, and her chin began to tremble, her face turning red with a speed I knew all too well. “Adam, you’re yelling at me?” she sniffled, tears welling up instantly. “How am I causing a scene? I’m just following procedure! The record is submitted. I don’t have the authority to override the system, I can’t just push a button to fix it, Jenna! You know I can’t!” She was sobbing now, the performance in full swing. “I… I really didn’t mean to be insensitive. I was just so happy you got to marry Adam and have his baby… I was just joking! We used to joke all the time! Why are you suddenly so quick to judge me… so cold?” She buried her face in her arms on the desk, her shoulders shaking. Adam looked at her tears, and the anger in his face instantly deflated, like a punctured balloon. He shot me a look—a familiar, weary look that clearly communicated: See? You’ve made her cry again. He turned back to Piper, his voice involuntarily softening. “Hey, Pip, don’t cry… I’m not mad at you. It’s just… this isn’t the kind of thing you can joke about. Our daughter’s name is important.” “How important?” Piper lifted her tear-stained face, her voice choked with sobs. “More important than your little sister? More important than a friendship that’s lasted over a decade? Adam, you only see Jenna and the baby now. Everything I do is wrong. I try to make a joke and it turns into a federal case…” “That’s not what I meant…” Adam rubbed his temples, a gesture of weary, male helplessness. “Then what did you mean?” Piper pressed, tears streaming faster. “I was just jealous of Jenna. I spoke out of turn! I’m sorry, okay? Jenna…” She turned her wet, pleading eyes toward me. “Please don’t be mad. I really didn’t do it on purpose. It was just an automatic reflex…” I watched Adam. He was visibly torn, but his concern—his heart—was clearly on the other side of that glass barrier. The whole scene felt grotesque, a piece of dinner-theater drama acted out in a government office. Yet, I was also chillingly clear-headed. My daughter continued her small, distressed sobs in my arms, a tiny, rhythmic hammer against my heart. I slowly inhaled, took the paperwork with the malignant “ILLEGITIMATE” on it, and gently placed it back on the counter. Then, I stood up, cradling Sophie Grace close. “Adam.” Both he and Piper looked at me. “Since you are incapable of handling this situation,” I said, my voice low and steady. “I will handle it my way.” I turned and walked out of the Vital Records office, my daughter and the awful piece of paper left behind. Behind me, I faintly heard Piper’s tearful voice. “Adam, did you see how she looked at me? She hates me! I didn’t mean it, I swear…” And Adam’s muffled, soothing, exasperated reply: “It’s fine, Pip, stop crying. She’s just… sensitive. I’ll go talk to her and get this sorted out.” The late summer sun was mercilessly bright, hitting me with a sudden blast of heat. I lowered my head and kissed my daughter’s damp little cheek, burying her warm, crying face in the hollow of my neck. “Don’t cry, baby,” I whispered, to her and to myself. “Mama is here.” “Your name is going to be Sophie Grace.” “No one is taking that from you.” “No one.” 2 I didn’t go home. Our house was full of Piper’s subtle, insidious presence. There was the spare, monogrammed bath towel in the guest bath, the forgotten designer sweater in the closet, the artisanal coffee pods she preferred in the kitchen cabinet—all reminders of the “poor girl who needs us to look out for her.” Adam always rationalized it: “She’s on her own in the city, Jenna. It’s the least we can do.” So I looked the other way. For years. On our wedding day, Piper had worn the bridesmaid dress I bought her, and her eyes had been red-rimmed. She’d clung to Adam’s sleeve, her voice a small tremor: “Adam, you’re getting married. Will you still look after me like you always have?” I had felt the current, the subtle undercurrent that was more than just friendship, but I dismissed it, excusing it as the clinginess of a girl Adam treated like a little sister. Later, when she landed her government job, Adam celebrated like she was his own sibling, hosting a dinner party. And then she’d used the excuse of “wanting to get familiar with the city” to crash in our guest room for half a year. I had always prided myself on being the generous, accommodating wife. Now, I realized my goodwill had been utterly wasted. With a heavy foot on the accelerator, I drove to my old studio apartment downtown. I bought it right after a promotion—a quiet space that was entirely mine. Adam had laughed at the time. “The house is huge, what do you need a tiny place for?” He didn’t understand. Some sense of security can only be self-provided. I gently placed Sophie Grace into the bassinet in the master bedroom. She had cried herself out and now lay peacefully, sucking on my finger, tear tracks still faintly visible on her long lashes. I sat on the edge of the bed and watched her sleep. The sharp, searing pain in my heart was slowly being replaced by something cold, hard, and utterly focused. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Adam. I let it go to voicemail. After the call dropped, a barrage of text messages followed. Jenna, where did you go? Don’t run off with the baby. Piper knows she messed up. She’s distraught, she’s been crying for hours. She’s just thoughtless, not malicious. Did you even think about how you made me look, storming out like that in front of everyone? She’s my family, Jenna. It’s just paperwork. We can get the name fixed, eventually. Why do you always have to make such a big deal out of everything? Can’t you just come home and talk? It’s just paperwork. I stared at the last line, a bitter, hollow laugh rising in my chest. Paperwork. The first official document of our daughter’s existence, the symbol that would follow her for life, had been maliciously replaced by his “thoughtless” little sister with the most insulting, demeaning slur. And he called it “just paperwork.” I closed the notifications without replying and immediately called the one person I knew could fix this mess without sentiment. “Mr. Caldwell, it’s Jenna Stone. I need your help, immediately. This is not about a contract; it’s about a criminal act.” 3 After hanging up, I walked over to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and took out a file folder. Inside were scattered receipts, a few printed photos, and an old burner phone. I powered it up. It held the things I had once convinced myself I was “overly sensitive” to see: Screenshots of texts from Piper to Adam at 2:00 a.m.: I’m scared, I think someone is breaking in. Can you come, Adam? A photo of Piper, wearing one of Adam’s dress shirts, making breakfast in our kitchen. The contact name in Adam’s phone, which I discovered had been changed from “Piper” to the nauseating “Pip-Star.” And once, I had found a cheap, sickeningly sweet cherry-flavored lip gloss in the pocket of his suit jacket—one that was not mine. I had always rationalized. They were childhood friends, practically family. Piper had a rough start; Adam was just being supportive. I had spoken up—gently, then intensely—and the response was always Adam’s frustrated impatience: She’s just a kid, why are you so insecure? or, the classic, If there was anything between us, we’d have been together already, you know that. Looking back, I was an absolute fool. I photographed every piece of fragmented evidence, organized it, and emailed it all to Mr. Caldwell. When I was done, a wave of profound exhaustion hit me. I went back to the bedroom and lay beside my daughter. She was sleeping soundly, a little pink rosebud of a face, oblivious to the storm brewing around her. I held her tiny hand and whispered: “I’m sorry, sweetie. I didn’t build a strong enough wall for you right away.” “But I promise you. From this moment on, I will not let anyone, in any way, hurt you. Not a single scratch.” “Your name, your future, is mine to protect.” The apartment was silent. My phone screen glowed again. Adam’s final message, this one heavy with suppressed rage: Jenna, are you done with the drama? You shouldn’t be out this late with a newborn! Come home, we need to talk! I’ll talk to Piper; she’ll go through the proper channels to fix the name. Fine? Don’t be so vindictive! “Vindictive.” I let out a silent, weary laugh at the word, turned off the screen, and tossed the phone aside. Talk? Oh, yes. We were definitely going to talk. But it wouldn’t be me talking to him. It would be the facts, the evidence, and the law doing the talking—to both him and his precious “little sister.” 4 Mr. Caldwell moved with incredible speed. By mid-morning the next day, he called with an update. “Ms. Stone, based on the material you provided, Piper’s actions constitute a serious abuse of public office and the fabrication of facts for the purpose of defamation. Given the target is a newborn, the nature of the offense is highly egregious.” “I have drafted a formal complaint and a request for investigation, filed simultaneously with the Inspector General’s Office for her superior division, and with the District Attorney’s Office.” “Thank you, Mr. Caldwell.” I held the phone, staring out at the hazy sky. “It’s my job, Ms. Stone.” His voice softened slightly. “Protecting your and your daughter’s legal rights is my commitment. Please contact me immediately with any new developments.” I hung up, sitting on the sofa, cradling Sophie Grace after her feeding. My little one, still oblivious to the gravity of the legal procedures her name had initiated, simply cooed and flailed her tiny fists. The calm lasted only until noon. First, a few work friends and acquaintances began texting me with vague, worried messages. Jenna, you okay? How are you holding up? accompanied by a worried emoji. Congrats on the baby! But… I’m hearing some really nasty things going around. Don’t pay attention to it. My stomach plummeted. I opened a direct message to a particularly frank colleague. “What are you hearing? About me?” She took a long time to reply. Jenna, I didn’t want to say anything, but I need to warn you. Someone is spreading a story that… that you were the other woman. That you snatched Adam from his girlfriend, got pregnant to force the marriage, and that’s why the baby… can’t get a proper name, and had to be registered secretly. They’re saying it with a lot of detail, about how the real childhood sweetheart was horribly victimized by you. I know you’re not that person, but the rumors are everywhere—local city forums, social media, a gossip blog. It’s bad. It was exactly as I had suspected. Piper was even more toxic than I had imagined. Not content with the public shaming in the office, she wanted to completely delegitimize me in the court of public opinion, brand me as a home-wrecker, and ensure my daughter would forever live under the shadow of “Illegitimate.” My hands were shaking as I held the phone, not from fear, but from a cold, absolute rage. Sophie Grace sensed my emotional shift and squirmed uncomfortably. I forced a deep breath, calming myself, and gently patted her back. “Don’t worry, baby,” I murmured. “Mama is here.” I pulled up the local gossip blog my colleague mentioned. Sure enough, a prominent, bolded headline was pinned to the top: SHOCKING! INSIDE SCOOP ON THE NEW COUNTY CLERK EMPLOYEE: HOME-WRECKER USED HER PREGNANCY TO FORCE MARRIAGE, AND THE BABY’S BIRTH CERTIFICATE NAME IS A JAW-DROPPER! The anonymous poster claimed to have inside information: A source close to the Department of Vital Records witnessed the whole thing! A woman named Jenna Stone, using her looks, hooked up with Adam Miller while he was with his childhood sweetheart, Piper. She immediately got pregnant, threatened him with the baby, forced him to break up with Piper, and rushed into marriage. The kicker: When Jenna brought the baby in for the certificate, the employee at the window just happened to be a close friend of the scorned girlfriend! The employee ‘accidentally’ typed in ILLEGITIMATE as the child’s name! The home-wrecker went ballistic, but the clerk simply said rules are rules—it was submitted, and it’s a long wait to fix it. Karma is a bitch! The comments section was already a frenzy. OMG! Seriously? That clerk is a hero! ‘Illegitimate’? Amazing! Jenna Stone? Isn’t she the one at [My Company]? She looks so innocent, but you never know! My heart breaks for the original girlfriend. That beautiful relationship destroyed by a tramp. The baby is innocent, but the mother created this mess. The clerk was wrong. A baby is a baby. STFU, Saint! Home-wreckers deserve this! Support the clerk! I heard Piper works at that office. Sweetest girl. Imagine having to process the paperwork for the woman who stole your man. The cruelty! The mob mentality was overwhelming, the narrative entirely against me, painting the “scorned Piper” as the victim. They were starting to doxx my workplace and my school, threatening to report me for “moral turpitude.” My phone vibrated again, wildly. Adam. I picked up.

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My sister, Phoebe, was always frail, but viciously defiant. To guide her—to shock her into compliance without laying a hand on her—my mother, Elaine, turned me into her living, breathing Control Group. Phoebe snuck out, chasing trouble in cheap clubs and coming home smelling of stale smoke and bad decisions. So, my mother sent me out. Dressed in a skirt barely wider than a belt, walking home at 3 AM through the worst stretch of the city. When Phoebe saw me the next morning—my clothes ripped, a map of cheap, purple bruises marking my neck—she was so terrified, she stopped seeing those low-life punks for good. Phoebe got pregnant and still drank like it was spring break. So, in my eighth month of pregnancy—my pregnancy—Mom forced me to drink. Not just a glass, but bottle after bottle of cheap beer. Phoebe watched me hemorrhage. She watched me lose my son. My son, Micah. The sight, the absolute visceral terror of it, kept her sober for the rest of her term. She delivered a perfect, healthy baby boy. Beside the hospital bed, Mom squeezed Phoebe’s hand. “If you’d kept drinking, you would have ended up just like your sister, Jade. Lost the baby. Maybe lost your chance to have any more.” Phoebe looked at me, her eyes wet with gratitude. “Thank you, Jade. You saved me from myself.” “You’re welcome.” I wrapped my arm around Mom’s throat. A single needle, deep into her neck. “This is your final lesson, little sister. See what happens when you spend twenty-seven years turning a daughter into a monster.” 1 A bead of blood splattered across Phoebe’s cheek. Her scream ripped through the sterile air. I dragged Mom backward, away from the delivery bed, backing slowly toward the door. She slumped to the floor, her body still weak from giving birth, and there was no way she could catch me. By the time her crying brought the rest of the family and the nurses running, I was long gone. While everyone scrambled, a live stream was tearing through every social media platform. On the screen, a chilling, metallic sound filled the air: the blade of a heavy hunting knife being pulled across a whetstone. Behind me, Mom, Elaine Tanner, was zip-tied to a heavy armchair, her eyes wide with terror. [? Isn’t that Elaine Tanner, the woman who just went missing? Why is she here? And tied up by her eldest daughter!] [OMG, is this a live murder?] “Jade!” In a second window, Phoebe had started her own broadcast. “Jade, what are you doing! Stop it right now!” I admired the razor-sharp edge of the blade, then gave the camera a cold, flat look. “Sister! I’m begging you!” She dropped to her knees with a desperate, sickening thud. Her post-delivery body looked impossibly fragile. “Mom raised us for twenty years! She’s done so much! If you have a problem, take it out on me! I’ll take her place! Please, just let her go!” The comment section exploded. [Are you insane? That’s your mother! What kind of hate is this?!] [A live-streamed patricide! This is sickening! She needs to be arrested! This woman clearly has violent genes!] The police warning popped up on my screen. [We are currently tracking your location. Surrender now, and you can still save the situation.] I smiled. “Welcome to the chase.” [!!! Too arrogant! Lock her up and throw away the key!] [Just shoot her on sight. She’s too dangerous.] I didn’t speak. I simply turned toward my mother. She trembled. “Jade. Please, surrender. I’ll write a letter of leniency for you.” [Poor dear, the unconditional love of a mother.] [It’s true, even after all this, a mother would still forgive her daughter.] [Jade is a monster!] I chuckled. “No need.” The blade dragged across the floor, sparking as it scraped the cement. I approached my mother. [!! Stop! Don’t touch your mother!] [Police! Where are you! Stop her!] “Sister!” Phoebe’s voice was a ragged shriek. I pressed the knife against Mom’s throat. She shook uncontrollably. “Jade, are you really going to kill your mother?” I looked down at her. “Tell me. Where is Micah?” Mom froze. 2 Not just Mom. Everyone watching the live stream paused. Phoebe’s tears finally overflowed. “Jade, he died! We all grieved for him!” “No!” I whirled around, my eyes burning. The knife in my hand trembled. I ground my teeth. “He’s not dead! I know he’s not dead!” “Jade! I know you’re hurting because of the miscarriage, we all are! But you have to move on!” My father, whom I had not seen in months, roared through the stream. I just smiled. I looked at my mother. “Mom, you know if my baby was truly miscarried, don’t you?” Her eyes darted away. I looked back at the camera. “Ladies and gentlemen! I did not start this stream to commit murder. I started it to find my child—the son my mother hid from me!” [What is she talking about?] [She had a miscarriage, but she thinks the baby is alive?] I stared hard at the lens. “What you might not know is that my ‘miscarriage’ was no accident. It was the direct result of my sister’s drinking while pregnant, and my mother—to make her realize the danger—forcing me to drink bottle after bottle of beer in my eighth month!” [What? Is that… an actual sentence?] [I can understand the words, but not when they’re put together like that.] [The mother forced the older daughter to miscarry just to teach the younger one a lesson about drinking while pregnant?] [If that is true, I would go absolutely insane!] I smiled at my mother. “Right, Mom? Tell them the truth.” “Lies!” Mom raged. “You were reckless! You wouldn’t listen to anyone! Why would I force you to miscarry? He was my grandchild too!” [Hmm… I think the mother makes sense. A mother’s love is complex, but no one would do that to a grandchild.] [I have two daughters too. Even if I favor one sometimes, they are still my children.] [She must have had a breakdown after the miscarriage, a delusion that her mother forced her to drink and hid the baby.] [Definitely. No sane person would live-stream a murder attempt.] I knelt in front of Mom. “I know exactly why you did it, Mom. I’ve been Phoebe’s Control Group for over twenty years. And my Micah? He was going to live on to be your perfect grandson’s next control group, wasn’t he?” “You’re talking nonsense!” Mom shrieked. But I saw it. Her breathing was uneven. The panic of being exposed. I placed my hand on her knee. “Mom, why did you do this to me? Am I not your daughter, too?” “You’re crazy!” She twisted her head away, unable to meet my eyes. I gave a bitter laugh. I stood up, my expression turning icy. “I know the police are tracing this. Don’t worry, you won’t find me. But I promise you this: As soon as you bring me my son, Micah, I will walk out and surrender. If you fail to…” I pointed the machete at Mom. “Every ten minutes, I take a piece of her.” [A torture-murder?] [She’s completely deranged!] I ignored the furious scrolling of the comments and Phoebe’s desperate, heart-wrenching sobs. I hit the timer. The police were stalled. They had no choice but to follow my instructions. A unit was sent to question the family about Micah. Without exception, they all maintained the same story: “He was stillborn.” My father, wiping away performative tears, claimed, “If Jade hadn’t been so reckless with alcohol, Micah wouldn’t have died in utero! Now that she’s lost him, she blames her mother!” I scoffed. I just watched the timer. “Ten minutes is up.” I stood. Phoebe rushed toward her camera. “Sister! Don’t do anything crazy! You’re just talking, right? That’s Mom! We’ll find Micah together when you get out, okay?” I stood behind Mom. I grabbed her ear. A sharp, downward strike. Mom’s scream was pure, animal agony. I held the severed ear up to the webcam. In Phoebe’s horrified gaze, I let it drop. The small, wet slap as it hit the desktop. Phoebe’s eyes rolled back; she collapsed into the arms of her husband, Dr. Adam Fitch. Adam, furious, stepped in front of the camera and slapped a stack of papers onto the table. “Jade, wake up!” There, stark and irrefutable… was Micah’s death certificate. 3 I stared at the report for a long time, unable to speak. Adam was breathing heavily. “It’s signed, sealed, and stamped by the hospital! What more proof do you need?” The comments went ballistic. [Confirmed. Jade is officially crazy!] [Witnesses and evidence are all here. She really must be psychotic, hallucinating the baby was hidden.] [Poor Mom, this is a nightmare she never deserved.] “Jade!” Adam glared at me through the lens, a hint of desperation in his eyes. I picked up the printed death certificate and flipped through it. Then, I turned and reset the timer. “Jade!” Adam shrieked at the camera like a maniac, as if trying to reach through the screen to strangle me. I simply sat back, composed, watching the countdown. “You’re insane! Absolutely insane!” Adam paced, then pointed directly at the camera. “What is it going to take for you to believe us? Micah’s ashes are already buried! If you don’t trust a death certificate, what do you trust?” “I don’t distrust the death certificate.” I looked coldly at the screen. “I distrust the death certificate you provided.” He froze. I stood up, leaning my hands on the table. “Dr. Fitch, if anyone else had signed this, it would be one thing. But it has your signature.” His face went pale. I smiled sardonically. “All those years Mom was using me as Phoebe’s control group, you never once objected. In fact, you probably encouraged her, telling her all the bad habits you wanted Phoebe to drop, so Mom could experiment on me instead, giving your wife a ‘painless’ lesson!” Adam deliberately looked away. I leaned closer to the camera, my smile widening. “You just wanted your son to learn his life lessons the easy way, didn’t you? Well, I’m telling you, Dr. Fitch, that will never happen. My son will never be the control group for yours!” “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” Adam’s breathing was fast and shallow. I chuckled and sat back in the chair. “You don’t? Fine. You certified him as stillborn. Are you willing to bring in the obstetrician and the entire delivery team who were on duty that night, to confront me?” “I—” Adam choked. He couldn’t get a word out. The comments immediately shifted. [Wait, something’s wrong. Is the death certificate fake?] [If it’s real, why can’t he answer? Did the baby live?] [They wouldn’t really use someone else’s child as a control group, would they? That’s pure evil!] The police officers who were questioning Phoebe and Adam saw the change in their faces. “Sir, we need your full cooperation.” “No! Wait, don’t listen to her! I didn’t fake anything, it’s all real!” Adam was panicking. The police were composed. “We will contact your colleagues for verification, including everyone on the delivery team that night. Rest assured, we won’t wrongly accuse you.” “Wh-What?” Adam’s face went white. Phoebe rushed to his side. “Don’t bother, Officers! My sister is lying! You should be finding her location, not suspecting innocent people here!” [This is suspicious. Why are they so desperate?] [The attitude shift is too sudden. They are definitely hiding something.] [Could Jade’s baby really have been hidden by them?] The viewers could see it, and the police saw it instantly. With the timer showing less than a minute remaining, the officer’s face hardened. “Mr. Fitch, this is a matter of life and death. If you are concealing the child’s condition, you can still gain leniency by confessing now. And Mrs. Tanner can be spared further harm.” “I… I…” Adam was buckling. “The baby died!” The door was pushed open. A man walked in, calm and assured, and faced the officers. “Officers, please don’t believe any of Jade’s accusations.” I stood up. “Neil!” He looked at me. “Jade, stop this farce.” 4 I knew this wouldn’t be easy. But I never thought the person to stop me would be my own husband. “What are you doing here?” My fists were clenched tight. His expression was cold and aloof. “Stopping you from making an even bigger mistake.” “Micah isn’t dead!” “He is dead!” In three years of marriage, this was the first time he had ever yelled at me. The comments were a mess of question marks. [What is happening now?] [Her own husband is confirming the baby is dead?] [But Jade seemed genuine, didn’t she? Is Neil Everett taking his sister-in-law’s side? That’s his son!] “No, everyone, Jade is lying.” Neil Everett turned to the camera with a heavy sigh. “My wife is suffering from postpartum psychosis.” I froze. The comments were still confused. “After we lost the baby, she developed severe postpartum depression, which eventually led to this. She can’t accept that Micah is gone, and has even fabricated this delusion that she was Phoebe’s control group. As her husband, I understand and feel tremendous sympathy for her.” He looked at me, his eyes softening with the gentle concern that had won me over years ago. “Jade, please, stop this. We can have another baby.” “I’m not making a farce!” My eyes stung. “You know Micah is alive! You know better than anyone! Why are you lying to protect them?” “Micah is dead!” He tossed a folder onto the table in front of the camera. The title was clear and chilling: [AUTOPSY REPORT] 5 The report was detailed and complete. Every step had a photograph. Though my baby had been rushed away the moment he was born, I had caught a brief, half-conscious glimpse of him. The baby’s face in the autopsy photos—it was my Micah. Acute intrauterine asphyxia. He was born blue, without any life signs… Looking at his tiny, suffocated face as he took his first and final breath, my legs gave out. I sank to the floor, clutching the report to my chest, my tears blurring the text. “How could this be… I heard him cry… I know I did…” Neil sighed softly. “You must have heard the woman next door, sweetie…” “Ah!!” A guttural cry tore from my throat. I pressed the autopsy report to my chest and cried, letting out all the grief and pain that had been trapped inside me. At the same time, Phoebe rushed to Neil, collapsing against him, as if to kneel. Neil caught her instantly. “Thank you, Neil. You’ve always helped me, since college. Now you’re married to my sister, and you’re still looking out for me. I can never repay this kindness. Please, let me thank you on my knees.” “Stop it!” Neil gripped her arms tightly. His throat bobbed as he looked into her tear-filled eyes. “We’re family. This is what I’m supposed to do.” Phoebe sniffled and returned to Adam’s side. Neil’s eyes followed her, lingering for a moment, before he regained his cool composure and looked at the camera. “Jade, stop this. It’s not too late.” I stumbled to my feet. Mom looked at me with deep concern. “Jade.” My expression was blank. “Jade, Mom has been a little biased, I admit, but I would never harm my own grandchild!” I watched her tears fall. She wouldn’t, would she? No matter how much she favored Phoebe, she wouldn’t conspire to kill her own grandchild… I walked toward her, my hands shaking as I reached for the zip-ties on her wrist. “Jade, I’m so sorry. I’ll make it up to you, I promise.” I kept untying the knot. Just as it was about to come undone, a small detail flashed in my mind. “No!” I pulled the knot tight again. “Jade?!” Mom’s eyes widened. The ten-minute timer went off. I pointed the machete directly at her. “The autopsy report is fake!”

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Three years into my marriage, I’d had explosive diarrhea over a hundred times. Every single time, it was after a meal at my in-laws’ house. At first, I chalked it up to a sensitive stomach. Then I noticed the pattern: whenever I ate at my parents’ house or cooked for myself, nothing happened. I was fine. I brought this up with my husband, Connor. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “Are you implying my mother is trying to hurt you?” “No,” I said quickly. But deep down, I knew something was terribly wrong. It wasn’t until I installed a discreet camera in their kitchen that I found the truth. 1. It was a Tuesday afternoon, and I was, once again, dealing with a disaster. Thirty-plus people from my department were packed into the conference room for the quarterly review. Mr. Alistair, my boss, was droning on about Q2 earnings when the first spasm hit. It was that familiar, visceral pain, like someone was taking a rope and tightly twisting my intestines. I tried to breathe through it, my palms slick with sweat. I lasted five minutes, maybe. Then the urgency became a desperate alarm. I stood up, hunched over, and began the walk of shame out of the room. The CEO paused mid-sentence to watch me go. The entire department watched me go. I didn’t care. I bolted from the room and sprinted for the restroom. I was locked in a stall for twenty miserable minutes. When I finally emerged, my face was chalk-white and my legs were shaking. Back in the conference room, Mr. Alistair’s expression was icy. After the meeting, he called me into his office. “Evelyn,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “How many sick days have you taken this quarter?” I looked down. “Seven.” “All gastrointestinal issues?” “Yes.” He sighed, his gaze heavy. “Go see a specialist, Evie. You need to get this sorted. Your job is suffering, and frankly, so is your health.” I nodded, unable to speak. I had seen specialists. Not once, but over ten times. Endoscopy, colonoscopy, ultrasound, bloodwork, stool samples. The doctors had declared my digestive system perfectly healthy. “Very healthy,” they’d said. Yet, I was still falling apart. Three years. Over a hundred times. I had considered every possibility. Food allergies? Negative. Lactose intolerance? Negative. Stress? Only when I ate at my in-laws’ house. The moment I was home, I was fine. I presented this pattern to Connor. He was deep into a video game on the couch, not even glancing up. “What are you getting at?” “I just think it’s possible that…” “That what?” I hesitated. “That maybe there’s something wrong with your mother’s cooking.” He paused the game. The sudden silence was louder than the screen noise. He turned his head to look at me, and his eyes were cold. “Evelyn, did you just say that out loud?” “I didn’t mean anything, I just noticed the pattern…” “What pattern? That my mother, who cooks three-course meals for us, who makes separate, bland dishes just for your ‘sensitive’ stomach, is trying to sabotage you? Do you know how much effort she puts in?” “I do, but—” “But what? You eat her food, accept her generosity, and then come to me with this ridiculous, paranoid theory?” “It’s not paranoid, it’s just a possibility—” “A possibility of what?” He stared me down. “The possibility that my mother is putting poison in your food?” I went silent. He unpaused his game, his attention back on the screen, effectively dismissing me. That night, we lay in the same bed, pressed against the edges, backs to each other. I listened to his steady breathing, the low whir of the AC, and thought about the last three years. The first time was the third day after our engagement. Patty had cooked a feast, a welcome dinner. I’d eaten happily. I spent the rest of the night doubled over in the bathroom. Connor had blamed it on “adjustment.” The second time was a week later. Another meal by Patty. Another agonizing night. Connor said my stomach was “just weak.” The third, fourth, fifth time… Every single time, it was Patty’s food. Every time I’d voiced a concern, Connor had accused me of overthinking. “What does my mother have to gain by hurting you? She only wants you to be well.” Did she? I remembered the way Patty would look at me. Often, she was smiling, her eyes crinkling kindly. But sometimes, in the split second before she turned away, I caught a different expression. I couldn’t name it. It was chilling. Like looking at an adversary. I told myself it was my imagination. Patty was kind. She cooked elaborate meals, sent me home with leftovers, and gave me lavish gift certificates for every holiday. How could she possibly be hurting me? But the episodes didn’t lie. Three years. Over a hundred times. Always after eating at her house. I made a decision. I wouldn’t tell anyone. I would buy a camera, a tiny one, and install it in Patty’s kitchen. I needed an answer. Even if the answer was that I was, as Connor suggested, a paranoid mess. I needed to know. 2. That weekend, we went to my in-laws’ house as usual. Patty was beaming. She’d spent the morning grocery shopping and the afternoon busy in the kitchen. When I arrived, the house smelled wonderful—a mix of roasting meat and herbs. “Evie, sweetheart, you’re here!” Patty poked her head out of the kitchen door, a smear of sauce on her apron. “Come sit, dinner will be ready in a minute!” I smiled and sat on the sectional. Connor went to the study to talk to his father, Rich. I was alone in the living room. I glanced toward the kitchen. The door was slightly ajar. I could hear Patty’s energetic movements. She was efficient—chopping, stirring, plating—a woman in her element. Soon, the table was set: Balsamic-glazed ribs, pan-seared halibut, roasted asparagus, lemon risotto, and a shrimp cocktail set right in front of my chair. “Evie loves shrimp,” Patty announced with a soft laugh. “And I know your stomach is delicate, so I kept it all light and clean, just for you.” “Thank you, Patty,” I said, picking up a shrimp. She watched me eat. Her eyes were warm, her mouth curved in a soft, indulgent smile. “Is it good?” “Delicious.” “Eat up, then.” I took another. The rest of the family settled in. Rich and Connor talked business while Patty continually hovered, topping my plate with food. “Evie, try this halibut. So flaky, not greasy at all.” “Evie, have some asparagus. It’s a great digestive aid.” “Evie, just a few ribs. They’ll put some meat on your bones.” I ate, I responded, but in my head, I was counting down. In exactly two hours, I would feel the first tell-tale cramps. Sure enough. Halfway through the drive home, the twisting started. Connor was driving. I pressed my hands to my abdomen, my face pale. “What’s wrong now?” he asked, glancing at me in the rearview mirror. “Stomach’s cramping.” He didn’t reply. The moment we pulled into our garage, I burst from the car and ran straight to the bathroom. I was in there for thirty agonizing minutes. When I came out, weak and shaky, Connor was flipping channels on the sofa. He looked over. “You need to get checked out, again.” “I told you, I have. Everything is fine.” “Then it’s psychosomatic.” I didn’t engage. Psychosomatic. He always used that word. As if I were a hysterical woman inventing my own illness just to be difficult or to spite his mother. I wasn’t. I just wanted to know why. Why did this happen only when I ate at their house? Why was I perfectly healthy otherwise? Why couldn’t the doctors find anything? The next day was Monday. I called in sick. I took a day of PTO and drove to a Best Buy. I bought a micro spy camera. It was tiny, easily concealed, and synced to an app on my phone. I hid it in my purse. The next time we went to Patty’s house, I would install it in the kitchen. Connor could never know. He would call me insane. He would say I was insulting his mother. But I was beyond caring. Three years was long enough. I needed my answer. The following weekend, we were invited over again. I waited until Rich and Connor were in the backyard looking at the new deck and Patty was in the powder room. I slipped into the kitchen. I scanned the room. Above the stove, where the ventilation fan met the cabinetry, there was a dim, shadowed corner. Perfect. I stepped onto a stool and quickly affixed the camera, pointing the lens down toward the stove and the cutting board. It would capture everything that happened during the cooking process. I jumped down, straightened my sweater, and walked out, as casual as possible. “Evie, were you in the bathroom?” Patty asked, walking into the living room. “Just touching up my makeup, Patty.” “Good. Stay out of the kitchen, dear, it’s a mess right now.” I smiled. “Will do.” After dinner, we left. On the drive home, I covertly checked my phone. The app showed the camera was running. The picture was clear. I could see the range, the prep area, and a corner of the refrigerator. I turned off the screen, my heart pounding a nervous rhythm. Now, all I had to do was wait for the next time. The next time Patty cooked, I would finally know the truth. 3. For the next week, I checked the app several times a day. Mostly, the kitchen was empty. Occasionally, Patty would walk in to grab a bottle of water or put away a dish. Nothing notable. Then, the inevitable call came on Friday. “Evie, sweetheart, come over tomorrow for dinner! I’m making your favorite—that balsamic-glazed short rib I know you love.” “That sounds lovely, Patty.” I hung up, my pulse accelerating. Tomorrow. I would have my answer tomorrow. I barely slept that night. My mind cycled through possibilities. Maybe Patty truly did nothing. Maybe my stomach wasbad, and the timing was a horrific coincidence. Maybe I was, in fact, a paranoid mess. But then the memory of the sheer agony returned. The humiliation of sprinting from the conference room. The embarrassment of having to cut short a dinner out with friends. It was always after her food. It could not be a coincidence. It couldn’t. Saturday morning, I was awake by eight. I opened the app. The kitchen was empty. Nine o’clock: Patty entered the frame. I watched, breath held. She began washing and chopping vegetables. Her movements were normal. Ten o’clock: She started the main course. I zoomed in on the footage. I scrutinized every single action. Trimming the ribs, searing them, mixing the sauce, adding them to the pot… There was nothing amiss. I began to feel a deep, disheartening certainty: I was paranoid. Connor was right. Eleven o’clock: Connor called for me. “Let’s go, we’re running late.” I pocketed the phone and headed out. When we arrived, Patty had finished half the meal. She was working on the final sides. I sat in the living room, my stomach tight with anxiety, convinced I’d wasted my time. “Evie, have an apple,” Rich said, handing me a perfectly peeled wedge. “Thanks, Rich.” I took a bite, but my mind was still on the camera. No red flags. Maybe I should just uninstall it. Maybe it was me. “Dinner’s ready!” Patty emerged, carrying the final platter. The short ribs were placed squarely in front of me. “Your favorite, Evie. Taste your mother-in-law’s cooking!” I took a rib. It was savory and tender. Delicious. Patty watched, her face glowing. “Good?” “Very good.” “Eat plenty.” After dinner, we lingered for an hour. Around 2:00 PM, Connor decided we should leave. “We’re taking off, Mom.” “Already? Stay a little longer.” “No, Evie has a long day tomorrow.” Patty walked us to the door. “Drive safe, Evie. Be well.” “You too, Patty.” In the car, my stomach started to rumble. A dull ache, just beginning. I knew this feeling. Within the hour, it would escalate into full, paralyzing cramps. Connor was focused on the road. I pulled out my phone and opened the camera app. I needed to review the recording of the short ribs. I scrubbed the timeline back to 10:15 AM. Patty had just turned off the burner. Then— She turned toward the refrigerator. She opened the door and reached into a small, isolated compartment on the door panel. She pulled out a tiny, unmarked white pill bottle. She shook out several tiny, off-white tablets into her palm. Then, she walked back to the stove. She dumped the pills into the pot of ribs. She gave the contents one final, quick stir with the tongs. And then she plated the food. The entire sequence was less than thirty seconds. Her movements were smooth. Practiced. I stared at the screen, my hands shaking so violently I nearly dropped the phone. For a moment, my mind went blank. Then, a tidal wave of ice-cold fury rushed over me. Three years. Three miserable, humiliating years. Every episode of agony. Every time Connor had called me a “paranoid mess.” Every shameful sprint from a public place. Every expensive, fruitless doctor’s visit. It was her. My smiling, sweet mother-in-law. The one who always said, “Evie has a sensitive stomach, so I make her light, clean food.” The one who told her friends, “I treat my daughter-in-law better than my own daughter.” She was putting laxatives in my food. For three years. 4. I don’t remember the drive home. Connor’s voice was a low buzz; I heard nothing he said. All I could see was the replay: Patty opening the fridge, pulling out the small white bottle, and sprinkling the contents into my ribs. Practiced. Calm. Three years. Over a hundred times. This was the truth. The moment we walked through the door, I ran to the bathroom. Forty minutes later, I emerged, weak, sweating, and pale. Connor was watching TV on the sectional. “Still going?” I didn’t answer. “You know, you really need to go see that herbalist I told you about, Evie. Your digestive system is a mess.”

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The words slipped out of Declan Shaw’s mouth, casual and almost bored, as he adjusted the lace on my mermaid gown. “That fishnet skirt—Tiffany the secretary, she looked quite good in it.” He smoothed the exquisite French lace I’d flown to Paris to have fitted, the same lace he was now admitting had been tailored to another woman. “The girl doesn’t have a single fine line around her eyes yet, and her body is still elastic, you know?” he continued, his tone matter-of-fact. “She’s cute when she pouts, so I let her try it on.” The delicate fabric of the wedding dress, still warm from the steamer, suddenly felt cold and foreign against my skin. I stared at him, my breath catching in my throat. “What are you talking about?” He glanced dismissively at the corner of my eye. “Nothing, really. I just suddenly realized a younger woman wore this cut better than you do.” He paused, his eyes holding mine for a beat too long. “If you object to wearing a used dress, you can skip the wedding. And if you object to a man who’s been used by others…” His shoulders lifted in a shrug that spoke volumes. “You can walk away. Whatever makes you happy, Stella.” I stood paralyzed. The impossibly light, floating bridal gown suddenly weighed a ton, suffocating me. Declan’s kiss landed lightly on my shoulder. “The time you had that high fever… I’m actually kind of sorry about that.” His voice was low, discussing a devastating injury as if it were a misplaced accessory. “The night it poured rain and I had you deliver those documents? That was just Tiffany wanting to play a little game. She made up the excuse to send you out.” All the blood in my body turned to ice. A month ago, during a massive Nor’easter, he’d claimed a client was urgently waiting. I, desperate not to delay his business, had sprinted into the torrential rain without securing my umbrella. I was drenched to the bone, and by that evening, I was burning up. If his assistant hadn’t called, concerned, I might have suffered permanent damage. Delirious with fever, I’d still managed to grip the poor assistant’s hand, pleading with him not to bother Declan, because my fiancé was so busy and I didn’t want to burden him with such a small thing. A low, humorless chuckle escaped Declan’s lips. “The assistant did call me, actually. But Tiffany had a new trick she wanted to try out, and honestly, I was right in the middle of it.” The foundation of my world shattered. A deep, penetrating chill crept from my bones to my skin. “Why? Did you fall in love with someone else?” He pulled out a cigarette and lit it, the sharp smell cutting through the floral air of the salon. “One morning, when you told me ‘Good morning,’ I noticed a new fine line at the corner of your eye. It was weird. After that, I couldn’t get excited about you anymore. Didn’t you notice? We haven’t slept together in months.” He took a sharp drag. “‘Love’ is too strong a word. But when that many young, soft girls are throwing themselves at me—I’m a man, Stella, not a saint. Honestly, I enjoyed the freedom.” He exhaled a plume of smoke, watching it curl toward the ceiling. “I probably could have kept this from you forever.” He took another puff. “But watching you try on this dress, seeing the waist was a little tight… I just blurted it out.” Tears, huge and hot, began to splash onto the hardwood floor. Declan reached out to brush one away. “Stella, when you buy a dozen roses, don’t you always pick the freshest, newest bloom?” I began to shake uncontrollably. It didn’t make sense. Thirty minutes ago, wearing the million-dollar dress he’d commissioned, I was looking in the mirror, certain I held the entire world’s happiness in my hands. Just as I felt I was choking, his phone vibrated. Tiffany Lowe flashed across the screen. He ignored it, looking at me, unhurried. “Have you decided? The kid is young; she’s hard to mollify if she has to wait too long.” I slapped his hand away, a guttural sound escaping my throat, and grabbed the nearest heavy water pitcher, hurling it at the wall just inches from his head. “Get out! Get out, both of you!” He didn’t flinch. A shard of the ceramic caught his temple, and blood began to seep out. He pressed his jaw tight, his expression hardening. “Fine. I’m leaving first. Whether you want to end this or go through with it is up to you. I’ll make sure you’re taken care of financially.” The slam of the door vibrated in my eardrums. I was alone in the fitting room. I tore the dress from my body, pulling and ripping at the exquisite lace until it lay in shredded pieces on the floor. Fifteen years of shared history, undone by a few naturally formed wrinkles? I looked at my reflection and, in a blind rage, grabbed the nearest object and smashed the mirror. In the sheer, agonizing pain, I saw the past flash before my eyes. The two of us, kids, kidnapped by that horrible couple. Not knowing where we came from. I couldn’t steal and I wasn’t a good beggar. “Dad” decided to break my legs so I’d be more effective. Ten-year-old Declan had rushed in, a rusty fruit knife in his hand, ready to fight. As the police took him away, he smiled at me. “Don’t be scared, Stella. I promised I’d protect you.” When he got out of juvie, he had no education and a record. To ensure I had a good life, he took any job—the dirty, the dangerous, the ones no one wanted. He threw his face and his dignity onto the ground for me. The worst time, he was hauling contraband and got two ribs shattered. Lying in the hospital, barely breathing, I cried and asked: “Was it worth it? Doing this for me?” He squeezed my hand, sweat dripping from his forehead. “How could it not be worth it? You are the best thing in the world, Stella.” The cold was absolute. A kind boutique assistant, seeing my breakdown, quietly offered me a room at a nearby hotel. I wrapped myself in the duvet and swallowed a handful of pills. If this is a nightmare, I’ll sleep it off. But when I woke up, my phone was ringing incessantly. Reporters were calling, bidding for my story. The scandalous photos of Declan and his secretary—Tiffany—getting intimate in his SUV had gone viral. Declan’s call came next, his voice lazily dismissive. “Stella, go talk to the media, hash out a price. My face can’t be shown. If you don’t know how to negotiate, ask Mrs. Cole for advice, she’s been through it. This kind of thing will happen again, anyway.” “You know how much I hate the media circus.” I gripped the phone until my knuckles turned white. I did know he hated interviews. The one and only time he’d ever agreed to a press conference was three years ago, when the media had photographed me and published stories calling me unworthy of him. Declan had gathered dozens of news outlets, looked straight into the camera, and smiled so gently. “My partner is the best person in the world. Being worthy of even a fraction of her is my life’s greatest honor.” He had even, completely losing his temper, physically attacked a reporter who insulted me. From that day on, everyone knew I was the one person in Manhattan you didn’t cross. Just three years later, the same reporters were waiting to watch me burn. I couldn’t take it anymore. But when I got back to our apartment, a trail of scattered silk tops and dress shirts led from the foyer, across the living room carpet, and into the master suite. The sound of laughter and intimacy came from the marriage bed I had personally selected. The door was ajar. The girl—Tiffany—threw her head back in ecstasy, and her eyes suddenly locked with mine. A violent, crushing emotion tore through my mind. I had to brace myself against the wall to keep from collapsing. Declan’s voice came from behind her. “Go home now.” She didn’t move, looking at me with undisguised curiosity. “Is that your wife? She does look kind of old. No wonder you’re bored.” Declan gave her a cold, level stare. “I said, get out first.” She didn’t dare argue, pouting dramatically. “Fine. But I’ll be waiting tonight.” She stood up, bouncing, and intimately stroked his chest. “But you have to promise me you won’t touch this old woman! I want you all to myself.” Declan gave her a quick pat on the backside. “Okay. You get everything.” Declan watched her retreating figure and actually chuckled. “She’s cute, isn’t she?” My nails dug into my palms. Maybe it was sheer stubbornness. Maybe it was because I had no family, no friends—Declan had been my entire universe. I wanted to hold onto something. Anything. “Declan Shaw, you want a divorce? Dream on.” I stormed into the company, using my founder’s equity to easily blacklist Tiffany Lowe, ensuring she’d never work in this sector again. But I never expected to return from a business trip only to find my personal assistant was the same girl I’d rescued from traffickers seven years ago—the girl I’d put through school and treated like a younger sister. She’d once knelt before me, crying and promising to pay me back for life. Yet, when I cornered her in Declan’s office, her expression was pure provocation. “Stella, we couldn’t help ourselves. It was electric.” I flipped Declan’s desk, screaming at him like a lunatic. “Why are you doing this to me?!” Declan only watched me, unbothered. “So many people want to climb into my bed. As long as it’s a young, desirable body, I’ll accept.” I couldn’t tolerate it. I used every resource I had to oppose him, caused scenes at the girl’s university, and employed every trick to make his life hell. Declan just smiled, watching my desperate struggle, even with a hint of indulgence. “Stella’s little temper tantrum is actually kind of endearing.” But his counter-attack was swift. He donated an entire wing to an international university and sent the girl—Lila Cross—abroad. He then banded together with the other partners to vote me off the board. The day I was evicted from my own company, looking like a stray dog as reporters swarmed me, Declan was ostentatiously seen escorting Lila through the airport. He made sure everyone knew his attention had shifted. The passionate, intimate photos of them abroad flooded my phone. I became the laughingstock of the Tri-State Area. In those pictures, I spotted a necklace. Declan had given his first gift to me—a few thousand dollar silver chain—to her. It wasn’t expensive. But back when we were living in a leaky basement, sharing a single bagel for dinner, he had been broke. On my eighteenth birthday, he had exhausted himself working extra shifts just to buy me that gift. “Other people’s girls get gifts, and so should mine, Stella.” “Trust me, Stella. I will always love you, and I promise to give you a good life.” I called him, begging through tears, demanding he give me back the necklace. This time, he finally answered. In the receiver, he sighed, sounding mildly annoyed. “Stella, it’s just a cheap piece of junk. My new flame liked it, so I used it to placate her. You didn’t want to be pliable, so there you go.” He was doing this on purpose. He knew exactly how to inflict the deepest pain. The final wire in my brain snapped. I grabbed a utility knife and dragged the blade across my forearm. Declan had no choice but to fly home. “Stella, you have options. Why are you making such a scene?” “If you’re this miserable, let’s just separate.” I lay on the hospital bed, lost in a fog, remembering the time I was misdiagnosed with cancer. Declan had walked on his knees up three thousand steps, three steps per prayer, to beg for my life. His shins had been raw and bruised, nearly crippled. But when he found out it was a misdiagnosis, that’s when he cried. “I thought I was going to lose you. I don’t know how I’d keep going without you.” My mental state was fragile, and Declan stayed by my side for a while. But he couldn’t resist the fatal pull of youth and novelty. He started up again: influencers, minor celebrities—each new flame younger and more vibrant than the last. But the final woman photographed with him was different. Her name was Camille Foster. Average build, unremarkable features, and yes, fine lines around her eyes, perhaps even a little older than me, mid-thirties. I flung the photo onto his chest. “I thought you only liked young girls! Explain this!” He picked up the picture and gently brushed a smudge of dust from her face. “She’s different. She gives me peace.” He said Camille was gentle. She made him congee when his stomach hurt. She gave him massages when he was stressed. My head spun. I asked, incredulous: “Did I not do those things for you?!” In the past, I’d prepared his hangover remedy every morning and night. I’d spent two years learning massage techniques because he often had stress headaches. I broke down, screaming, but Declan only looked at me, cold and indifferent. “She’s a very gentle woman. Don’t use your typical methods on her, Stella. Or else…” He treated Camille differently than the others. Declan, who barely finished high school, began reading obscure philosophy books for her. The man who got sick from spicy food hired a famous Southern chef. Slowly, Declan stopped coming home entirely. I know how pathetic this sounds. I started waiting outside his known haunts, just hoping he would come home. But Declan, fearing I would hurt Camille, applied for a restraining order against me. He had me barred from coming near them. He then spent a fortune, securing an absurdly expensive diamond ring for Camille. I threw the television across the room, my heart wrapped in a tight tar knot, suffocating me with pain. He had proposed to me the moment I turned eighteen. But we were drowning in debt, living in an apartment where rats scurried across the floor in the middle of the night. I’d picked out a plain silver band—three hundred dollars—and happily let him put it on my finger. He clutched that cheap ring, his eyes red for a long time. He promised that once we were comfortable, he would buy me the best things in the world. Now he was comfortable, able to buy the finest diamonds. And he put it on another woman’s hand. What finally crushed me was the news that Declan, the man who “enjoyed freedom,” had cut off all his other women. He proposed to Camille with that diamond ring. “She’s older. She wants stability. Enjoying freedom isn’t that important anymore.” I was utterly annihilated. I breached the restraining order, running toward them. Police officers grabbed me, but I screamed hysterically at Declan. “Tell me, Declan! Why does she get to have it?!” Declan shielded Camille, glancing at me with utter contempt. “What are the cops doing? Get her out of here.” The last dregs of my pride ignited. I pulled out my utility knife and pressed it to my throat, threatening to kill myself if he didn’t come with me. Declan actually laughed. “You didn’t die last time, did you? Still using that same cheap knife?” My fragile peace shattered again. I broke free from the officers. Declan shoved me away, annoyed. “Stop making a scene. If you’re going to be dramatic, go home to do it.” I lost my footing and tumbled down the mansion’s sweeping spiral staircase. Before I even knew I was pregnant, the child was gone. Declan sat by my hospital bed, reaching for a cigarette, then stopping himself. “No one wanted to lose the baby, but you shouldn’t have been so hysterical…” I lay there, white as a sheet, unable to speak or think, a mere puppet. Declan was likely wracked with guilt and stayed by my side for a while. Until the day Camille came. I glanced at her, then blankly pulled my eyes away. Camille asked me a question. “Do you remember how you lost your first child?” I froze. A year ago, I had lost a baby. At the time, Declan’s funds were running dry, and he was working himself to the bone. I hadn’t known I was pregnant. To secure an investor for him, I’d endured the client’s cruel demands—drinking an entire bottle of ice-cold, high-proof vodka in the dead of winter. That’s how I lost the first one. Both Declan and I were orphans; we had always desperately wanted a child. Back then, Declan’s eyes were bloodshot as he apologized, swearing he’d spend the rest of his life making it up to me. Camille smiled gently. “Declan had already secured the funding. He just wanted to celebrate with a mistress at home and deliberately had his clients stall you.” My numb sanity finally snapped. Declan rushed into the room just as I slapped Camille across the face. He gripped my wrist with crushing force. “The baby’s gone, it’s gone, and frankly, the timing wasn’t right anyway. Why are you hurting other people?” I hysterically demanded if he remembered the first baby. His face darkened. “Why are you bringing up old dirt? Don’t act like a psycho. It’s exhausting for everyone.” A psycho? I started crying, a desperate, gasping, wretched sound. Declan watched me, calm as a stone. When I was finally too breathless to continue, he spoke, his voice chillingly composed. “Done crying? We have things to do, so we’re leaving now.” I was trembling, watching his back as he nearly disappeared through the doorway. I finally spoke. “I agree to the separation.” He stopped, stunned. “You’ve made your choice?” I nodded mechanically. Declan grabbed my arm, his brow furrowed. “You won’t regret this?” I jerked my hand away as if burned. “No. I won’t.” Declan stared at me, then slowly released me. “Fine. Just don’t regret it.” I checked out of the hospital and moved out with frantic speed, terrified that any delay would make me change my mind. When I was with Declan, I had nothing. Leaving him, I was empty again. He wasn’t there the day I left. I didn’t try to say goodbye. The car sped away, the massive villa shrinking in the rearview mirror. Declan, hiding behind a marble column, watched the car disappear. It was a long time before he moved. He and Camille bought a new villa and started their domestic life. But within months, the young women were back, flocking to him. Declan resisted for a while, but soon started accepting their advances again. The novelty wore off quickly. After seeing so much youth, it all felt the same. Camille started fighting with him constantly. Annoyed by her nagging, he instinctively snapped back. “Who do you think you are, Stella Hawthorne? I was going to marry her.” They both froze.

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Five years. Five years of studying abroad, only to return to the Reynold family estate and find that Brooke Ashton, the girl we’d taken in, had completely usurped my place as the Reynold heiress. It was Camilla’s birthday—my mother’s birthday—and the house was filled with guests bearing expensive gifts. Brooke spotted me instantly. First, a flicker of shock, quickly masked by a sneering smile. Then, in a voice loud enough to carry across the crowded drawing room, she launched her first attack. “Our family paid for your education, and it took you five years to finish a three-year program? I thought you were just planning to live off the Reynold money forever and never show your face.” She dramatically covered her nose, her expression morphing into one of pure disgust. “It’s Camilla’s birthday. How could you possibly show up looking so… grubby?” She waved her hand toward the housekeeper. “Mrs. Davis, please, take her luggage to the maid’s quarters. We can’t have her belongings stinking up the place for our guests.” A year ago—a lifetime ago—I would have crumbled under her manipulation, paralyzed by that familiar, poisonous blend of guilt and shame. But not now. I had been reborn. I snatched a glass of champagne from a passing tray and launched its contents directly into her face. “You’re nothing but a parasite the Reynolds took in! Who the hell do you think you are, calling yourself the heiress?!” 1 The icy spray of the champagne hit Brooke, and she froze, mid-sentence, jaw slack with shock. Mrs. Davis was the first to react, rushing forward to dab at Brooke’s face with a napkin. “Oh, Miss Brooke! You’re such a kind girl! What did you do to provoke her?” The housekeeper shot me a blaming look. “You stay away for years, and the minute you return, you cause trouble for Miss Brooke… Mrs. Reynold will be furious when she hears about this.” I looked at Mrs. Davis, and a chilling wave of clarity washed over me. In my past life, I had been unfailingly kind to her, even bringing her entire family to live and work on the estate. Yet, she had been Brooke’s loyal accomplice, helping to humiliate me at every turn. I cut her off, a cold smile playing on my lips. “Mrs. Davis, I was only gone for five years. Since when does an outsider get to be called ‘Miss Reynold’ in this house?” Mrs. Davis’s wiping hand paused. She opened her mouth, but the words caught in her throat. In my previous life, Brooke’s gaslighting had convinced me that I was the one who was defective, which was why none of the staff respected me. Brooke finally snapped out of her shock. Her eyes welled up instantly, fat, perfect tears streaming down her cheeks. “Stella! I’ve treated you like a sister since we were kids! How can you say such a thing? What did I do to deserve this?” I dropped my luggage and sat down casually, staring her down. “Don’t even try. I don’t want you as a sister.” “The Reynold family has no room for a fraud like you, Brooke.” A tall, imposing figure stepped forward immediately, placing himself between me and Brooke. It was Troy Maxwell, the sole heir to the Maxwell fortune. “Camilla has taken Brooke to every social event for years. If anyone is the interloper here, it’s you!” He glared at me, his handsome face twisted with distaste. “As long as I’m here, you will not lay a finger on Brooke.” Troy Maxwell. Four years ago, my father had mentioned an arranged engagement with the Maxwells. I hadn’t even met him then and had been lukewarm about the idea. Now, after only five years, he was fiercely devoted to Brooke. Good, I thought. I wouldn’t touch him with a ten-foot pole. Other guests chimed in, circling me with looks of open contempt. “I heard the Reynolds had an adopted daughter who was studying abroad. This must be her.” “So much education, only to come back and try to steal someone else’s life. What an ungrateful wretch!” Brooke managed a smug, triumphant look through her tears. “Stella, it seems you’ve forgotten your manners after five years away. The Reynolds are high society. Your behavior is an absolute disgrace!” Mrs. Davis quickly nodded. “Don’t upset yourself, Miss Brooke. Mrs. Reynold will be back soon. She’ll set things right.” I smiled. “Perfect. I’ll wait right here.” But Brooke couldn’t wait. She lunged at me, long, sharp nails extended, trying to pull me to my feet. I recoiled in disgust and pushed her away, but she held on, scratching deep into my arm. A sharp, searing pain. I looked down. Blood was welling up from the scratch. My fury, the suppressed rage of my entire last life, ignited. With a loud SMACK, I swung my hand across her face. “Ah!” Brooke shrieked, stumbling backward. She clutched her cheek, her eyes wide with disbelief. “You’re just a ward of this family! How dare you hit me!” The guests scrambled to steady her, and Troy wrapped his arms tightly around her, his face a mask of furious protectiveness. He pointed a finger at me. “You ungrateful wretch! Camilla should never have wasted her charity on you!” I calmly adjusted my jacket, then pointed to my own face, addressing the crowd. “Don’t you notice the resemblance? Doesn’t anyone see how much I look like Mrs. Reynold?” I paused. “I’ll tell you something. I am the true Reynold daughter. If any of you cross me, don’t expect the Reynold family to continue any business partnerships with you.” Brooke gave a short, hard laugh, pushing away the people supporting her. “Look-alike? That’s a joke! My mother and I are cut from the same cloth! These people aren’t blind, Stella!” I nodded slowly. “You’d better remember saying that.” Just then, Mr. Harrison, a long-time associate of the Reynold family, emerged from the crowd. He scrutinized me, his eyes widening slightly. “Wait… you do look remarkably like Camilla’s predecessor, Mrs. Reynold… Is there some kind of misunderstanding?” “Misunderstanding?” As the guests muttered among themselves, a sharp clatter of heels echoed from behind. “I’d like to see who is bullying my Brooke!” 2 Heads turned toward the sound. A perfectly composed, impeccably dressed woman glided into the room. It was Camilla Stone—the current Mrs. Reynold. Camilla was a nationally recognized news anchor, famous for her heroic, on-the-scene reporting of a major disaster years ago. The station that had broadcast her to fame? My father’s. The moment she saw me, Camilla pulled Brooke close, stroking her hair as she spoke to me with a sugary venom. “So, you finally decided to drag yourself back? I truly thought you’d use the Reynold’s money to live out your days and never bother us again.” She gave a possessive squeeze to Brooke. “It just goes to show you the difference between a natural child and… well, not. Brooke already bought me a global limited edition diamond necklace for my birthday. Unlike you, all you’ve given me is a headache.” She was openly calling me the adopted child, the lesser child. Brooke leaned into her, the picture of tearful martyrdom, and choked out, “Mom, it’s okay. Maybe Stella just forgot your birthday. And she’s always felt a little inferior to me, so I understand why she’d lash out.” The surrounding guests started buzzing, accusing me of bad manners and ingratitude. One woman spoke up, addressing Camilla. “Mrs. Reynold, she’s back from college. You have no obligation to keep supporting her. Why don’t you just kick her out?” “Exactly! You didn’t see how she hit Brooke a minute ago!” Only Mr. Harrison remained thoughtful, his brow furrowed. He took a deep breath. “This is too big for an impromptu decision. Maybe we should wait for Mr. Reynold to return to deal with it.” “I hear he’ll be back next month.” Five years ago, my father had a critical overseas project. I had always been close to him and distant from Camilla, so he took me with him to make sure I wasn’t uncomfortable at home, which turned into my five-year education abroad. In my past life, I hadn’t waited for him; Camilla and Brooke had driven me to suicide before he ever came home. Brooke had then seamlessly taken my place as the Reynold’s only daughter. Camilla’s face hardened at Mr. Harrison’s suggestion. “What are you implying? That I’m wrong to be angry?” Her voice rose to a shrill pitch. “She may be my ward, but I raised her! I know exactly what kind of person she is! She’s been tormenting Brooke for years!” Mrs. Davis immediately jumped to her defense, her expression one of agonizing sincerity. “Mrs. Reynold is right! Miss Brooke is too sweet for her own good. She never spoke up when Miss Stella bullied her before. She only spoke sharply today because she cares so much about the birthday party. Usually, she’s a perfect angel.” Watching their synchronized, nauseating performance, I felt a knot of cold resolve tighten in my chest. This time, Camilla and Brooke would not get the chance to destroy me. I looked directly at Camilla and enunciated every word clearly. “Camilla. This time, when I walk back in, it’s not just Brooke who’s getting tossed out.” “You are too.” “You!” Camilla trembled with fury. She raised her hand and slapped me hard across the face. As if one wasn’t enough, she struck me several more times in quick succession. “Stella Reynold!” “I took you in and raised you for twenty years! You won’t even call me Mom, and you think you can kick me and Brooke out?! In your dreams!” My head snapped sideways with the force of the blows. My face was stinging, and I tasted the metallic tang of blood from a cut on my lip. Brooke, delighted by the sight, raised her chin proudly. She clutched Troy’s arm. “Troy and I are getting engaged next week. I expect you to keep today’s little outburst quiet so you don’t affect both our families’ stock prices.” 3 “Engaged? Ha!” Brooke had always snatched everything I had. It was clear that from the moment the Reynold-Maxwell engagement was first rumored four years ago, she had been throwing herself at Troy. And now, she thought she’d won this ridiculous competition? But the new me saw things clearly. Their engagement was a safety net. If my father returned to find Brooke established as the future Mrs. Maxwell, he would likely be forced, for the sake of the business alliance, to grant her a formal position and forgive her past transgressions. Seeing me frozen in place, Brooke assumed I was scared. She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a low, condescending whisper, a tone of false mercy. “Kneel down, apologize to me now, and I might consider letting bygones be bygones.” I couldn’t take any more. I wiped the blood from my mouth and shoved her away from me. “Apologize? Are you insane?! Apologize to a fraud?!” “Trust me, Brooke. You’ll be the one begging for forgiveness soon enough.” Troy, quick as a viper, caught Brooke as she staggered backward. He gently stroked her cheek, then turned back to me, his brow furrowed in annoyance and his voice dripping with condescension. “Did you have no parental guidance growing up? How dare you act like this in someone else’s home!” “I’ve heard the rumors that the Reynold’s ward constantly covets Brooke’s things. But I’m warning you: she is my fiancée now. That is something you, the parasite, will never achieve!” The sheer arrogance of the man. He saw I hadn’t moved and turned to Camilla with a serious expression. “Camilla, call security now. Get her out of here before she can cause any more damage.” Camilla’s face was dark. She immediately pulled out her phone and sent a voice message to the guards. “Get in here immediately and throw Stella Reynold out!” I couldn’t believe her audacity. In the five years my father and I were gone, she had clearly grown bold. Did she truly believe her fame as a news anchor made her untouchable, even by the Reynold family? Before I could process the thought, several heavy-set security guards approached me, their faces grim. Camilla spoke coldly. “Get her out. I don’t want to see her in this house tonight!” The other guests clapped and cheered. “Good! That ungrateful wretch needs to be put in her place!” “That’s the fierce spirit of the famous anchor, Camilla Stone! So decisive!” Mr. Harrison tried to push through the crowd to help me, but he couldn’t get through the wall of bodies. The guards grabbed my arms without a word, pulling me roughly toward the door. The grip was agonizing. “My father is coming back tonight! How dare you lay a hand on me! Let go!” I roared. Brooke’s face flickered with a brief look of panic. She immediately turned to a similarly startled Camilla. “Mom, what did she say? Dad… is he back?” Camilla glanced at her phone, then let out a scoff. “She’s a wild child. She’s been a liar since she was little.” She paused, then added viciously, “Even if he is, so what? Do you think he’d let you hurt Brooke? She’s the future Mrs. Maxwell. You will never measure up to her!” Encouraged, the guards grew more forceful. One yanked my hair, roughly dragging me toward the exit. “Just go already!” Camilla smiled, her eyes filled with scorn. “You’ll never be good enough to stand beside my Brooke.” Suddenly, a voice, deep and filled with cold, absolute authority, ripped through the commotion from the doorway. “Take your filthy hands off her!” It was my father. Victor Reynold. 4 Seeing my father, I instantly felt my eyes well up. In the past life, he died without ever knowing the truth, never even seeing me one last time. The very first thing I had done, the moment I was reborn, was to ensure he rushed back today. When Camilla saw Victor, the color drained from her face. Her eyes darted around, and she stuttered, “V-Victor… you’re back?” She turned to the bewildered guests. “Well, the party is about over. Everyone… please disperse. I’ll… I’ll host you properly another time.” My father stared her down, his voice low and dangerous. “Why the rush? What are you so afraid of?”

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The officiant—Brock, Garrett’s supposed “best man”—kept intentionally botching my name with every line. He was using the little pet name Garrett had for his college sweetheart. “My bad, man,” Brock slurred into the microphone, not looking sorry at all. “Your last act was just too memorable. I seriously thought today was going to be her walking down the aisle with you… But hey, the new Mrs. is great too, I guess.” Garrett didn’t even look annoyed. Instead, a wave of sickening nostalgia washed over his face. I lifted the edge of my six-figure veil and smiled, a cold, hard thing. “Don’t worry,” I said, my voice dangerously low. “The Mrs. will make sure you get an unforgettable gift—an exclusive feature on the front page of the city paper’s ‘Worst Wedding Nightmares’ section.” 1. The spotlights were uncomfortably hot on my face. I stood at the center of The St. Regis Ballroom, holding a bouquet of rare, six-figure Ecuadorian roses and wearing a custom haute couture gown that took eight hundred atelier hours to stitch. Brock, Garrett’s so-called ‘iron brother,’ was red-faced and yelling into the mic—drunk or just thrilled by his own audacity. He leaned in conspiratorially toward Garrett, his voice booming through the top-tier sound system into the ears of every single guest. “Garrett, do you take Sloane Maxwell to be your lawfully wedded wife? For richer or poorer, in sickness and in health…” The air congealed in that instant. He hadn’t said Jocelyn. He had said Sloane. My practiced, polite smile faltered. The background hum of chatter cut off as if a giant pair of scissors had snipped the sound, only to be immediately replaced by the roaring tide of speculation. I knew this wasn’t a slip of the tongue. I turned my head to look at Garrett. If he frowned right now, if he grabbed the mic and offered even the slightest correction, I could dismiss this as an incredibly crude joke—one I’d make Brock pay dearly for later. But Garrett did nothing of the sort. Instead of correcting the man, he looked utterly spellbound by the name. His gaze drifted past me, past the cascading champagne tower, and zeroed in on the sixth table near the back. That’s where his college friends were seated. Garrett’s lips curved into a soft, uncontrollable smile, and his eyes held a tenderness and a hint of regret I had never once seen directed at me. It was as if that other name was the key that unlocked his true soul, and I was merely a prop standing by to foot the bill. “The name is wrong.” I took the microphone from Brock’s hand. My voice was icy. I needed to salvage my dignity, no matter how much I was internally bleeding. 2. Brock jumped back as if scalded, hitting his thigh with a loud, theatrical “Whoops!” “My bad, my bad! Tongue-tied, folks!” Brock waved his hands toward the crowd, a greasy, unrepentant grin plastered on his face. “Mrs., you know how it is. Garrett and Jocelyn were the campus Golden Couple back in the day. We’re all just used to it.” He turned back to me, his tone shifting from joking to something truly vicious. “Listen, Mrs., don’t be too sensitive. Yeah, you might not have the same spark as her, but you’re the main event now, you’re the real deal. You have to be the bigger person. Don’t make the rest of us laugh.” A burst of drunken laughter erupted from Garrett’s fraternity brothers. My knuckles were white against the cold metal of the microphone. This was Garrett’s friend, celebrating a wedding I paid for. He was eating nine-hundred-dollar-a-plate food and publicly humiliating me by saying I was less than Garrett’s perfect, tragic first love. 3. “Brock, enough.” Garrett finally spoke. But his tone held no reprimand, only a kind of weary, almost affectionate indulgence, like a father scolding a mischievous child. “Alright, alright, no more messin’ around,” Brock snapped his fingers and yelled toward the back. “Cue the video! Time to look at the groom’s beautiful youth!” By the official schedule, this was when the romantic documentary of my and Garrett’s engagement trip to Paris and Tuscany should have played. I had hired a professional team and spent two weeks on the shoot and edit. The massive LED screen flickered. The image that appeared wasn’t the Eiffel Tower or a Venetian gondola. It was a series of grainy, decade-old photos. They were all of Garrett and a girl: holding hands on a quad, sharing a booth in a cafeteria, sleeping side-by-side in the library. The majestic strains of the classical wedding march were abruptly replaced by some sad, overplayed indie folk song. Across the screen, four large words flashed: A REQUIEM FOR LOST YOUTH. The entire ballroom erupted in a collective gasp. I stood beneath the giant screen, the last photo showing Garrett in a college sweatshirt, pinning the girl against a tree and kissing her passionately. The girl, with her delicate profile and innocent eyes, was Jocelyn. In that instant, this million-dollar wedding transformed into a grotesque farce. 4. I looked at Garrett. His eyes were red. He was gazing up at the screen, his Adam’s apple bobbing, completely lost in a haze of self-pitying tragedy. “Garrett,” I called out. He didn’t hear me. He was looking out at the crowd. I followed his gaze. At the sixth table, a woman was standing up. She wore a pure-white, delicate lace dress, a style that was disturbingly similar to my own gown. Wearing a dress that looked like a wedding dress to someone else’s ceremony is the ultimate, universally understood act of provocation. But now, she covered her mouth, her eyes brimming with tears, the perfect picture of an innocent woman both deeply wounded and overwhelmed with emotion. It was Jocelyn. “That is enough!” A roar came from the main table. My father, shaking with rage, slammed his wine glass onto the floor. The shattering of crystal was shocking and loud. My mother went pale, clinging to the table edge to keep from falling. Their daughter, whom they had cherished, was being trod upon like trash on her most important day. “Family, please, settle down!” Garrett’s parents immediately rushed forward, grabbing my father’s arms. Garrett’s father forced a smile, but his words were chilling. “It’s just the kids’ idea of a joke! Kids these days are always stirring things up for a little fun! If us parents get angry now, we’ll just embarrass the kids. Don’t make a spectacle for the rest of the guests!” An idea? Broadcasting photos of the groom making out with his ex-girlfriend at his current wife’s wedding—that was an idea? My father struggled to get to the stage, but Garrett’s beefy relatives held him in a death grip. 5. Brock, seeing the chaos, became even more energized. He loved having control of the room. He bellowed into the microphone: “Looks like everyone is moved! Our youth may be gone, but the friendship is still here. Since the two main characters are in the room, I propose—” He deliberately stretched out the silence, his eyes darting between Jocelyn and me, before landing on Garrett. “Why don’t we have Jocelyn come up? The three of you can share a toast to closure. It’ll symbolize the turning of a page, and you can all still be great friends! What do you say?” “Yeah!” “Get up here!” “Kiss! Kiss! Kiss!” The crowd of his friends began to chant, punctuated by wolf whistles. I stared at Brock in disbelief, then back at Garrett. This wasn’t just an insult; it was peeling the skin off my face and stomping on it. “Garrett, I dare you.” I stared into his eyes, the words squeezed out through my teeth. Garrett finally looked at me. His eyes held no guilt, only a flicker of deep irritation. “Sloane, stop being so dramatic, okay?” He lowered his voice so only I could hear. “Brock is just trying to lighten the mood. Look, Jocelyn is crying. She’s a girl, she’s embarrassed in front of everyone. I’ll just go get her, we’ll take a quick sip, and we move on. Be the bigger person.” The bigger person? I’m supposed to be the bigger person as my fiancé, at the wedding I paid seven figures for, goes to hold his ex-girlfriend’s hand? Before I could speak, Garrett had already turned his back on me. He walked away, leaving me alone on the stage, taking step after step toward the woman in the white dress. 6. The crowd’s roar of approval reached a crescendo. Garrett reached Jocelyn and offered his hand with a gesture he clearly thought was chivalrous. Jocelyn shook her head, her face a mask of sorrowful beauty, but her body was already leaning into him. Garrett, half-reluctant and half-eager, took her hand and led her up the crimson aisle like a knight escorting his princess. At the other end of that aisle, there was me. I stood there like an expensive, superfluous backdrop, utterly alone on the stage. Brock leaned in beside me, flipping the mic switch off. He whispered, his voice cold and oily: “Sloane, don’t think your money makes you special. Some women are just blessed—they do nothing and get a man’s heart. You? You bought the ring, the house, the car. And what did you get? Real love isn’t on a price tag.” 7. Garrett and Jocelyn arrived at the center of the stage. Standing side-by-side, her white lace dress and his white tuxedo complemented each other perfectly, as if they were the true, intended stars of the day. I, in my heavy, crimson reception dress, felt like an outsider who had wandered onto the wrong set, a garish backdrop to their perfect, beautiful moment. Brock, smiling ingratiatingly, held the mic out to Jocelyn. She took it, tears streaming down her face, looked at me with a pitiful glance, and then gazed lovingly at Garrett. “Honestly, I shouldn’t have come today… I never wanted anything, just for Garrett to be happy. As long as the Mrs. can make room for that little piece of my heart he keeps for me, I’m content.” The room sighed in collective sympathy, seemingly touched by this ‘great love.’ I watched the scene and, overwhelmed by anger, I finally laughed. In that moment, the last sliver of hope I had for Garrett crumbled, replaced by a clarity colder than any ice. I took a few sharp steps forward and snatched the mic right out of Brock’s hand. He was so stunned, the emptiness in his hand seemed to shock him physically. “Sound technician, cut the music.” My voice, amplified by the mic, was terrifyingly calm, without a single tremor. 8. The sad indie folk song stopped dead. “Lighting director, put all the spot-lights on the three of us.” The blinding, harsh light pierced the dark. Garrett and Jocelyn instinctively raised their hands to shield their eyes, looking suddenly panicked and disheveled. I didn’t cry, I didn’t yell. I simply pulled my phone from my clutch and connected it to the projector. The massive screen behind me flickered. The disgusting “Requiem for Lost Youth” disappeared, replaced by a dense, intimidating Excel spreadsheet. “Since we have everyone here, let’s settle some accounts.”

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Declan Holloway chased me down after the cheating—crashed his vintage Porsche, nearly killed himself, and somehow, woke up with amnesia. The doctors called it early-onset Alzheimer’s, but the only memory he clung to, the only person his broken mind retained, was me. Everyone said it was proof—that Declan’s love for me was visceral, an instinct carved into his soul. I only felt sick. I forbade him from coming within ten feet of me. Every towel, every glass, every single utensil in the house was labeled with my name and strictly compartmentalized. The day he was desperately thirsty and reached for my own, labeled water glass, I hurled it against the stone fireplace in front of the entire staff. He was terrified. His eyes were shattered and vacant. In that moment, a sliver of sharp, acidic grief broke open inside me. He’s not the old Declan, I told myself. He’s a clean slate. Later, he attended a small gathering of his old college buddies. I hesitated for an hour before driving over to pick him up, only to hear the low, amused voices from behind the door. “Grant, look, playing the amnesia card just to mess with your wife’s head? It’s a little much, even for you.” “Ronnie’s devotion is insane, man. You know she sacrificed her pinky finger for him back in the day, right?” Declan chuckled, lighting a cigarette. “Ronnie’s flawless, sure. Except for one thing: she can’t tolerate Scarlett.” “The more she tries to cut me off, the more agonizing the internal conflict for her. Once she learns to be the bigger woman—the right kind of wife—I’ll ease up. Eventually.” Outside the door, my tears hit the marble floor, silent and heavy. Declan. We’re done. There is no ‘eventually.’ Your illness is fake. But mine? Mine is real. … 1 The late-autumn rain turned to snow, melting against my coat. An icy draft snaked in through the doorframe, carrying the broken snippets of conversation. “Grant, you’re being too cruel to her. If she loves you that much, why not just grovel and ask for forgiveness? Why the fake amnesia?” Declan flicked ash from his cigarette. His voice was a low rumble. “You don’t get it. Ronnie is soft-hearted, but she’s also a lioness. We agreed she’d be the only one. If I don’t play the victim, she’ll never stop holding the infidelity over my head.” “More importantly, this is for Scarlett. She heard about the crash and miscarried. If I hadn’t immediately flown her out of the country, she might not have made it.” “And Ronnie? She got a harmless phobia. Compared to what Scarlett endured, what is that?” The air in the hallway solidified. After a long pause, someone muttered hoarsely, “Grant, aren’t you afraid she’ll find out and truly lose hope in you?” Declan cut him off with a short, cold laugh. “Hope? If she can’t handle this level of discomfort as the wife of Declan Holloway, then she’s not the woman I thought she was. Scarlett is different. She only has me. I am her entire world.” His final words were a harsh whisper: “Forget everything you heard in here. All of it.” I bit down on my lip until the metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. “Scarlett should be here soon, shouldn’t she?” a voice chirped inside. I spun around, scrambling to flee, but the sudden glare of blinding headlights froze me in place. The shriek of tires was the last thing I heard before the impact sent me flying. When I looked up, Declan was rushing out, and Scarlett was already clinging to his chest. “It wasn’t my fault! She just lunged right out in front of me…” My hair was loose, blood streaked across my face. Declan didn’t even look. He lifted his foot and landed a vicious kick to my back. The sickening thud of bone against concrete was distinct. I curled into a ball, and a wad of cash landed on my shoulder. “Trying to stage an accident for a payout?” he sneered. “This should cover your funeral.” Then, he slipped an arm around Scarlett and turned away. “Why didn’t you let me come pick you up?” His voice was sickeningly gentle. “Grant, maybe we should keep a little distance… I don’t want to upset your wife.” “You little fraud…” I heard the soft, wet sound of him kissing her. “I told you I missed you, didn’t I? And you came back.” I lay crumpled on the pavement, the grit mixing with the crimson on my face. The truth was, the Sinclair family business went under a year ago. And the Holloway family, due to Declan’s supposed amnesia, had scratched his name from the list of heirs. The pricey imported neuro-regeneration shots he supposedly needed? The ones costing a fortune? I had sold off my jewelry, then I sold plasma—pumping the last of my savings into that fake treatment. My own doctor had warned me: Tatum, keep this up and you’ll collapse. But watching him look at me with that confused, heartbreaking gaze, calling my name—I transferred the last of my own medical funds to him. I looked at the scattered bills, and a thin, hollow laugh escaped me. So much money. But it was too little. Not enough to buy back all the years of my love, all the sacrifices, all the life I’d given him. After a quick, perfunctory bandaging at the nearest clinic, I returned home. Declan was sitting at the dining table. His eyes lit up instantly when he saw me, just like they used to when he waited up for me back in the beginning. “Wife… I forgot how to use the forks. Will you feed me?” I glanced at the breadcrumbs stuck to his jacket. I remembered. Declan Holloway had an absolute, near-pathological contempt for anything less than intellectual perfection. He had a photographic memory and loathed incompetence. Now, he was sitting here, willing to play the helpless fool who couldn’t even manage a pair of chopsticks. This was his love? Seeing my silence, his eyes welled up. His voice trembled. “Wife, please don’t be disgusted with me. I learned the multiplication tables today. I’ll recite them for you.” I didn’t say a word. I simply handed him a long serving spoon. The movement pulled the fractured muscles in my back, making my face go white with pain. He took it cautiously, careful not to brush my hand. “Wife, are you hurt?” I stared at his perfectly acted, phony compassion. “I’m fine. Just got hit by a car.” “The driver’s boyfriend thought I was staging an accident. He gave me a good, hard kick.” 2 Declan’s pupils constricted. He looked genuinely concerned. “Where are you hurt? I’m taking you to the Emergency Room!” I watched his panicked, over-the-top expression and forced a smile. “It’s been handled. Right now, there’s something more important I need to tell you.” Declan scooted closer, crouching on the floor, looking up at me pathetically, his eyes brimming with fake tears. I looked down at his portrait of a tender, worried husband. Suppressing the sharp ache in my chest, I spoke the words slowly. “Let’s get a divorce.” Declan froze, then violently grabbed my hand and pressed it to his cheek. “Is it because you think I’m stupid?” His voice shook. “I won’t divorce you… I only have you.” Only me? I managed a smile that felt more like a grimace, then pulled my hand free and walked toward the bathroom. The water ran for a long time. I realized I’d forgotten to bring clothes, so I wrapped the towel around me and walked barefoot to the bedroom door. I stopped dead. I heard his soft, gentle voice: “Scarlett, don’t pout… The punishment isn’t over yet.” “Be a good girl. I’ll see you at the clinic tomorrow. We can’t start trying until you’re fully recovered. Don’t worry, no one is going to hurt you this time.” I stood there for a moment, then walked silently away. My tears were hot, but my heart was utterly cold. I woke up the next morning to find myself in the master bed. The comforter was new, freshly laundered. Declan was standing by the door, wearing sterile gloves and a face mask. “Wife, you got mad because I touched your hand yesterday, didn’t you? That’s why you wouldn’t sleep in here.” “I, I promise I didn’t touch you! The bedding is all brand new! I just… I saw you passed out on the table, and you looked so tired…” I watched his panicked, clumsy explanation and gave a faint smile. “Do you remember what I said yesterday?” He shook his head blankly. His eyes were clean and innocent, like fresh snow. “What was it, wife? I don’t recall.” I slowly sat up. The injury in my back was an icy, knifing pain. “Nothing important. It’s your check-up day today. I’m going with you.” A flash of genuine panic, quick as lightning, crossed his eyes. “It’s fine, I can go alone.” I smiled at him, and for the first time, I reached out and adjusted the lapel of his perfectly straight jacket. “Nothing is more important to me than you are.” I meant it. I meant it so much that Declan instinctively grabbed my hand, his eyes red-rimmed. “Wife, you’re finally accepting me again?” I didn’t answer. I just looked at him, letting him hold me tightly, letting him promise that we would never be apart again. At the hospital, I was stopped outside the MRI room where Declan was headed. “Family members aren’t allowed in the magnetic resonance imaging suite.” “I’m also a patient.” I showed the nurse my own lab order. My results came back fast. “It seems the car accident impacted you more than we thought. The initial trauma caused a slow bleed, leading to an abnormal subarachnoid space. You are at immediate risk of sudden death. You must be hospitalized right now.” The doctor immediately drew up the admission papers, which I tore to shreds. “No treatment. If anyone asks, please maintain my confidentiality.” As I left the exam room, the door to the adjoining suite was slightly ajar. I caught a glimpse of Declan’s back. He was bent over, gently kissing Scarlett’s lips. She was on her tiptoes, her hands linked behind his neck. His check-up. This was his check-up. A frantic throbbing started behind my eyes, like something was trying to claw its way out of my skull. I sank to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees. The last thing I saw before the darkness took over was his face, contorted in a mask of alarm, rushing toward me. “Tatum—” 3 I dreamed I was dead. At my funeral, Declan wore a black suit, his expression a perfectly measured grief. Three months later, his and Scarlett’s baby was born. They named him Intent—an echo of my name. Scarlett leaned into Declan’s arms and murmured, “A way to remember my sister.” Declan kissed her forehead. “It’s all over now.” The irony was a bitter burn. Even my death was just a footnote in the grand, sweeping drama of their love story. When I opened my eyes, I was in the passenger seat of our SUV. Declan was leaning over me, buckling my seatbelt. “You’re awake?” His voice was soft. “You collapsed at the clinic. You scared the hell out of me.” “Let’s go home. You need to rest.” I stared blankly at his face, inches from mine. His eyelashes were long, and when he looked down, he always appeared so focused, so deeply in love. My phone vibrated in my palm. A video message from an unknown number. I put in my earbuds and pressed play. Declan’s low, amused voice was sickeningly clear. “Let me check how well you’ve recovered.” Scarlett’s voice was syrupy and coy. “You’re so bad… Be gentle.” The video was short. The last frame, before the screen went black, was the platinum wedding band on Declan’s left hand. [Sister, I recognized you in the parking lot.] [I stepped on the gas on purpose. I wanted to see who Grant would protect.] [Now you know. He kicked you and held me.] [Oh, and you haven’t told him your family is bankrupt, have you?] [The expensive serum you bled yourself dry for? The one-thousand-dollar-a-vial stuff? It went straight into the trash. That doesn’t hurt, does it?] [I honestly can’t think of a more pathetic woman than you, so here’s a little wedding anniversary gift.] The message ended. The car stopped. Declan walked around and opened my door. “Wife, let me carry you in.” I didn’t move. I was cold, rigid, a husk with the soul sucked out. The arm he slipped under me tightened. His voice was muffled against the top of my head. “Wife, you’re trembling. Hold on to me if you’re cold.” Declan set me on the sofa and carefully draped a cashmere throw over me. My phone rang. The property manager said there was an urgent package that required my signature. Declan handed me a glass of water. “You stay put. I’ll get it.” I took a few sips and heard his footsteps disappear outside. After an unknown length of time, a sudden, heavy weakness paralyzed my body. I tried to call his name, but the door was violently shoved open. Three strange, burly men crowded into the living room. “Tatum Sinclair, right?” The beefy guy with the neck tattoo held up his phone. “Time to pay your debts.” My pupils shrank. My voice was a terrified, strangled croak. “I didn’t borrow—” A calloused hand slammed over my jaw, cutting me off. “If you don’t pay, don’t blame us for getting nasty.” A brutal slap knocked my head sideways. My vision went black. “Boss, this chick is a looker…” A greedy hand slid up my leg. “They say the Sinclair heiress was the prettiest thing in the city. Look at the face, the figure!” “You want to die?” The lead man snarled. “The client said whoever actually touches her isn’t walking out of here in one piece.” “What is his deal? He hires us to shoot his own wife?” “You idiot. He truly loves the other Miss Sinclair. These photos are just a power move, a way to keep his wife in line.” Through the hazy fog, I finally understood the “wedding anniversary gift” Scarlett had promised. For a few precious seconds, my heart simply stopped beating. My blurry vision registered the sound of a key turning in the lock. The flashbulbs went off again. I opened my eyes to see Declan’s bloodshot eyes and haggard face. “Tatum, you’re awake…” His voice was hoarse, like sandpaper on wood. “You scared me to death.” He spoke in frantic, broken sentences. He’d gone to get the package and somehow forgot to lock the door. When he came back, the house was a mess. And I was unconscious on the bed, clothes torn and mussed. “Thank God you’re okay…” He choked up, burying his face in my palm. “I failed you. I couldn’t protect you.” Slowly, deliberately, I pulled my hand out of his tight grip. “Your memory seems to be improving, doesn’t it?” His eyes widened in genuine alarm. “Are you mad? I’m so sorry! I forgot to tell you in the panic!” “Look, here’s the scan. My brain is totally normal. I’m completely recovered!” I didn’t even glance at the medical imaging. Declan gritted his teeth, then swung his arm and delivered a harsh slap across his own face. 4 His cheek immediately flared red and swollen, but his gaze was even more desperate, more pathetic. “It’s all my fault. Slap me, yell at me, but don’t shut me out.” He was like a child rushing to present a treasured item. He pulled a velvet box and a small, delicate slice of cream cake from behind his back. “It’s our anniversary today!” He opened the box, revealing a slender diamond bracelet. “I bought you a gift. Do you like it?” Without asking, he took my limp wrist and fastened the clasp. I lowered my eyes, gazing at the glittering bracelet, and finally spoke. My voice was dry, like a broken bellows. “Declan, do you love me?” Declan’s movement stopped. The air solidified for several agonizing seconds. He grasped my hand again, the force of his grip painful, his eyes focused with an intensity that felt like it was trying to brand itself onto my soul. “Yes.” He said it, every syllable, with the solemnity of an oath. “Tatum Sinclair, I love you.” The phrase was painfully familiar. He’d said it when he knelt in the rain after he cheated. He’d said it when he put the ring on my finger at our wedding. He’d even said it the first time he ‘recognized’ me after the fake amnesia. Every time, I believed him. Believed him without reservation, believed him until I’d given everything I had. How laughable. I looked into the bottomless well of “sincerity” in his eyes and felt an overwhelming, bone-deep fatigue. The sound of his phone broke the silence. He glanced at the screen, then grabbed his jacket. “There’s a lead on those bastards. I have to go immediately.” He stopped at the door, turning back, his eyes resolute. “Wife, wait for me!” His footsteps faded. The house fell into a deadly silence. Ten minutes later, my phone screen lit up. A voice recording from Scarlett. “Should I leak the rest of the photos now?” After a short pause, Declan’s voice—terrifyingly calm—replied. “Not yet. Wait.” “You don’t still have feelings for your wife, do you?” His voice dropped lower, colder. “Don’t be ridiculous. The photos are leverage. If she gives you any trouble, you show them to her.” Scarlett laughed, then her voice turned tearful. “But is her punishment just a few photos? We lost a baby, Grant.” Declan’s voice hardened. “Relax. I will make sure you get justice.” I listened quietly, tears streaming down my face. The place in my chest that had been raw, bloody, and mutilated finally stopped hurting. Only an empty, barren numbness remained. I picked up my phone. As I lowered my head, blood began to drip from my nose and eyes. I sent Declan a text message. Grant Holloway. I’ve run dry. My blood, my trust, my love. Is the curtain finally ready to fall on your performance? Then, I closed my eyes and let my phone fall from my hand. The next second, it started ringing frantically.

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I was checking into my sister’s emergency room for an allergic reaction when I ran straight into the resident who was hopelessly obsessed with her. The kid overheard the kind of “intimate” conversation only siblings have, and then saw my sister, in a classic move, habitually punch my shoulder. He went from jealous to frantic in about three seconds. He saw me as his ultimate nemesis, his eyes burning with pure, protective fury. I just stared, dumbfounded, ready to open my mouth and say, We’re siblings, you idiot. But before I could, he screamed, batting my sister’s hand away: “Dr. Pierce, break up with him! Don’t let this sick man fool you! That’s not an allergy!” “He’s got… lesions all over his rear!” “That’s a textbook sign of Secondary Syphilis! He has an STD!” 01 The entire emergency room fell into a deathly silence. Every single pair of eyes swiveled, swoosh, to focus on my exposed upper back and… my jeans, which I’d only managed to pull halfway back up after the initial assessment. My head went THWACK. All the blood drained from my face and rushed straight to my skull. “What the hell are you talking about?!” I was the first one to snap out of it, shaking with cold, pure rage. I whirled on him. Elijah Grant. The name was stitched on his scrubs. My vision was tunneling. “What is your name? What is your employee number? Do you have any idea you are leveling a felony accusation right now?!” My fury scared him; Eli flinched, and a fat tear plop-ped onto his chest. But he didn’t back down. He looked past me at my sister, Adriana Pierce, who was frozen in place. The look in his eyes was a bizarre mix of righteous indignation, agonizing heartbreak, and some kind of savior complex I couldn’t comprehend. “Dr. Pierce! I am not making this up! I’ve studied medicine for five years, I know what I saw!” He sobbed harder, pointing a finger at me. “I just don’t want to watch you be manipulated by a man like this! He has such a disgusting private life—he doesn’t deserve you! Look at him—he’s still trying to lie his way out of it!” Adriana’s expression was a perfect portrait of Who am I? Where am I? I yanked my jeans up instantly, ignoring the sharp, friction-induced pain on my irritated skin. I stood up straight, towering over Eli, and stared him down. “Say it again,” I ground out through clenched teeth. “The disease I have. What is it?” “I—” Eli stammered, intimidated by my gaze. But one glance at Addy standing beside me, and his courage flared up again. He puffed out his chest. “Don’t you know what you’ve been doing?!” “Fine,” I said, and the ridiculousness of the situation made me laugh—a cold, humorless sound. “You know what? Fine.” I stopped wasting time. I pulled out my phone and, right in front of him, started dialing. “Hello, 911? I need to report defamation. There’s a man at Metropolitan General who is publicly lying and slandering me, violating my civil rights…” “Hey! Hey! Mr. Pierce! Mr. Pierce, calm down!” Dr. Evelyn Shaw, the Chief of Emergency Medicine, rushed in, having clearly heard the commotion. She took one look at the scene—me shaking with rage, my sister’s face like granite—and she looked ready to faint. “Dr. Pierce, what… what in God’s name is happening here?” Adriana’s voice was dangerously flat. “Dr. Shaw, this doctor here just told the entire waiting room that my ‘dear one’ has Secondary Syphilis.” Dr. Shaw’s face went white. She spun on Eli, practically chewing him out in a whispered snarl. “Eli! Are you insane?! You’re giving a definitive diagnosis based on sight?! Are you a damned X-Ray machine?!” “I… I…” Eli’s tears flowed faster. He looked desperately at Addy. “Dr. Pierce, I was only trying to protect you! I—” “Shut up!” Dr. Shaw rubbed her temples. She knew Addy held administrative weight, and if this blew up, the entire ER department would face the fallout. “You will apologize to Mr. Pierce and Dr. Pierce immediately! Do you want to lose your residency spot before you even start?!” The words “residency spot” hit Eli like a physical blow. He shuddered, biting his lower lip, his face etched with humiliation and resentment. He gave me the most grudging, shallow bow imaginable. “I… I’m sorry.” His voice was a mosquito’s hum, but the murderous venom in his eyes was strong enough to peel paint off the wall. “I don’t want your apology,” I cut him off, my gaze sharp as glass as it swept over both him and Dr. Shaw. “Right now, in your hospital, I’m getting a full panel STD screening.” I paused, speaking each word slowly and distinctly. “If the results show I’m clean, I won’t just sue you, Eli Grant, for slander. I’ll sue this hospital for gross mismanagement and allowing an intern to disseminate false, life-altering medical information!” Dr. Shaw’s face was slick with a cold sweat. “Mr. Pierce, please, let’s calm down,” she quickly put on a professional smile. “This is a terrible misunderstanding! Eli, you are suspended immediately. You will write a ten-thousand-word apology. And this will be reported across the hospital.” I didn’t wait for the ensuing drama. I turned and walked away. Addy immediately followed, helping me re-register and get my blood drawn. I was exhausted. I was the one who jammed the needle in, who drew the sample, who filled out the paperwork. After fighting the hospital system for half the night, I dragged my inflamed body and my boiling rage back home, took the medicine, and fell into a heavy, feverish sleep. I slept for exactly as long as the internet was cancelling me. When I finally woke up, it was to the frantic, repeated ringing of my phone. Addy. “Hello…” My voice was a shredded whisper. “Cam, my god! You finally picked up! Check TikTok! It’s insane!” A cold dread clenched my gut. I opened the app. The barrage of DMs and comments (999+) instantly turned my phone into a slideshow. A local trending video was plastered on the front page. The screen showed a young man in a collared shirt, his face contorted in sorrow and injustice. It was Eli Grant. The caption read: #DidIDoSomethingWrong? I just wanted to be a good doctor. He didn’t name me, but the background was clearly the ER hallway from last night. Between sobs, he narrated: “…I was just trying to kindly warn that young woman that her ‘boyfriend’s’ symptoms were highly suspicious. If it wasthat kind of disease, it’s highly contagious. But I never imagined her boyfriend would react so violently, threatening to sue me…” “…Now, to smooth things over, my supervisors have suspended me and ordered a full review. I studied medicine for five years, and I truly don’t know what I did wrong…” “…Maybe I shouldn’t have gotten involved, but I just couldn’t stand the thought of that poor woman being kept in the dark. I didn’t do anything wrong! I’m still the best little lamb!” That last line—“I’m still the best little lamb”—was his calculated tag. The comment section had fully detonated. 02 @HealingHearts: OMG, baby don’t cry! You did the right thing! You are so pure! @TruthSayer: Some men are just pigs, they live a dirty life and then get mad when someone calls them out. @SheepLover: That patient definitely felt guilty and panicked, that’s why he sued! Hugs to the little lamb! @LocalGossip: Wait, isn’t this Metropolitan General? I think I was there last night, that dude was furious! @JusticeForSheep: Dig up the guy’s profile! Don’t let him hurt that beautiful woman anymore! I was physically trembling with disbelief and rage. The audacity of this sanctimonious, two-faced “Sweetest Little Lamb”! He was even replying to comments, painting a vivid picture of me. @TheLittleLamb: The guy looked pale and sickly, but he had the worst temper. I don’t know how he tricked a woman like her—she’s beautiful and classy, total night-and-day difference! @TheLittleLamb: I hear the beautiful woman is an admin at the hospital, too! Such a kind soul! It’s just so unfair! My anger reached a fever pitch. I typed a furious response in the comment section: @CamPierce: I am the “patient” you are referring to. The full story is… I’d managed to type out half the story when a cold, indifferent notification box popped up: [Your account has been temporarily disabled due to multiple reports of policy violation.] My vision blurred. When I gathered my senses, I immediately contacted the platform support, only to be told it would take three business days for the review process. Three business days? The damage would be irreversible by then! Addy, on the line, was frantic. “Cam, I already talked to the Hospital CEO! They said they’ll issue a public statement immediately!” “Addy,” I took a deep breath, forcing myself into a semblance of calm. “Don’t. You are currently ‘the poor, manipulated victim.’ The more you defend me, the more they’ll see me as some ‘privileged jerk’ abusing my ‘deep connections.’” “Then what do we do? Just let him get away with this character assassination?” I hung up, staring at Eli Grant’s tear-streaked face on the screen. Something clicked. That look he gave Addy in the ER last night. It wasn’t the way an intern looks at a colleague. It was obsession. Jealousy. Resentment. He kept saying, “For your own good,” and “He doesn’t deserve you.” Why would a brand-new intern be this fiercely protective of my sister? Unless… he’d known her for a while. A crazy, chilling idea flashed through my mind. I shot upright and dialed Addy back. “Addy, I need you to do something for me. Right now. I need you to log into the hospital’s internal network forum.” “The intranet? Now? Why?” “Don’t ask. Just search for a post.” I relayed the keywords, pulling from a hazy memory. “Keywords: Dr. Pierce, Boyfriend, Not Good Enough.” Silence on the other end. Addy was in Administration; logging into the intranet took her seconds. Five minutes later, she called back, her voice a mix of shock and utter bewilderment. “Cam… how… how did you know?” She sent me a screenshot. It was a post from three months ago, buried deep in the hospital’s anonymous gossip section. Title: [Treehouse] I feel bad for Dr. Pierce. Her boyfriend seems like such a demanding jerk. Body: The (OP) is a new intern. Today in the cafeteria, I saw Dr. Pierce eating, and her ‘boyfriend’ (I assume) called her. She had to drop her lunch and run all the way to the first-floor coffee shop to get him some kind of limited-edition seasonal cold brew. Last week, I saw her carrying his shopping bag for him in the hospital garden. He was acting so entitled and condescending, but Dr. Pierce just smiled through it all. And I heard he spends money like crazy. I think she hands over most of her salary to him. Seriously, what is so great about this guy? Why is Dr. Pierce with him? I feel so bad for her! The replies were varied. @GossipQueen: OP, are you secretly crushing on Dr. Pierce? LOL. @AdminBuddy: Ha! Our Addy is the hospital’s sweetheart. She’s got a line of admirers out the door. @Rando: I’ve seen that guy. He’s handsome, but he looks like a total tool. The OP, when asked if he was crushing, replied in an excited, lengthy defense: @OP: I am NOT! I don’t know why you’d say that! I’m just looking out for Dr. Pierce! She’s too good for a man who would manipulate and use her like that! I stared at the screenshot, my hands ice-cold. Three months ago, I was at the hospital for a dental check-up. Addy bought me a coffee, and I, being a typical younger brother, complained it was the wrong flavor and made her get the special one. Last week, my mom made us pick up her annual physical results. I had just finished some retail therapy and made her carry my bags. And her salary? Her bank account was confiscated by our mother years ago because she has zero impulse control. It’s in my name. I give her a monthly allowance. I drew a long, shaky breath, my voice now like shards of ice. “Addy, check the IP address of that post.” Addy: “…It’s the Interns’ Dorm, Building A.” “Who lives in Building A?” “…Dermatology, and a few Internal Med residents.” Addy paused, and I heard the click of a mouse. “Eli Grant. He’s in Building A.” 03 I smiled. The laughter was almost hysterical; tears pricked my eyes. It wasn’t a medical mistake. It wasn’t a random incident. This was a meticulously plotted, malice-driven act of retaliation, fueled by obsession. Eli hadn’t misdiagnosed me. He had sentenced me. He wasn’t trying to cure me; he was trying to punish me. He wanted to punish me, the “bad man” who “didn’t deserve” Addy and was “manipulating” her. Okay. You want to play this out on the internet? Game on. Just then, a WhatsApp notification popped up—a contact request. The profile picture was Eli Grant’s tear-stained, self-pitying face. I accepted it. His message came immediately. Eli: Mr. Pierce? I truly didn’t expect things to go this viral online. Eli: I know I messed up, and I’m asking for your forgiveness. As a doctor, though, I still advise you to take better care of yourself. You need to stop living such a messy lifestyle. That condescending, self-righteous tone made him sound like a goddamn savior. I stared at the text, shaking my head and letting out a final, furious laugh. My instinct was to unleash a torrent of profanity, but my finger froze over the screen. What was the point? It would only fuel his ego. I deleted the long string of insults I’d typed, and calmly sent a reply. Cam: Are you at the hospital right now? Eli clearly hadn’t expected that. After a few seconds, a lone “?” came back. Seeing that question mark, a cold, predatory smirk curved my lips. I ignored him and immediately called Addy. “Addy, I need your help.” “Name it, Cam!” “Take your TikTok account live.” “Huh?” “The title: Regarding ‘The Sweetest Little Lamb’s’ Slander Campaign: The ‘Dirty Man’s’ Sister Speaks.” 04 The next morning, Addy and I walked back into Metropolitan General. Addy’s TikTok account had tens of thousands of followers from her fitness videos and hospital admin tips. The moment she went live, the title alone pulled in thousands of viewers instantly. Most of them were the people who’d followed Eli’s story last night, rushing to curse out the “scumbag” and the “poor, manipulated girlfriend.” @ToxicTruth: Ugh, this dude actually came back to the hospital? @GossipGirl: She must be crazy! That gorgeous, classy woman with a guy who has Secondary Syphilis? @JudgeJudy: City folks playin’ too rough! I ignored the comments and walked straight into the ER lobby. Eli was still there. He wasn’t in scrubs, but in casual clothes, chatting and laughing with another nurse—no signs of a man facing a serious suspension. He saw me and froze. Then, he gave me a slight, dismissive sneer. But when his gaze darted past me to Addy, who was holding her phone up and live-streaming, the color drained completely from his face. The next second, his whole demeanor flipped. He rushed toward us, bowing deeply over and over again. “Dr. Pierce! Mr. Pierce! I am so sorry, truly!” “I never meant for the internet to react so intensely… I shouldn’t have revealed your medical condition, I was just so worried you might infect someone else…” He kept the weeping act up, subtly glancing at Addy, putting on a performance of sincere remorse. The live chat instantly exploded. @AHA! Did you hear that! He admitted it was a ‘medical condition,’ not an ‘allergy’!’ @PIG! I’m sick to my stomach! This guy brings his ‘girlfriend’ here to intimidate the poor doctor? I contained my volcanic fury and cut through his performance with a cold voice. “Medical condition? Fine.” I held up a manila folder. “My initial lab results from last night are in here.” Eli’s sobbing instantly stopped. “But I’m afraid you and the internet will say we’re ‘abusing power,’ forcing the hospital to alter the report.” I turned to the camera, sweeping my gaze over the crowd of onlookers. “So, right now, in front of everyone watching this stream, I’m registering again, drawing blood again, and doing a full, new panel.” “Not only that,” I said, turning to Addy. She understood immediately. She pulled out her work phone and dialed. “Hello, Public Notary’s Office? I need expedited, on-site document witnessing services…” “This…” Eli’s face had completely melted. Just then, Dr. Shaw rushed over, her face furious. “This is chaos! This is a hospital, not a goddamn television studio!” She was clearly trying to shut it down. Addy walked up to her, silent, and whispered a few words in her ear. I caught the words “CEO,” “Intranet Forum,” and “Malicious Slander.” Dr. Shaw’s face changed in an instant, from white to green to absolute black. She glared at Eli, then spat out three words through gritted teeth. “Let him test!” I took Addy’s phone, registered, and paid the fees. I ignored the vitriol in the chat. Blood draw, urine sample, other tests… The Notary officials arrived quickly, setting up their cameras to record the entire chain of custody. I remained perfectly calm throughout the process. Eli tried to slip away a couple of times, but Addy, standing like a stone statue at the lab door, blocked him. His face got paler, and his panic grew visible. When all the tests were done, I crossed my arms and sat in a chair in the lobby to wait. The stream had hit over a hundred thousand viewers, all waiting for the conclusion of this unprecedented scandal. Two hours later, I received the stack of printed reports. I didn’t look at them. I handed the entire stack, along with the Notary’s paperwork, to Dr. Shaw. “Dr. Shaw,” I managed a small, frigid smile. “You’re the Chief of Medicine. You’re the professional. Do me a favor: read the results of my new panel for the internet.” Dr. Shaw’s lab coat was damp with sweat. She took the stack of papers, her hands visibly trembling. She cleared her throat and started reading them one by one. “Complete Blood Count… Normal.” “Liver Function… Normal.” “Kidney Function… Normal.” She read quickly, until she turned to the last page. Her voice cut off abruptly. She looked up, giving me a strange, unreadable glance, then looked back down, her eyes full of hesitation and a hint of… pity? The live chat noticed the pause immediately. @WHAT Why did she stop? What’s on the last page? @TELLUS Spit it out! You’re killing us! With hundreds of thousands of people urging her on, Dr. Shaw swallowed hard. She lifted the final page to the camera and forced out the last few words: “Treponema Pallidum Antibody… Positive (+).” “Diagnosis: Syphilis, Secondary Stage.”

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To care for my mother after her cancer diagnosis, I quit my high-pressure job at a major finance firm and took a simple sales role near home. It was supposed to be my soft landing. On my first day, I saw her again—Serena Caldwell. The company’s newly appointed General Manager, and my ex-girlfriend from three years ago. In the mandatory morning meeting, she wore a perfectly tailored blazer and carried herself with an air of untouchable professionalism. Her eyes swept over me without the slightest flicker of recognition, as if I were a ghost she’d never known. A week later, my team secured a multi-million-dollar contract. At the small celebration dinner, she came up to my side, her voice a low murmur only I could hear. “Declan Miller,” she said, tilting her wine glass, “you’re still as ruthlessly efficient as ever.” The pivot point came the day after she left for a major business trip. A new Director of HR, whom everyone whispered was Serena’s fiancé, strode onto our floor. He marched straight over to my desk and, with a dismissive swipe, knocked my lunch container off the edge. “Lunch hour ended for everyone else twenty minutes ago,” he sneered. “What are you loitering around here for?” I stared at him, dumbfounded. It had been barely half an hour since the office’s “official” lunch break began, and I’d been finalizing the details of a contract signing for that afternoon. Eating a little late was now a fireable offense? I started to stand up to demand an explanation, but he turned to face the rest of the floor, his voice booming. “I don’t care how sloppy you’ve been in the past. From now on, you will follow my rules to the letter!” A wave of impotent anger washed over the office. My colleagues just bowed their heads and kept typing. Great. I thought. Even the ‘easy’ job has its own brand of corporate hell. … 1 I was halfway through drafting a message to a major client to cancel our cooperation—my breaking point—when Preston Wells, the new HR Director, finished his tyrannical speech and swaggered back toward my desk, clearly basking in the silence he’d created. He looked down at me with an expression of utter contempt. “Clean up this mess,” he hissed. “And if I catch you violating policy again, I’ll personally tank your entire performance review.” With that, Preston stalked away. Nate, the guy at the desk next to me, tugged urgently at my sleeve. “Declan, man, just sit down. The CEO’s guy is seriously unhinged.” I sank into my chair. Nate leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. “Word is, every time he and Serena have a fight, he comes here and wreaks havoc. He even canceled Laura’s approved maternity leave, said she could give birth at her desk and still wouldn’t be missing work.” “Just hold tight. It’ll be better when Serena gets back.” Former Regional Director at a Tier-One firm, reduced to swallowing this garbage in a glorified suburban sales office. The only reason I hadn’t quit ten minutes ago was that this place was two miles from Mom’s apartment, making it easy to manage her care. Otherwise, I’d have slammed the multi-million-dollar contracts I’d just secured onto Preston’s smug face. My phone vibrated. It was a text from the executive assistant to the CEO of Aether Group. [Mr. Miller, Mr. Harrington insists on speaking with you personally.] [In addition to the previously discussed $8 million annual salary and equity, we’ve been made aware of your mother’s situation.] [The Group’s private medical facility is nationally renowned for its cancer treatment. Mr. Harrington guarantees that, upon your signing, your mother will be admitted immediately and receive complimentary lifetime medical care.] My breath hitched. My fingers went numb against the screen. Aether Group, the titan of the industry, didn’t just throw money—they hit my precise, agonizing pressure point. This wasn’t an offer; it was a lifeline dropped from the sky. I replied instantly: [I accept your offer. I will complete my transition and departure from my current employer ASAP.] I put the phone down and started writing my resignation letter. Mom’s care came first. Always. A few minutes later, Mark, my direct manager, rushed over, waving the resignation letter. “Declan, what are you doing?” His hands were visibly shaking. Serena had explicitly told him to keep me happy. “As you can see, Mark. I’m resigning,” I said, my voice calm. “No! Absolutely not!” He raised his voice, a sheen of sweat breaking out on his forehead. His expression, however, was pitifully desperate. “I know it’s Preston. I’m sorry. When Serena gets back, I promise, I will handle it.” The genuine panic in his eyes was clear. “If you walk out now, what happens to the department? Those major accounts… The new project is about to kick off, and the clients only trust you!” His look pleaded with me to stay. “I’ll ensure a smooth handover for those clients—” The sharp tap-tap-tap of expensive leather shoes echoed as Preston came out of his glass office. 2 “I can hear your yelling all the way from my office! Mark, is this what you call work?” He caught sight of Mark, his expression instantly judgmental. “Manager, you should not be wandering around gossiping during office hours. This is a professional environment, not a flea market!” My face hardened. Since I was already leaving, I had nothing to lose. “Mr. Wells,” I interrupted, my tone icy. “We are an international trade company. How do you suggest we communicate with clients without speaking? And furthermore, aren’t you the HR Director? Does your authority extend to micromanaging the day-to-day operations of the Sales Department?” A paralyzing silence fell over the office. Every single person stopped working and looked straight at us. Preston clearly hadn’t anticipated such direct defiance. He froze for a second. Then, his face flushed crimson with rage. “Declan Miller! Do you even want this job?! I am the HR Director! The discipline of all employees falls under my purview!” He was practically shouting, his voice pitching higher with every word. I gave a short, cynical laugh, took the resignation letter from Mark’s trembling hand, and tossed it right onto Preston’s chest. “You’re absolutely right,” I said. “I don’t.” The paper fluttered to the floor near his feet. Preston’s face twisted in fury, but then a slow, venomous smile spread across his lips as he realized something. He crossed his arms, then deliberately raised his foot and ground the heel of his shoe into the letter, grinding it into the carpet. “Trying to jump ship, are we?” he drawled. “Well, I won’t humor you. Your resignation is not approved.” Mark tried to interject, but a single, fierce glare from Preston shut him down. “I’ve notified you, Mr. Wells. Once the necessary handover is complete, I can leave.” Preston scoffed, ignoring me. “Company policy states that all departing employees must undergo a full exit audit to ensure no financial detriment to the firm.” He leaned down, picking up the crumpled letter, then tossed it into the nearest recycling bin. His smile turned chilling. “And unluckily for you, you haven’t completed the procedure.” “So,” he finished, a triumphant glint in his eyes, “you’re not going anywhere.” The room was deathly quiet. Everyone understood: Preston was deliberately manufacturing a roadblock to stall my departure. “In that case, I’ll call the GM directly right now for clarification on those procedures.” Preston’s eyes flickered, realizing this might escalate beyond his control. He just wanted to flex, not start a war. “Look, Preston, come on… just cut him some slack,” Mark jumped in, trying to play peacemaker. “Declan, just finish the handover on those few accounts and go. Give Serena a clean exit…” He turned his back to Preston and frantically motioned for me to concede. I understood. Mark wouldn’t be the one to block the paperwork. “Fine. Since Mark is asking, I’ll give him a pass.” Preston glared at me, his eyes dark with malice. “But you’d better not give me any reason to pull you up!” His sinister warning gave me a flash of unease. Over the next few days, the surface was smooth, but the undercurrents were rough. I continued to work, completing the handover, even more proactively than before. Preston, meanwhile, found increasingly petty ways to pick fights. He demanded I rewrite my daily reports for “incorrect formatting.” He checked on me constantly when I was meeting clients, claiming I exceeded my approved time away from the office. He rejected my taxi expense reports, claiming the date stamp was wrong, forcing me to pay out of pocket. I ignored his demands, simply taking screenshots and saving every correspondence. I also quietly reached out to a few friends in the local Labor Relations Board. Preston wasn’t just targeting me. When he issued his bizarre final refusal to Laura’s maternity leave appeal—using the ludicrous reason that she “hadn’t provided a paternity test for the child”—I knew it was time. That same afternoon, a stern call from a labor inspector hit Preston’s direct line. The inspector sternly demanded a written explanation regarding his “alleged violation of female employee protection regulations.” 3 Preston finally looked rattled. He hadn’t expected me to actually escalate the issue, and he quickly approved Laura’s leave. I thought that small victory would keep him quiet, at least until I was gone. Then came this afternoon. I had just finished my last face-to-face handover with a client. Walking back into the office, I immediately felt the atmosphere shift. Several colleagues stole glances at me, their expressions a strange mix of apprehension and doubt. The guy next to me looked like he wanted to speak but simply pounded the keyboard harder, avoiding eye contact. Mark’s office door was tightly shut. Confused, I sat down and opened my computer. An “All-Staff Alert” email from the corporate address was sitting at the top of my inbox. Sender: Preston Wells. Subject: IMMEDIATE TERMINATION FOR GROSS MISCONDUCT AND ALLEGED EMBEZZLEMENT In the body, my name was bolded and highlighted in red. [Preliminary investigation indicates that Declan Miller allegedly embezzled hundreds of thousands of dollars. His actions constitute a severe violation of company policy.] [Mr. Miller is immediately suspended without pay, and all access and accounts have been frozen…] Attached to the email were a few blurry screenshots of a chat log. An account using my old profile picture was clearly soliciting “kickbacks” from someone. Oh, Preston. You’re so wonderfully clumsy. I couldn’t help but almost laugh. Using fake chat logs? That trick was outdated ten years ago. He was clearly just trying to manufacture an excuse to block the final phase of my handover. The most baffling part? “Hundreds of thousands of dollars.” That was less than a week’s commission for me at my old firm. Preston clearly hadn’t bothered to check my past pay stubs. My desk phone rang. It was Preston. “Miller, you saw the email. I need you to report to the small conference room immediately.” His voice was dripping with smug satisfaction. “You have some serious explaining to do.” I hung up. My colleagues looked at me, fear etched on their faces. Nate was practically shaking, urging me to call the police. I smiled calmly, assuring him that this kind of cheap parlor trick was something even a corporate intern could handle. I stood up and walked toward the small conference room, taking nothing with me. When I pushed the door open, three people were waiting: Preston, the company’s legal counsel, and an unfamiliar face from the auditing department. They were making a show of it. “Sit,” Preston commanded, pointing to the empty chair across from him. Before my butt could even touch the seat, Preston launched the attack. “Declan Miller, Mr. Reynolds from Coastal Trade will testify that he wired you money! And we have a statement from the North Star Group admitting you ‘requested’ kickbacks!” I raised an eyebrow. He’d done more than I thought; he’d apparently managed to bribe or coerce “witnesses.” Mr. Reynolds? North Star? I did business with them. The fact that they’d cooperate with Preston’s charade was slightly unexpected. But I wasn’t falling into his trap. I stood up immediately. “If you believe I have committed a crime, you are free to call the police at any time.” “If there’s nothing else, I need to get back to work.” Preston slammed his hand on the table and jumped up. “This is an internal investigation! Your hostile behavior and refusal to cooperate are in clear violation of company policy!” “I’ve already had your access badge and computer privileges revoked. You are suspended and will remain so until the investigation is complete! You can wait at home until we decide on your employment status!” I looked at Preston’s furious face. So that was his play: hold me in limbo indefinitely to prevent me from moving on to Aether Group. I ignored him, deciding that if it came to it, I would just take the whole thing to arbitration. I returned to my desk, quickly packed up my personal effects, and said a few quiet goodbyes to my colleagues. I took the elevator downstairs. The moment I walked through the lobby doors, I stopped dead. The main hall was swarming with people—a dozen of them, pushing cameras with long lenses and holding up phone cameras, all aiming straight at me. The lights and camera flashes exploded, momentarily blinding me. 4 “He’s out! That’s him!” “Mr. Miller! How do you respond to the company’s allegations of embezzling hundreds of thousands?” “We heard your mother is undergoing chemotherapy. Is that the primary motivation for your alleged misconduct?” The questions hammered at me like hail, each one a carefully constructed trap. I instantly knew this was Preston. I’d underestimated how far he would go. He’d weaponized media resources to destroy my reputation. The reporters were here less than thirty minutes after my “suspension.” This was clearly premeditated. “It’s all libel and baseless slander!” I shouted, trying to push through the crowd, but they were a solid, unmoving wall. My phone was vibrating frantically in my pocket. I managed to pull it out and saw it was the nurse’s aide from the hospital—several missed calls. My heart seized up. I answered immediately. The aide’s voice was frantic and tearful. “Mr. Miller! It’s bad! The hospital… there are people here! They say they’re reporters and onlookers, all crammed outside her room!” “They’re… they’re taking pictures of your mother and asking her awful questions!” “She got so upset, she had trouble breathing! The nurses came to push them out, but more people keep showing up!” “They’re saying… they’re saying she raised a fraud, that she’s an unfit mother…” Buzz. My mind went completely blank. Mom… they went after my Mom? “Call the police! Call the police right now!” I roared into the phone. “I’m on my way!” Hanging up, the blood surged to my head. I pushed away the microphone shoved into my face and yelled. “Get out of my way!” My eyes must have been terrifying, because the reporters closest to me instinctively backed up half a step. Just as I was about to charge out, my phone rang again. It was Ms. Davis, the executive assistant to Mr. Harrington at Aether Group. I took a deep, shaky breath, forcing a semblance of calm, and answered. “Hello, Mr. Miller?” My stomach dropped. I responded quietly. “Mr. Miller, I apologize for calling you at this time.” “We’ve noted the… unfortunate rumors that are currently spreading rapidly online.” Her tone was professional and smooth, but every word felt like a knife. “Mr. Harrington and the senior leadership team are extremely concerned.” “Aether Group maintains the most rigorous standards for the character and professional reputation of its senior executives.” She paused. My heart turned to ice. “Therefore, after an emergency deliberation, the Group has decided to temporarily suspend your employment process.” “Until you can provide concrete evidence to fully and definitively clear all of these accusations…” My mouth was dry and cracked. “Understood,” I managed, feeling utterly adrift. The line went dead. I stood in the center of the noisy lobby, surrounded by flashing lenses and relentless questions. The world went silent, then crashed down on me. A male reporter shoved a mic back into my face. “Mr. Miller, did Aether Group just rescind their job offer?” “Is this due to your poor character?” My control snapped. I grabbed his lapel, shaking with a blind fury. “What will it take for you vultures to leave me alone! How much damage do you need to do?!” Of course, Preston chose that exact moment to ride the elevator down to the lobby. “Well, well, look at all the media attention, Miller. Why don’t you just confess to your crimes?” His smug, malicious grin completely obliterated the last shred of my sanity. Just as I lunged, prepared to unleash a year’s worth of suppressed rage, a loud, commanding female voice cut through the chaos. “Declan, stop!”

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