After insisting that Harper put on the delicate costume lingerie again, a line of floating text suddenly scrolled across my vision: [The toxic male side character is shameless, always trying to find ways to humiliate our heroine!] [It’s okay. When the heroine meets her tycoon father and becomes a commercial magnate, she’ll ruin his family!] [Skip the toxic side character’s scenes! Just show me the hero and heroine’s sweet daily life!] The commentary vanished, and my hand, which had been unhooking the back of Harper’s dress, paused. She was flushed, but her eyes held a cool, clear depth. “Not continuing?” she asked. I took a deep breath, redoing the button I’d just undone. “You can go.” 1 Harper froze. “Excuse me?” I lowered my gaze. My eyes trailed down her soft chest, her fair waist, until they settled on her hands resting at her sides. The delicate lace trim on the cuff looked like fine snowflakes dusting her wrist. I had spent weeks picking out this outfit for her. The top was tailored, perfectly tracing her figure. It wasn’t overtly revealing. In fact, paired with Harper’s cool demeanor, it looked almost regal. But according to the commentary I’d just seen, she was supposed to be feeling humiliated right now. She thought I was doing this just to degrade her. The thought made the whole endeavor feel pointless. I put the camera down. “I said, you can go. I don’t want to shoot anymore.” I was co-running a startup with my friend, Sam. Sam designed the intimate apparel, and I photographed the models. Harper had volunteered to be the one to model the clothes I’d picked out for this collection. She ripped the bunny ears from her head. Her thin lips tightened, hinting at annoyance. “Albert, what sort of mood are you in now? I agreed to the shoot, didn’t I? What else do you want?” Just then, the aerial commentary, which had momentarily disappeared, scrolled across the air again: [Why is the side character throwing a fit? The heroine put aside her self-respect to pose for him, what’s his problem?!!] [He’s just trying to build up more hate in her. He’s asking for a tragic ending.] [Don’t worry, everyone. This toxic creep ends up jumping from the eighteenth floor. He dies miserably~] 2 The eighteenth floor. Because of Harper? I involuntarily shivered and subtly put more distance between us. My voice dropped a notch. “I’m not throwing a fit. I just… I don’t think you genuinely want to do this. I don’t want to make you do something you hate.” Harper was taken aback. A flicker of disbelief crossed her eyes. Perhaps I had been too persistent in the past. My sudden capitulation seemed to genuinely confuse her. “Is that all? Are you plotting some new scheme beneath that innocent look?” I quickly shook my head. “No. Nothing like that.” She studied me, her expression unreadable. After a long silence, just as I thought she wouldn’t speak again, she placed the rabbit-ear headband into my hand. Her voice was slightly hoarse. “Then I’m going back to studying.” Only after Harper left did the tension drain from my body. More commentary drifted by: [As if the toxic side character would let the heroine off so easily.] [This is definitely a strategic retreat. He’s cooking up a new way to torment her.] [Remember last time? She wouldn’t go to the amusement park with him, so he retaliated by firing her mom, the housekeeper. Her mom was secretly crying as she left with her bags.] My fingers tightened into a fist. That wasn’t how it happened. The reason I had so forcefully dismissed her mother, Maria, right in front of Harper was because I had discovered Maria’s cancer diagnosis just before. Maria didn’t want the astronomical medical debt to weigh on Harper or interfere with her graduate thesis defense, so she was trying to keep it a secret. I found out, immediately contacted the best oncologists, and insisted she start treatment and stay in the hospital. I had to stage that “firing” to keep the truth hidden from Harper. Just yesterday, the doctor said her surgery went well and she would be released soon. 3 Early the next morning, I woke up thirsty and headed downstairs for a glass of water. Passing Harper’s room, I noticed her light was still on. The image of her sitting bolt upright at her desk, her long fingers turning a page, her lips slightly pursed in concentration, flashed through my mind. Then, the morning’s commentary—the predictions, the drama—slammed me back to reality. I shook my head hard. A faint sound of footsteps echoed in the hallway. I retreated to the stairwell, peeking around the corner. I saw Caden, my stepbrother, in pink sleepwear, knocking on Harper’s door with a glass of milk. New floating text appeared before my eyes: [Aah! The hero is finally here! He’s so cute, like a little sunbeam!] [Waaah! Only the hero in this house actually cares about our girl.] [ I have complex feelings for the hero: I want to mother him!] Harper opened the door quickly, seemingly unsurprised. She pushed her black, half-rimmed glasses up her nose and familiarly took the milk, thanking him with slightly red ears. When their fingertips brushed, the scrolling commentary went wild, declaring they were “shipping” them too hard. Caden’s voice was bright. “Harp, will you go to the amusement park with me this weekend?” Harper paused, not answering immediately. She simply tilted her head back and finished the glass of milk. [What is the heroine doing!! Why isn’t she agreeing to go with our little sunbeam?] [Relax, she’s the reserved, repressed type. Give her a minute.] [Just kiss already! Aah, I’m dying here!] Caden pouted, looking slightly hurt. “If you don’t want to, that’s fine. I can go alone.” Harper leaned in, bracing one hand on the door frame, closer to him now. “Who said I don’t want to? You get motion sickness, I was just trying to figure out if anti-nausea meds would help with those 3D simulator rides.” Watching the intimate scene, my heart felt gripped by an invisible hand. My eyes stung, and a heavy knot formed in my chest. When I used to ask Harper to go to the park with me, she would always say the same thing: I don’t have time to waste on such childish things. Now, she not only agreed instantly to Caden but was thoughtfully considering how to manage his symptoms. It wasn’t that she feared wasting time. She just feared wasting time on me. 4 Back in my room, staring at the 99+ notifications of people “shipping” them so hard, my eyes burned again. In this sweet romance novel, I was just the villain, the toxic side character everyone despised. Caden, my non-biological stepbrother, was the hero of this world. And Harper was his destined match. So, what did my years of devotion mean? Harper was sickly growing up. To ensure she was healthy, I often insisted she eat the vegetables and meats she hated. Later, in high school, she worked late nights at a study lounge’s coffee bar to save up for tuition, barely staying awake in class the next day. I found out, secretly got her fired, and convinced my father to cover her tuition until graduate school. Only after seeing the commentary did I realize that all the moments I thought were acts of love and protection were seen by her as coercion and humiliation. All leading to a future where she would seek revenge and destroy my family. If that was the reality, I had to stop loving her. I spent the next few hours packing all the gifts and tokens Harper had ever given me into a cardboard box. They weren’t exactly gifts, just random things she’d handed me. But I had kept them meticulously for years. I tossed the box into the storage room. 5 Harper and I attended the same graduate program, sharing the same advisor, though I was a year behind her. The next day, after we finished an experiment, Harper stayed behind to organize her data. Unlike my usual habit of waiting for her, I simply packed my bag and headed for the door. “Albert.” She called out my full name. I turned back, my expression intentionally cool. “What is it?” She stood and walked toward me. “Are you leaving now?” “Yes.” I started to turn away again. She grabbed my wrist, her grip firm, almost impossible to pull away from. “It’s dark out. I’ll walk you home.” “No need.” Harper looked down at me, her eyes dark and intense. “Are you throwing a fit again? Because I went to the park with Cade? Are you jealous?” More text flashed across my mind: [Is the side character ever not annoying? The slightest inconvenience and he forces the heroine to comfort him.] [She’s only walking him home because she has to swing by the bakery to grab a pastry for the hero.] So, that’s why. A sharp tug of pain went through my chest. It was foolish not to have seen it sooner. Since childhood, she always called Caden “Cade” or “Cady.” She always called me by my full name. That was the difference. I pulled my wrist free. “I’m not throwing a fit. It’s your business who you go to the park with.” Harper gave a light, knowing laugh. She looked like she saw right through my denial. “Still claiming you’re not jealous?” I was exhausted. I didn’t want to argue anymore. I simply turned and walked out.

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The day I found a used, ultra-thin wrapper—a condom—stuffed between the passenger seat and the console of Damon’s custom Range Rover was the tenth anniversary of our wedding. In the ensuing fight, I slammed the door and ran, only to be hit by a runaway semi-truck. Our seven-month-old child was torn from my body, seven months too soon. Crushed. Just… gone. Damon Cole wept outside the operating room, swearing that he would never betray me again. He blocked the mistress, Chelsea Quinn, on every platform and started sending me his itinerary daily. My friends called me a warrior, praising me for winning the battle for my marriage. But I grew quieter with each passing day. Until our tenth wedding anniversary. Damon knelt on one knee, holding a newly customized engagement ring—a replica of the cheap silver band he’d first given me when we were kids. “Anna Rhodes,” he said, his eyes earnest and teary. “If you could turn back time, would you still marry me?” Our eyes met. I just stood there, frozen, unable to give him any reaction. That’s when he snapped. “Anna, what is it going to take? How much longer are you going to punish me? It was a baby, not a limb! We can have another one! I’ve been crawling on my knees for six months, damn it! Is that not enough?” “Do I have to kill myself before you’ll finally forgive me?” I blinked slowly. I looked at him, then smiled faintly. “You went through all the trouble to set this up. You must be starving. Would you like me to make you some grilled cheese? Or maybe just burgers?” … 1 Damon roared and slammed the front door as he left. I sighed. For the last six months, Damon truly seemed to have become the man I married. He’d even pushed a crucial business dinner to be here with me tonight. But the words—the tearful, desperate “I do” I’d said ten years ago—couldn’t be squeezed past my lips now. Before I could process the lingering emptiness, my phone chimed. Chelsea Quinn had posted a new Instagram Reel. In the shaky video, Damon was slumped in a dim corner of a bar, slugging back liquor. He was leaning down and kissing Chelsea fiercely. The caption was a self-satisfied thought of hers: ‘To the one who sent him back to me. Love always finds a way.’ The old me, even when heavily pregnant, would have charged into that bar and torn both of them apart. Now, I just calmly clicked on her private messages. And sent her a screenshot of the recipe for my famous anti-hangover detox shot. It was a recipe I’d tracked down from an old herbalist for Damon when I was worried about his stomach. Sending it to Chelsea felt like passing on the mantle. I was done with the caretaking. I expected Damon to stay out for days, like he used to. But he came home. He stood in the foyer, smelling of stale liquor, his eyes red-rimmed. He looked broken and pathetic. “Why didn’t you come after me?” “Chelsea’s post—you saw it, didn’t you?” I froze. A sudden pang pierced my chest. He knew. He always knew about Chelsea’s deliberate provocation, about every one of her calculated moves to torment me. I opened my mouth, but the words felt stuck in my throat. My silence quickly transformed Damon’s hurt into white-hot fury. He grabbed my shoulders, his alcohol-laced breath hot on my face. “Anna! Say something, damn it! You had a miscarriage, you didn’t lose your voice!” “Look at you! You’re a shell of yourself, moping around all day. In bed, you’re like a dead fish. You have none of Chelsea’s fire, her vivacity—what man is supposed to tolerate that?” He got louder, unleashing every ounce of suppressed resentment. “The fight that day—sure, I was wrong. But are you telling me you had no part in it? The baby was in your stomach, Anna! You were the one stupid enough to get hit by a truck!” “And I came back! I want to make things work! We can have another baby! How much longer do you need to dwell on this?!” I stared at his enraged face, my eyes wide with a strange blankness. It had truly never occurred to me. His affair, my loss—all my fault. Just then, the doorbell rang. The display screen showed Chelsea holding a thermal carafe. She was specifically in a low-cut cashmere sweater, her neck craned just so, displaying a fresh, vivid bruise of a kiss. “Damon, are you home? You left before you could drink your hangover remedy. I was so worried.” Damon saw the screen, too. His grip on my shoulder eased. He looked at me, pleading. “Anna. Just say the word. Tell me to stay, and I will.” He was waiting. Waiting for me to scream, to drive Chelsea away, to lock him in with me—like I always had. But I just gave him a gentle, composed smile. “It’s too late. She shouldn’t be alone tonight. You should go with her.” In an instant, the expression on Damon’s face turned viciously ugly. “Fine! Fine, Anna Rhodes! You’ve finally done it.” He laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. He pointed at me, his jaw clenched. “You remember this! Don’t you dare say I was the one who walked away this time!” He spun around, flung the door open, and, taking Chelsea with him, stormed out without a backward glance. 2 Taking advantage of the post-anniversary chaos, I went through the house and began to sort things out. When I reached the cardboard box tucked away in a corner of the home office, I paused. There was nothing of monetary value inside. Just a faded, threadbare high school varsity jacket and a few polaroids. The jacket was Damon’s. The winter I was sixteen, my mother finally fled my father’s abuse. My father turned all his drunken rage onto me. I was being beaten bloody in an alley. Damon had rushed in, thrown that jacket over me, and taken several blows himself. He shattered a beer bottle and screamed at my father: “Old man, touch her again and I’ll bury you! You hear me?” He was young, reckless, all raw muscle and fury. He scared my father sober that night. Damon dragged me out of that suffocating darkness. When we were at our lowest, we split a single pack of instant ramen. Even the ring he proposed with was just a plain silver band. His hand shook as he slid it onto my finger, his voice thick with emotion. He said, “One day, when I make it big, I’ll replace this with a diamond bigger than a pigeon’s egg. I’ll buy you the best house, the best life.” “I’ll make you happy, Anna. We’ll have a complete, perfect family.” I sat on the floor, flipping through the photos, my fingertips icy cold. Damon had kept his promise. He gave me the mansion, the security, and now, even the bespoke diamond ring. But how did we end up like this? I think the change began when I got pregnant. The morning sickness was debilitating. Damon, concerned, told me to step back from the company to rest. That’s when Chelsea was hired. She was a top-tier graduate, beautiful, and undeniably capable. Damon mentioned her several times at home, saying he really admired her drive. I didn’t worry at first; I was glad someone was there to lighten his load. But slowly, his shirts smelled of a perfume I didn’t recognize, and his phone calls with me grew shorter and more impatient. Then came that torrential night when I took a taxi to the office to surprise him. I opened his office door. And saw two bodies intertwined. He was driving into her with a savage intensity. My world collapsed in that instant. I lost it. I screamed, I cried, and, seven months pregnant, I lunged at Chelsea, ripping at her hair. I exposed his shame to every mutual friend. I publicly humiliated Chelsea at the company. I thought I could drag him back. But he wasn’t the headstrong boy from the alley anymore. A single medical report—a statement about my mental health—sealed my fate. “She’s dealing with severe prenatal anxiety and a touch of delusion. We’re working through it, everyone. Please be patient with her.” But I wouldn’t surrender… And so, later… I instinctively clutched my lower abdomen, which was now flat and empty. I couldn’t go down that road again. I scrambled up, heart pounding, and, without another thought, dumped the entire box into the recycling bin. The next morning, I was woken up by the corporate Slack channel. The new personnel announcement showed Chelsea Quinn not only back but promoted to Chief Executive Assistant. The messages rolled in: “I heard the CEO spent the night of his anniversary with Chelsea.” “Ugh, is that pregnant whale going to come in and cause a scene again? I can’t deal with the drama.” “Who could? I think Damon’s finally smartened up. High time, too. Choose a capable woman.” “Cheers to Damon and Chelsea! Wedding bells soon, haha.” Seeing the gossip again, I felt calmer than I expected. I didn’t respond. I almost agreed with them; maybe Damon and Chelsea were a better fit. In the days that followed, Damon and Chelsea became openly high-profile. He took her to galas, business dinners, and even on the trip I’d always dreamed of—to see the Northern Lights. I stared at the photo of Damon’s side profile, his smile soft and tender, for a long time. He always said Iceland was too far, that we’d have to wait. But apparently, when it was for the person he loved, the distance didn’t matter. I didn’t call him. Instead, I opened Chelsea’s Instagram. For the first time, I Liked the photo. Then, I commented: “Wishing you two a happy ever after.” The phone rang immediately. It was Damon. The background was loud, and his voice was slurred. “Anna Rhodes, if you can find me in the next hour, I’ll give you one wish.” “A chance to ask for anything you want.” I glanced out the window. The rain was torrential. I ran out the door without hesitation. 3 The rain soaked me through. I couldn’t get a cab, so I ran. Searching one place after another. With ten minutes left, I finally burst through the door of a private party room. The laughter and noise stopped instantly. Every single face turned to look at me. I was dripping wet, my skirt stained with mud, my hair plastered to my face. I stood in the doorway, breathless and unable to speak. “Anna! You showed up just in time! I was just telling Damon that I’m pregnant!” Chelsea looked genuinely surprised and delighted, clutching a hospital ultrasound printout. I’d prepared myself for everything, yet I still stumbled back. Chelsea bit her lip, then stepped forward, grabbing my hand with faux-chastity. “Damon and I decided. He wants this baby. You and I can both be this baby’s mothers, in a way.” “It’s our apology gift to you. Can we just move past this now, please?” I was rigid. I took a deep, shuddering breath, just barely managing to suppress the urge to strike her. I wasn’t here to start a fight. “Wow, Damon. A wife and a mistress, both under your roof. Having it all, huh?” The crowd burst into mocking laughter. Damon slowly rose from the corner, walking over to me. He looked down at my miserable, drowned appearance, a faint smirk playing on his lips. “You ran here? That’s how badly you want that wish?” I didn’t answer. I wiped the rain from my face with my sleeve. I just stared at him. I looked at his eyes, his mouth, his jawline. But no matter how hard I looked, I couldn’t find the face of the Damon I’d loved. It seemed that I was finally able to say goodbye to the ghost of my past. “You said you’d grant any request.” “Absolutely.” Damon crossed his arms, leaning back, patiently waiting for me to ask for what he thought I wanted. I stood there, the wet clothes clinging to my body. I didn’t run to him, as they all expected. Instead, I slowly pulled a folded document from my soaked dress. “Damon, I’ve made up my mind.” “I want a divorce.” I calmly held the signed divorce papers out to him. The silence that followed was deathly. “What did you say?” He stared at the papers, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Ten years! I never asked for a divorce, and you want to end it?” I gave a cold, detached nod. “Fine! Fine! Anna Rhodes, you’ll regret this. You will crawl back to me, begging, before I ever take you back!” In a fit of pique, Damon snatched the pen, signed his name with a flourish, and tossed the papers on the floor. I silently bent down, picked them up, and tucked them away. I turned to leave, just as a bottle shattered behind me. 4 I wanted to clear out fast, to make room for Damon and Chelsea. But I still ran into them. Damon had apparently spent the interim entangled with Chelsea on the living room sofa. The air in the house reeked of sex and expensive cologne. I held my nose, walking past them. Damon got up, without shame, and grabbed my wrist, his voice a malicious sneer. “Anna, you better think carefully. Divorce me, and what do you have left?” “Your mother, who cut you off years ago and wishes you were never born? Or your father, who just drinks and screams?” I turned back, my eyes cold. He smirked. “Look, for ten years of marriage, if you’re really that desperate, beg me. I might hire you back as a nursemaid for pregnant Chelsea—at least you’d have a roof over your head.” Only a childhood sweetheart could know exactly where to land the cruelest blow. Despite my total detachment, a dull ache still flared inside my chest. I pulled my arm free. My voice was quiet, yet steady. “Don’t worry about me. My life is no longer your concern.” Chelsea, watching me tape up my packed boxes, let out a sneering laugh. “Anna, I never thought you’d give up now.” “I have to admit, you almost won. For those six months, I actually thought you might keep him.” I ignored her and kept sealing the box. My dismissal clearly infuriated her. She stepped forward and deliberately crushed the utility knife under her heel. “The thing I hate most is the attitude of you wives. Someone who couldn’t even keep her own husband has no right to look down on me.” I looked up, my brow furrowing. She suddenly leaned in close, a flash of pure venom in her eyes. She lowered her voice to a chilling whisper. “You still don’t know why Damon didn’t answer your calls the day you were hit by the truck, do you?” My expression froze. Chelsea was pleased by my reaction. She got closer, her lips almost brushing my ear. “It wasn’t bad signal. Not the phone left at home…” “He was with me, in the tiny studio apartment where you two lost your virginity.” “Your phone kept ringing—over and over, the screen lighting up.” “He glanced at the screen, hit Silent, and then… he pushed harder!” My face drained of blood. She was still reveling in the memory. “The rush was incredible. You have no idea how stimulating that was, knowing your desperate calls were chiming in the background. God, that was the best sex I’ve ever had.” Boom. My mind went blank. My vision blurred red. I lunged at Chelsea, throwing her to the ground and straddling her, hitting her in a frantic, uncoordinated frenzy. In the confusion, the cigarette lighter she held slipped, igniting the curtains. Flames shot up, and smoke began to billow. “Anna! Are you insane?!” Damon shouted, rushing in to pull us apart. But I clung to Chelsea like a demon, wrapping myself around her again and again. The fire grew. Damon gritted his teeth, kicked me away, and dragged Chelsea out first. When he looked back, the thick smoke had already obscured everything. I was gone.

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The day I nearly lost him, my husband, Callum Harding, was twenty-five years old. He was thrown from a high-rise building by kidnappers while trying to protect me. When he finally opened his eyes, the deep, adoring affection I knew was gone. In its place was a chilling indifference, edged with outright disgust. He said he was the Callum Harding of ten years later, thirty-five years old. The man who, three years into our marriage, would cheat on me with his childhood crush. He said the two of us had long grown sick of each other, trapped for a decade only by the child we’d had. He said he and Violet Summerfield had a child of their own. And the first demand he made, the moment his thirty-five-year-old self returned to his younger body, was that I terminate the twins growing inside me and divorce him. 1 The next morning, Callum discharged himself from the hospital and brought Violet home. My in-laws rushed me back to the house, where I found him holding Violet’s hand, addressing his parents. “Violet and I grew up together. She’s the only one who truly understands me, the one I’m meant to spend my life with. I have to marry her,” he stated. “As for Talia, I’m deeply sorry. I will provide her with whatever financial compensation she needs after the divorce.” My mother- and father-in-law were pale with shock and fury, muttering about the shame he was bringing to the family name. The son who had always been so dutiful was now utterly consumed by another woman. I stared at him, my heart constricting with a sharp, bitter pain. “Callum, were you serious about what you said last night?” He’d been in a coma for nearly a month. When he woke, he was a stranger, claiming to be his future self. I’d dismissed it as delirium, the residual effect of the trauma. But now, he was as resolute as ever. The look he gave me was identical to the one from the night before: devoid of warmth, filled only with cold finality. “Talia, how many times do I have to say it? I didn’t lose my memory. I remember everything. And I truly don’t love you anymore.” His look of revulsion made my spirit ache. “But we only got married three months ago. You told me you only loved me…” Callum frowned. Before he could speak, Violet sank to her knees in front of me and my in-laws. “Talia, I know your family is better than mine, and that you’re a better match for Callum. That’s why I never tried to compete with you before,” she pleaded, tears welling up. “But now he loves me too. Please, just let us be together.” I remembered the brutal details Callum had shared last night. He said that three years in the future, he encountered Violet during a high-profile anti-trafficking task force operation. He learned that after college, her lack of wealth and connections made her a target. She was assaulted and exploited by wealthy men, which led her to the dark side of the nightlife industry. His pity and subsequent care for her blossomed into love. But by then, I had already given birth to his child. The families on both sides, traditional and stubborn, refused to accept our divorce. And so, he said, we’d stayed entangled for ten miserable years. The whole thing ended when Violet, in despair, took her own life and their child’s, jumping from an eighteenth-floor balcony. He was back now to stop all of it before it started. I could pity Violet’s past, but I couldn’t bring myself to like her. Callum, his eyes full of tenderness, helped her up. He then turned to his parents, making his final, terrifying declaration. “Dad, Mom, if you don’t agree to this, I will resign from the force immediately. And then I’ll do something worse.” He used his life as a threat. They had no choice but to concede. Callum immediately walked out, taking Violet with him to her family home, presumably to propose. Once they were gone, my in-laws unleashed all their stored fury on me. They demanded to know why their son was a different person, why my husband’s heart had changed just three months into our marriage. I couldn’t answer. How could I tell them the truth? That the Callum who had walked with me from college to the wedding aisle was gone. That the man in his body was a ghost from the future, his thirty-five-year-old soul. And the thirty-five-year-old Callum, simply, did not love me. I stumbled out of the house. The early winter chill hit my face, yet everything still felt impossibly unreal. How could Callum not love me? At eighteen, we were in the same university. After a painting competition, he found me, his ears bright red, and asked for my number. I remember my own cheeks flushing as I looked at his handsome profile. He told me then, quoting his favorite poet, “A thing of beauty is a joy forever.” At twenty, we were a couple. We traveled to dozens of cities, and in every single one, he proposed to me. He said he would keep proposing until I was a hundred, or until I finally said yes. At twenty-four, I was hypothermic and near death on a remote mountain trail. He covered me with every piece of his own clothing. When the rescue team found us, he had barely a breath left, yet he was still holding me tight. Finally, I agreed to marry him. He was so happy he spun me around until I was dizzy, then flew to the States the next day to meet my parents. At the altar, he made a vow to love only me, for all our lives. Even as we fell from that building, he shielded me, his last words to me: “Talia, if there’s a next life, we’ll be together then, too.” I walked away without a scratch. He suffered multiple fractures. I swore I would spend the rest of my life repaying that fierce, deep love. But now, Callum was telling me he didn’t love me anymore. I wiped a tear from my cheek and started walking toward Violet’s house. I refused to believe that the Callum who loved me so completely could ever be unfaithful. I had to make the thirty-five-year-old ghost go back to his own timeline. 2 As I reached the yard, I heard the sounds coming from the house—intimate, unmistakable. “…Callum, easy now.” The door was ajar. I pushed it open. Callum had Violet pressed against him, one hand cupping her breast while the other was tangled in the back of her hair, aggressively deepening a kiss. My pupils shrank. “Callum, what are you doing?” I couldn’t reconcile this raw, uncontrolled display of desire with the reserved, self-possessed man I’d married. Was this man truly the Callum Harding I had known and loved for seven years? Hearing my voice, Callum instantly pulled back, his desire replaced by cold fury. “What I do is none of your business. Get out.” I swallowed the sudden surge of nausea and forced myself to meet his familiar but icy eyes. “This is my husband’s body. And we are still married!” Callum let out a bitter laugh. “I am your husband, aren’t I?” I shook my head stubbornly. “You are not him. Give him back.” He finally released Violet, murmuring a soft apology in her ear, then grabbed my arm with a shocking, brutal strength and dragged me toward the door. I had never imagined the man who cherished me, who treated me like spun glass, would ever touch me with such violence. Even the thirty-five-year-old him shouldn’t be capable of this. Once we were outside, I rushed to speak before him. “Tell me, what will it take for you to go back to your own body?” “If you’re worried about Violet, I can give her a substantial sum of money and relocate her overseas. I can ensure she never faces the kind of degradation you said she did…” Callum was unmoved. “I came back to marry her. I will have a life with Violet.” A life with Violet. He’d used that exact phrase in our wedding vows three months ago. The intended recipient was me. I struggled to breathe through the sudden, crushing pain. Then, I thought of the silver locket he’d given me just before the wedding—a bespoke blessing he’d sought from a spiritual retreat. “You’re not Callum,” I insisted. “The real Callum went to St. Jude’s Heights Chapel and made a solemn vow. He swore that in this life, and the next, he would only love me, and always be with me!” “Please,” I begged. “Just bring my husband back. I will agree to any demand, anything you ask.” A flicker of something—maybe conscience, maybe remorse—crossed Callum’s face. But the next moment, his voice was even crueler. “Talia, I absolutely hate this crying, desperate look on your face.” “You think if the twenty-five-year-old me comes back, he’ll love you forever, just as he promised? The things I told you are true. In three years, I will slowly fall in love with Violet.” “I am your future husband. You’re just getting advance notice of the ending of this marriage.” “Cutting our losses now is the best thing for both of us.” His words silenced me. I knew, with chilling clarity, that if he truly was the future Callum, my clinging desperation was pointless. But a deeper, more stubborn part of me wanted to believe he was an imposter, a cruel soul who had stolen the body of the man I loved. I took a shaky breath. “If you can convince the twenty-five-year-old Callum to come back and tell me himself that he doesn’t love me, I will walk away willingly. Otherwise, forget it.” Callum held my gaze for a long, cold moment, then forced a mocking smile. “Wishful thinking.” He pulled a folded document from his jacket pocket and shoved the divorce papers into my hand. “Be smart and sign it yourself. If you don’t, I don’t mind dragging this out with a messy divorce trial.” 3 That night, Callum did not come home. I tossed and turned for hours before drifting into a vague sleep. In the dreamlike haze, I suddenly remembered the conversation we’d had at the Chapel. We went to the isolated St. Jude’s Heights Chapel, known for its rigorous spiritual practices. Callum asked the old spiritualist, Father Thomas, for a special marriage blessing—a bespoke, hand-engraved silver locket meant to ensure eternal union. Father Thomas shook his head. “Your union, though blessed, is fated for a sharp, swift end. You should not seek this.” I wasn’t a believer, but Callum was fiercely insistent. Finally, the old man relented. He said that if Callum’s sincerity was absolute, he must walk the Three Thousand Steps of the Ascendant Path—a grueling three-day climb—three steps forward, one kneeling bow—and only then would he reconsider. I couldn’t bear the thought and begged him to forget it. I didn’t need a ritual to prove a love I saw in his eyes every morning. But the next night, Callum appeared at my door, exhausted, bruised, but his eyes shining like a thousand stars. He held up the newly-engraved locket. “Wife! I did it!” I had only smiled, calling him my beautiful idiot. I woke up and lay still for a long time. Then, I knew what I had to do. I drove straight to St. Jude’s. I needed to ask the spiritualist if he had foreseen this and if there was a way to fix it. The old man, Father Thomas, looked at me gently. “What’s so bad about cutting a doomed connection early?” I was about to protest when he directed my gaze to a far corner of the sanctuary. I saw them. Callum, my husband, was with Violet, his arm around her shoulders as they stood side-by-side, offering a prayer. I forced the rage and the suffocating chest pain down. I was here for a reason. Father Thomas took one look at my ashen face, sighed, and handed me a small piece of parchment, not the silver locket. “Take this. Tape it to your headboard and sleep. Tomorrow, you will have your answer.” I did as he instructed. That night, I fell into a very long, very vivid dream. I dreamed that at seven months pregnant, I was getting a check-up. On the way home, Callum got an emergency call for a raid and had to leave me to drive alone. I was in a car accident. The stress caused premature labor. I gave birth to twins, but one was too weak and didn’t survive. Callum held our tiny, dead son, his eyes bloodshot, and demanded to know why I hadn’t been more careful. I was consumed by my own grief, but his words hung between us like a poisoned cloud. The event became a permanent, festering wound in our marriage. Later, our surviving daughter was diagnosed with severe autism at age three. Callum’s assignments and covert work became more demanding. He was home less and less. I became unrecognizable. I secretly checked his phone. I dropped by his precinct during what he claimed were all-night shifts. I found myself whispering to our daughter, “Daddy doesn’t want us anymore.” Almost every time he came home, we had a horrible fight. “If you hadn’t insisted on carrying her to term after the accident, we wouldn’t be living this miserable life!” In the dream, Callum slammed the door behind him. 4 A month later, I found a movie ticket stub in the pocket of his washed uniform shirt. It was for a couple’s section. I stared at the stub, my eyes burning. He had told me he was working a marathon interrogation that night. Similar incidents became routine. The faint scent of a different perfume on his collar. A smudge of lipstick he hadn’t noticed. The unlabeled, frequently called number in his contacts. I watched, horrified, as our marriage spiraled beyond repair. Violet had a son—bright, healthy, and charming. On our daughter’s fifth birthday, Callum promised to take her to the amusement park. But he broke the promise to rush Violet’s boy to the emergency room. Our daughter sobbed, asking, “Mommy, does Daddy hate us?” We hated each other, yet we stayed married, bound by the child and the complexity of our lives. The final frame of the dream: Violet, holding her son, standing on the edge of a skyscraper roof. She smiled down at a frantically approaching Callum. “Callum, in the next life, I hope I find you sooner.” Then, she jumped. Callum turned to me, his eyes sharp as broken glass. “Talia. Are you satisfied now?” I jolted awake, drenched in a cold sweat. I placed a hand on my still-flat belly, my mind reeling. Before seeing the future, I had believed our love was strong enough to withstand anything. But having witnessed the step-by-step decay of our marriage… I closed my eyes and reached for the documents. I signed the divorce agreement. As requested, I went to the clinic and scheduled the termination procedure.

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I was ten years old. My little sister, June, had insisted on going to the New Year’s Eve countdown, and the surge of the crowd in Liberty Square had turned into a stampede. People were shoving, fighting for every inch of space. I saw a man close by gasp, his body squeezed too hard, and blood sprayed out of his mouth. June screamed, a high, panicked sound, and Dad immediately hoisted her onto his back. I spotted the narrow ledge of a maintenance platform built into the side of a building. I gritted my teeth, pulling my parents toward it. “Mom, Dad, hurry! Get June up there!” They first lifted June, then Mom scrambled up, and Dad followed. But when it was my turn, Mom started to cry, grabbing Dad’s sleeve. “Aaron, the railing… it won’t hold any more. It’s too much weight.” Dad’s hand—the one that had been reaching for mine—retracted instantly. “June is still so little. She’s terrified down there. You’re older, Penny. You have to be strong.” I fell back into the churning mass. Before I could even find my footing, two pairs of boots slammed down onto my stomach. My insides seemed to shatter. I coughed, a wet, ragged sound, and threw up blood. The world was dimming, and in that last moment of suffocating darkness, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. I wasn’t strong enough. In the next life, I don’t want to come back to this painful world. … 1 The crowd was still a screaming, swirling chaos, and no one noticed the small body. I couldn’t make a sound. All my energy had drained away. My stomach felt torn open. I remembered a movie I’d seen once, and I tried desperately to push my organs back inside. But I couldn’t. My arms were too short. The hands of a ten-year-old scrabbled blindly on the cold pavement, quickly bruised and bloodied by passing feet. I hated how small I was. If I’d been just a little older, maybe I could have lived up to my parents’ words—maybe I could have been strong enough to survive. But I failed. A cowardly part of me just wanted Dad to hold me, the way he held June. Though, Mom and Dad’s eyes had always focused on June more. The first day I went to school, I’d come home beaming, clutching my new backpack. June had burst into tears. Mom had immediately smashed all my new school supplies and taken scissors to my backpack, slicing the straps into ribbons. Seeing my wet eyes, she’d only sighed in annoyance. “June can’t go to school, and you can’t show off in front of her. Be thoughtful.” I took the lesson to heart. When Mom suggested I live in the dorms at my magnet school, I readily agreed. Every weekend, I’d make sure to change out of my uniform before I walked home, so June wouldn’t be sad. But one cold winter weekend, I knocked on the door in my street clothes, shivering, and no one answered. I stood in the biting wind until nine o’clock. When I finally collapsed on the porch, feverish, Mom and Dad arrived, hand-in-hand with June. June was wearing a bright, sequined headband from the amusement park, and she was carrying a bag of chicken wings—the exact ones I’d been begging to try for months. Mom’s face flashed with a fleeting, embarrassed look. “Oh, sorry, Penny. We forgot you were coming home tonight.” Then she turned to June and smiled, “Come on, honey, give your sister a wing.” But the moment June saw the “Star Student” sticker the teacher had put on the back of my hand, she shrieked. My parents rushed to comfort her, locking me outside in the process. The bag of chicken wings fell to the ground, instantly coated in grit. But I was so hungry. I wiped them on my shirt, over and over, and stuffed them into my mouth. It wasn’t until past midnight that the door cracked open. Mom hurriedly pushed a cold pack and some pain relievers into my hand. She told me she and Dad had to take June to the hospital. I stood there in the desolate night, watching their backs shrink into the distance. I didn’t know what leukemia was, but I remembered the look in their eyes every time we went to the clinic: heartbroken, tear-filled, devastated. I knew they loved me. They just couldn’t help it. They’d told me countless times: “June is sick, and you’re a year older, you’re her big sister, you have to take care of her.” I knew June was in pain. So the whole family, including me, had to fulfill her every need. I couldn’t upset June. I had to be the good, understanding one. So now, I couldn’t call out. I couldn’t disturb Mom and Dad. My crushed, bloody body would definitely scare June. I lay silently in the crowd, biting down hard on my lip. Legs stamped over my body. The deafening screams blurred my consciousness. The pain was unbearable, but death, I realized, was a long process. I suddenly remembered something I’d read. A child comes into the world floating in their mother’s amniotic fluid, and they leave it floating in their mother’s tears. I didn’t want Mom to cry for me. I just wanted one last look, to tell her not to worry, that I would wait for them patiently in heaven. Up on the platform, Mom was holding June, looking around frantically. Was she looking for me? I wanted to reach out and touch her warm face one last time. But then, my body slowly floated up, passing right through the railing. 2 “Dad, Mom…” They didn’t react to my voice. I realized I was transparent. A light drifted down, and I heard a distant voice telling me to go, but I still wanted to see them one last time. To tell them I would wait for them in heaven. But as I reached my parents, Mom covered June’s eyes. “It looks like a little kid got trampled to death down there. Don’t look, June. It’s too bloody.” Dad’s face showed immediate alarm. “Thank God it wasn’t our June. Whose child is that? Parents shouldn’t let their kids wander off.” I froze, awkwardly wringing my hands. “I’m sorry, Mom and Dad. I didn’t take good care of myself.” It was only after the words left my mouth that I remembered they couldn’t hear me. Mom suddenly paused. “Honey, that person down there… could it be Penny?” Dad stiffened for a second, then shot Mom a look of reproach. “Why would you jinx Penny like that? That’s bad luck.” “Penny’s been in the dorms since fourth grade. Her teachers always praise how independent and mature she is. She’s probably already found somewhere safe to hide.” Mom nodded, relieved. “You’re right. I shouldn’t have said that. We need to focus on protecting June.” June was clutching Dad tightly, and Mom was watching her anxiously. June was still little; she needed her parents. I was relieved that I hadn’t seen them much; we weren’t close enough for her to miss me. What if she got upset because I was gone? Even thinking that, a dull ache twisted in my soul. So, even souls could feel sad. Why did I feel this stinging envy? I was being difficult. The police cleared another path, organizing the crowd to move out of the Square. They called out over a loudspeaker for parents to carry their smaller children to prevent more accidents. Mom and Dad finally climbed down from the platform with June, scanning the faces as they went, looking for me. But there were too many people. My body had already been kicked into a dark corner. Mom wasn’t tall enough to see me. She shouted my name a few times, but her voice was lost in the din. She frowned, a slight note of urgency in her voice. “I can’t find Penny. Do you think she went into a shop to hide?” Dad was carrying June on his back, trying to hold her high above the crowd. He didn’t have the energy to respond. “I’ll take June and keep moving, then. You keep looking for Penny?” Mom agreed. They split up. She was worried. She was calling my name in the crowd. I thought this was good. If they found my body, they could take me home. June wouldn’t have to see how mangled I was. Maybe at my funeral, I would finally see Mom and Dad cry for me for the first time? They had cried so many tears for June, but never for my illnesses or my little injuries. My problems never seemed to matter compared to hers. I was always the “understanding” one. But Mom and Dad, how I wished your eyes would land on me, just for a moment… A scream erupted from someone who had spotted me in the corner. “There’s a child dead here! All that blood!” A woman—an EMT, Dr. Reyes—rushed over and crouched down to examine me. “She’s not completely gone,” she called out. “The child has a will to live. She tried to put her insides back in her belly. Call an ambulance! She might still have a chance!” Mom’s steps faltered. She turned and began to push toward the gathering crowd. Was she going to find me? Could she save me? Maybe I could live. I could stay with them, and I wouldn’t care how hard or painful it was. But just as Mom was about to push through, Dad’s startled voice rang out from behind her: “Dahlia, come quickly! June, she’s passed out!” Mom spun around immediately, rushing toward June without a backward glance. “June, don’t be scared! Mom is calling 911 right now! Mommy’s coming!” In the dark corner, my tightly shut eyelids fluttered once, then fell still, sinking into silence. June’s condition couldn’t wait. I shouldn’t bother Mom. But Mom, Dad… I suddenly didn’t want to love you anymore. Maybe I really wasn’t strong enough. 3 The EMT, the doctor who was kneeling beside me, was startled. She stopped the person who was dialing 911. “The child suddenly lost the will to live. It’s too late now.” Her eyes reddened. She took off her jacket and covered my body. “We need to find her parents. We can’t just leave her here.” People murmured, shaking their heads, and reported my case to the police. My body was stuck to the pavement. The police wouldn’t touch the scene until the family arrived. They put up yellow tape and a warning sign, then started checking the CCTV footage. Time dragged on until the early morning. The police found my parents’ cell numbers and called them repeatedly. Dozens of calls later, the phones remained unanswered. The officer looked frustrated. “We cleared the area quickly enough. If the parents had just protected the kid, she would have been fine. This one must have stumbled and fallen in the rush, and then… she was trampled to death.” I was confused. But I hadn’t just stumbled and fallen. I was climbing the platform, but Dad let go. The fall wouldn’t have hurt me. I’d hit the ground, and I would have stood up. But there were too many people. Before I could get to my feet, the surging crowd had snapped my bones, and all my strength was gone. I left my body and drifted through the city to the hospital June frequented. My parents had a special membership for June, granting them VIP treatment. I walked into the room and saw June was awake. To cheer her up, her bed was surrounded by countless designer dolls and expensive, sparkling gadgets. I paused. I remembered begging Mom for a single, pretty doll to hug in the dorms. But Mom had earnestly told me, “You can’t compare yourself to June in everything. She’s sick and takes a lot of medicine, so we buy her these things. You get to go to school. You should be grateful. You don’t need a doll to show off.” But June’s dolls were so many, and so beautiful. Every time June swallowed a spoonful of medicine, Dad would laugh and give her a piece of candy. Mom would be right there, playing with a doll to distract her. Both of their cell phones were tossed on the bedside table, powered off. No wonder they hadn’t answered the police calls. They were completely preoccupied with June. My teacher once said that human love is finite. I understood now. Mom and Dad had given all their love to June, so there was none left for me. They couldn’t help it. I only wished that in the next life, I could be the one who was sick. I left the room, ready to go. But as I passed the next door, I saw a set of brothers. The younger one was sick, but the older one was healthy, playing a game on a tablet nearby. Their parents had bought both of them new handheld gaming consoles. The sick younger brother whined, demanding the older brother stop playing. Their father immediately addressed him sternly: “What your brother does is his choice. If you want to watch him play, just ask nicely.” Then their mother picked up the older brother and set him gently on the bed. “And you, buddy. At least let your brother watch. Turn the volume down a little so you don’t bother anyone else.” I stood there, mesmerized, watching the two brothers play. They went from tense silence to laughter, sitting shoulder-to-shoulder. Their parents exchanged a soft, satisfied smile. It was lunchtime, and the boys started arguing because they wanted different meals. Soon, two separate take-out orders arrived in the room, ensuring both boys were happy and well-fed. I floated back to June’s room. June, full and tired, was hugging a doll and sleeping sweetly. Only then did my parents finally remember me. They started to discuss my whereabouts. “Penny should have gone back to the school by now. Thank goodness she’s so self-sufficient; we don’t have to worry about her.” “We’ve worried ourselves sick over our poor June,” Dad replied. “We’ll call Penny later tonight. We can’t risk waking June up.” They stayed by June’s side, never leaving. I went back to the other room. Then back here. Back and forth. After watching for what felt like an eternity, a slow, quiet smile finally spread across my face. Love wasn’t a finite resource I had to sacrifice. It could be equally divided. I was just a ten-year-old child, experiencing the world for the first time. Mom and Dad, you didn’t not know how to love equally. You just chose not to. Since that was the case, I truly did not want to come back to this world. It wasn’t until early morning that Mom finally powered up her phone. The moment the screen lit up, a torrent of missed calls from the police department flooded the screen.

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My wife and I both cheated. She was guilty, and so was I. But the difference was, she acted with malice; I was merely the victim. On the very night her affair with her boy-toy was exposed, she drugged me, stripped me naked, and delivered me to a stranger’s bed—a complete setup designed purely to manufacture my infidelity. The camera flashes, the forced, humiliating positions… all captured for evidence. Our manufactured cheating scandal and her real one were leaked to the public simultaneously. It was a calculated move to deflect the heat from her lover and spread the blame. A crushing, suffocating wave of nausea hit me, making me gag violently. I was covered in red marks, bruises—physical evidence of a violation I couldn’t remember. I didn’t know how many people had touched me, or what they had done. Seeing the horror on my face, and the way I scrubbed my skin raw in the shower, Geneva Pierce offered a flat, pathetic explanation. “I didn’t have a choice, Griffith. Andrew’s family is very strict. He couldn’t handle being called a home-wrecker. He would be ruined.” The internet was a torrent of condemnation. The scandal, the betrayal—it all triggered a heart attack in the only family I had left, Grandpa Arthur, who was rushed into emergency surgery. To protect myself, I had to protect her lie. As she wanted, I stood under the media spotlight and offered a calm, rehearsed clarification. “There was no infidelity. Geneva and I separated months ago.” … Seeing me fall in line, Geneva’s tension eased. She stood in the shadow of the doorway, having already whisked her lover away to safety. She gave me a hollow promise. “This is the only time. I promise. This situation with Andrew was sudden, I just…” I looked at her, my jaw tight with white-hot fury. “Tell me where these marks came from.” A hard knot of bile and anger choked me. I felt so unbelievably dirty. Pinch marks, yes, but others—like violent kisses. It felt like a freezing, utterly dehumanizing sexual encounter. By whom, I didn’t know. Raised with every privilege and shielded from real cruelty, I had never experienced this kind of raw, physical indignity. Geneva froze, taking a long moment to realize what I was asking. She rushed forward, desperate to spin the lie. “Don’t be afraid, Griffith. I put those marks there myself. No one else touched you. It was just for the photos.” I dug my nails into my palms. “If I were your lover—your precious Andrew—would you agree to let me have your name ruined, your body violated, just so I could protect my husband?” She avoided my eyes. “I don’t know. He… he’s different from you.” That was it. Whether I was her lover, her husband, or her crisis manager—I was never her priority. I bit the inside of my lip until I tasted blood, and then I shoved her out of my sight. Disgusting. Geneva and I were childhood sweethearts, a perfect match in our corporate world, the golden couple everybody envied. We were happy, once. We even had a few years of what I genuinely thought was a loving marriage. Then she started cheating. She never hid it from me privately, though she was always careful to keep up appearances for the public. “We’ll keep it quiet. It won’t affect your standing. No one outside the circle has to look down on you,” she’d insist. In our world, love was often secondary to alliance. I had loved her. I had raged. I’d even fantasized about going full alpha CEO—blowing up our lives in a spectacular, mutually assured destruction kind of way. But then I’d remember my upbringing, my family’s name, and my grandfather. I always chose to look the other way. I never thought my deference would allow them to hurt me this way. Grandpa Arthur must have been utterly devastated to land in the hospital. Geneva remembered her boy-toy couldn’t handle the heat, but she completely forgot that the man who loved her like a granddaughter had a bad heart and couldn’t handle that kind of shock. I quickly regained my focus. Divorce. It wasn’t the end of the world. I found Geneva at the company headquarters. The air was buzzing—everyone was fawning over Andrew. She led me to her office. When she saw the divorce papers in my hand, she frowned. “You don’t have to do this, Griffith. The gossip will blow over quickly.” She and Andrew were now openly affectionate in public, acting like star-crossed lovers who’d finally found their way to one another. I heard they’d even visited his family. They were living their ‘happily ever after.’ I bit my lip hard. While Grandpa was fighting for his life, Geneva hadn’t visited once. I felt a crushing sense of pity for my grandfather, who had adored her. Whenever we argued, Grandpa would always find an excuse for her, even scolding me. “Griffith,” he’d say. “I know you’re strong and logical, but love isn’t like that. Girls don’t like it when you’re always so cold and rational.” He believed that was the key to a harmonious home, not realizing a marriage fails when only one party is still fighting for it. Geneva had checked out a long time ago. What was the use of clinging to an empty shell? I held the pen out to her. “Do you think people are stupid? Sign the real papers. It’s the only way to silence the doubters and prevent Grandpa from being shocked again when he wakes up.” Andrew chimed in, annoyingly supportive. “Griffith’s right, Geneva.” Her expression softened slightly. “After the dust settles, we’ll remarry. I told you, your position will never change.” I just smiled, a small, cold curve of my mouth. I wouldn’t need it. The only reason I hadn’t filed for divorce earlier was the tangled web of our family businesses. Over the past few years, I’d been quietly and deliberately untangling those connections. I had Geneva to thank for that foresight. A few years back, Geneva, wanting to punish me for her lover, had deliberately leaked critical intelligence that killed an innovative subsidiary I had just launched. The reason? I had cut off one of my own credit cards, which Andrew happened to be using. He tried to pay for something expensive and was humiliated when the card was declined. Geneva didn’t ask questions; she just acted. She sat in her lounge chair, utterly unbothered. “Griffith Locklear, you used disgusting tactics to embarrass my Andrew. Anyway, it’s all community property, and those secrets were tied to our joint assets. I can handle them however I want.” My company tanked. A whole year of relentless work, down the drain. The employees were devastated. I flew into a rage, slamming my fist into the wall. “I didn’t do that! Are you even human? How am I supposed to face my employees? Do you have any idea the R&D time and effort that went into that project?” She wouldn’t listen. She was consumed by her desire to comfort a tearful Andrew. To force me to apologize, she leveraged her cash flow to put pressure on Grandpa Arthur’s main corporation. To protect the old man, I swallowed my pride. I reluctantly went to Andrew and apologized. Later, Geneva realized her mistake: she had grabbed my card thinking it was her own before giving it to Andrew. I had only paused my own line of credit. She apologized to me and tried to plan an anniversary dinner. “I didn’t realize I grabbed the wrong card. I’ll compensate you for the company, but you never explained it clearly to me.” I laughed, the sound hollow. She had never listened to my explanation, choosing instead to believe my guilt. The anniversary dinner never happened. Andrew had a headache. From that day forward, I systematically separated every single asset I owned from Geneva. After we completed the divorce application, Andrew clutched Geneva’s hand, petulant. “Let’s get married, right now, Geneva. You promised.” Geneva, however, was watching my face. Seeing my indifferent expression, her own face soured. I might have imagined it, but she looked subtly annoyed as she was pulled away by her eager lover. That same day, Grandpa Arthur woke up. He was desperate for the truth. “Did you really cheat on her?” I wiped his face gently. “No, Grandpa. We separated long ago. It was never infidelity.” He couldn’t comprehend it. “How could that be? You were such a perfect couple. Just recently, you promised me a great-grandchild.” He slammed his water glass onto the table. “Tell me the truth, Griffith. What happened to you two?” My eyes burned with unshed tears, but I stood by the lie. Seeing my carefully controlled pain, he seemed to realize something. He sighed heavily. “Never seen you look so reserved, boy. You’ve grown up. It’s no longer your old man’s business.” I finally breathed a sigh of relief. As long as Grandpa was okay, I could manage. He had such high hopes for Geneva. She was the one person in the world he wanted me to be with. Geneva arrived moments later. She stopped in the doorway, having overheard his last words. Afraid she would agitate him, I quickly pulled her into the adjoining room. She looked down. “You know, you could have told him the truth. You don’t have to protect my reputation. Then he wouldn’t put pressure on you. Griffith, we are the best partners, but the love is gone. Your grandfather is right: you’re too rational.” I nodded at the second half. For the first half, I gave her a cold smile. I wasn’t lying for her; I was lying so Grandpa wouldn’t be angry and wouldn’t feel guilty for having pushed us together. Keeping him stable was all that mattered. As for her? She meant nothing. Just as we were talking, Andrew’s shriek echoed from Grandpa’s room. “Grandpa! I was just being kind and coming to visit!” It was followed by Grandpa Arthur’s violent coughing. “Who allowed you in here… Get out!” My heart shot into my throat. I rushed back in. Grandpa had fallen out of bed, coughing violently, and pointing a shaky finger at Andrew. “Get out! You’re lying!” Andrew was cowering in Geneva’s arms, holding his face. Grandpa was now coughing up blood. He pointed at Geneva and Andrew, his eyes wide with rage, before finally losing consciousness. Terrified, I yelled for the nurse and he was rushed back to the ER. Outside the doors, Geneva immediately started a fight. “How could Grandpa strike someone? Look what he did to Andrew! No matter how angry he is, he can’t do that, especially when Andrew was only being kind!” Her grating, senseless noise made my head pound. “Enough! I’ll find out the truth. Don’t think I’ll let whatever he did go unpunished.” I glared at Andrew, wanting to tear him apart. Geneva blocked my view. “Griffith Locklear, Grandpa is completely in the wrong here—” She rattled on, blaming my grandfather and ignoring the possibility of the truth, stopping only when a doctor opened the door. “Family members?” I stepped forward. When I heard the doctor’s words, the disease notification slipped from my numb fingers. The last of my fragile control shattered. I lunged at Andrew. “What did you say to my grandfather?!” Geneva held me back with all her strength. “Griffith! Don’t put this on Andrew! He just came to visit. He’s incapable of doing anything to cause this!” My eyes were bloodshot. Geneva flinched. I realized then that my heart was utterly dead to her. The sensitive, emotional person they killed was the one they now accused of being too rational. I glared at them, cold fury radiating off me. “You wait.” I would get the truth and justice for Grandpa. There was a camera in the room, but Andrew, with his calculated mind, had positioned himself to block the view. All the recording showed was his back, his mouth moving, followed by Grandpa’s extreme anger and blood. Andrew immediately played the victim. “I just told him to take care of himself! The old man suddenly hit me! I’m the victim here!” It was a flimsy, pathetic lie. Grandpa never behaved like that. Andrew must have spewed some filth. I grabbed him, shaking him hard. “What did you say?! Who the hell allowed you to visit my grandfather? You’re nothing!” He feigned hurt, but his eyes held clear defiance. My grandfather was my only family, and my rage could no longer be contained. I hauled back and slapped him across the face. Andrew hadn’t expected the physical violence. He screamed. We grappled in a corner of the hospital hallway. He was no match for me; his lip was bleeding instantly. A crowd began to gather. Geneva finally managed to wrench my arm away. In a blind flash of fury, she slapped me. “Look at you! What are you doing? You look like a maniac!” Tears finally breached my control. I had maintained the image of the perfect young executive for my entire life, and I hated looking like a screaming fool, but this was my grandfather! I couldn’t be rational. Geneva, seeing me broken for the first time, attempted to play the magnanimous peacemaker. “Let’s just end this now. No more fighting.” I stared at her, my voice sharp and disbelieving. “Geneva Pierce, don’t you forget that my grandfather saved your life once.” Andrew, breathing heavily, wasn’t satisfied either. “He beat me up! Why should he get away with it?” Geneva pulled out a black card and gave it to him as compensation. She finally looked at me, a flicker of genuine shame in her eyes. “Andrew’s sudden visit was wrong, but he had no bad intentions. And you still beat him. I will make amends for Grandpa, but I will not allow you to interrogate Andrew like this. You have no proof he did anything wrong.” I stumbled backward, the sting on my face burning. “Geneva Pierce, the biggest regret of my life is meeting you.” I would find the proof. I had just let my guard down today. I never thought Andrew was depraved enough to hurt an old, sick man. Geneva’s brow furrowed. The next second, her own face snapped sideways. I hit her back. My face was not a free-for-all for anyone. Just then, medical staff rushed out. “Who is the family member? The patient needs to speak to the family. Come quickly.”

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The third night of Cameron’s business trip, I was sprawled on the couch, my face slick with a charcoal mask, mindlessly scrolling through my phone. The screen suddenly flashed to life, pulling up a notification: [Aura Cycle: Your ‘Intimate Moment’ has been successfully logged!] Followed by a smaller line of text: [Time logged: 10:15 PM. Congratulations—you’ve had sex!] Had sex? I immediately tapped the app open. I had insisted Cameron download this period-tracking software and share his account with mine. The latest entry was clearly synchronized with the login IP from his phone. I instantly video-called him. It rang for a long time before he finally answered. His side was pitch black, lit only by a faint, weak glow. “Babe, what is it? I just finished a meeting—I’m exhausted. I’m just about to head back to the hotel,” his tired voice came through the receiver. I stared at the “10:15 PM” entry on the app, forcing a light laugh. “Nothing, really. Just missed you. You should hurry back and rest.” I hung up, then quietly opened a different app. I booked the earliest flight to his business city. 1. The flight was at four in the morning. I sat in the terminal, silently studying the “Intimate Moment” log on my phone. The IP address showed Raleigh. Exactly where Cameron was for this trip. We had been married for three years, college sweethearts all the way to the altar. In everyone’s eyes, he was the model husband: attentive, family-focused, and successful. He had even been the one to suggest we share the ‘Aura Cycle’ app. He said he wanted to understand my cycle better, to take better care of me, and to help us with our fertility planning. Now, the thought felt like a sickening, cosmic joke. Three hours later, at the Raleigh-Durham airport. I hailed a cab and gave the name of the hotel Cameron had mentioned. “The Grand Raleigh Regency.” The driver glanced at me through the rearview mirror. “Looking for someone, sweetheart? Bit early for a social call.” I smiled faintly and said nothing. At the hotel, I didn’t rush inside. I settled onto a sofa in the lobby, pulled out my phone, and called Cameron again. This time, a voice call. He picked up after a few rings, his voice thick and nasal, as if he’d just woken up. “Kendall? Why are you calling again? It’s not even light out.” “I had a nightmare, a terrible one where something happened to you. It woke me up.” I carefully laced my voice with tears and vulnerability. “Silly girl, I’m fine. I’m safe and sound.” He immediately adopted his usual soft, comforting tone. “I’m just worried. You’re alone in a strange hotel, and it makes me anxious. What room number are you in? I want to look up the floor plan, just to feel a bit more secure.” My nails dug deeply into my palm. There was a distinct, short silence on the other end. “Kendall, stop overthinking this. I’m in 1808. The security is great. Just go back to sleep, okay, babe?” “1808…” I repeated softly. “Okay. You go back to sleep too, honey.” Hanging up, the smile on my face was ice-cold. I stood and walked toward the reception desk. “Excuse me, I need to find someone. Could you tell me what room Mr. Cameron Foster is staying in?” The front desk agent gave me a practiced, corporate smile. “I apologize, ma’am, but for guest privacy, we can’t disclose that information.” I had expected this. I pulled up my phone’s lock screen—our wedding photo—and handed it over. “I’m his wife. We had a huge fight last night, and he turned off his phone. I rushed here from home, I’m genuinely worried about him.” I timed my eyes to well up, injecting my voice with exhaustion and desperate plea. The agent looked at the photo, then back at me, her expression softening with sympathy. She hesitated, then leaned in, lowering her voice. “Ma’am, Mr. Foster is definitely here, but he’s not in 1808. He’s in 2201.” My heart plummeted into the deepest, darkest well. 2. “Thank you.” I offered a shallow thanks and headed for the elevator. Twenty-second floor. The long hallway was padded with thick carpet, absorbing all sound. I stood outside room 2201. I didn’t even need to press my ear to the door. A low, familiar, overly-flirtatious female giggle leaked out. So familiar. I pulled out my phone, not to knock, but to open a text message to Cameron. “Honey, I’m here in Raleigh. I’m downstairs in the lobby.” The message dropped into the void. I smiled, a sharp, bitter twist of my lips. I waited approximately five minutes, guessing he had seen the message and was currently scrambling to concoct a strategy with whoever was inside. I sent another text. “I brought those Portuguese custard tarts you love from that bakery. I’m waiting for you in the lobby. Hurry down!” This time, the call came instantly. “Kendall! Are you insane?! Who told you to come here? Go straight home now!” His voice was no longer sleepy and tender but tight with frantic, barely suppressed rage. “Why can’t I come?” I asked softly, my tone innocent and wounded. “I missed you.” “I told you I was in meetings! You’re going to mess up my work schedule!” he snapped, exasperated. “Meetings? It’s barely seven in the morning. What kind of meeting? Or should I say, are you conducting a bedside meeting?” The silence on the other end was absolute. Followed by a ragged, sharp intake of breath. “Kendall, stop being irrational. I—” “Cameron,” I cut him off. “Ten minutes. I’ll be waiting for you in the lobby. You come down alone.” I hung up before he could respond. I didn’t return to the lobby. Instead, I walked to the fire exit at the end of the hall. Through the narrow gap in the door, I had a clear view of 2201. Seven minutes later, the door cracked open. Cameron, wearing a loose terrycloth robe, peered cautiously up and down the hallway, then quickly slipped out. He hurried away, tying his robe belt as he walked, his face a mask of undisguised panic and irritation. After he left, the door didn’t immediately close. A slender arm reached out and snatched up a newspaper that had been left on the floor. The bracelet on that wrist was one I knew intimately. It was the one I had given my cousin, Jenna Wells, for her birthday last year. 3. Jenna Wells. My first cousin. My aunt’s daughter. She had told me she was home, taking care of our sick grandmother, and she often sent me photos of Grandma to ease my mind. I stared at the closed door, feeling the blood drain completely from my body. It was her. I didn’t immediately charge toward the room, nor did I go to the lobby to confront Cameron. I turned, walked down the stairs, and left the hotel. I found a window seat at a small coffee shop directly across the street, giving me a clear view of the hotel’s main entrance. I slowly stirred my coffee, watching Cameron pace frantically in the hotel lobby, checking his phone and making calls that I wasn’t answering. About half an hour later, he must have realized I wasn’t there. His face was a thundercloud as he marched back toward the elevators. Another thirty minutes passed. Cameron and Jenna walked out of the hotel together. Cameron had changed into a suit, but his tie was crooked. Jenna was wearing a lovely summer dress, her makeup perfectly done, and she was tucked intimately into his arm. They laughed easily, looking every bit the happy, newly-in-love couple. In the sunlight, the necklace around her throat caught the light. It was the one Cameron had given me for our anniversary last month. I’d told him the style was too flashy for me, and he’d promised to return it for a refund. Apparently, he hadn’t returned it. He had gifted it to a more “suitable” recipient. I took out my phone, aimed it at their retreating, intimate backs, and pressed the shutter. Then, I dialed Jenna’s number. She picked up quickly, her voice sickly sweet. “Kendall? What’s up, cuz? Calling so early.” “Jenna,” I said, my voice soft. “I just had a dream about you, so I called to check in. How are you and Grandma doing?” I saw her body visibly stiffen. The hand wrapped around Cameron’s arm dropped away. Cameron stopped, looking at her with confusion. “Oh… fine! We’re great! Grandma’s having a good day. I was just about to help her into the garden to get some sun.” Her voice was strained and unnatural. “Is that so? That’s wonderful.” I paused, then switched gears. “By the way, Jenna, I thought I heard my husband, Cameron’s, voice. He’s supposed to be on a business trip in Raleigh. Why would he be there with you?” My voice was quiet, but it was clear enough to carry. Through the coffee shop window, I watched Jenna’s face drain of all color. Cameron snatched the phone from her hand and yelled into the mouthpiece, “Kendall! What the hell do you want!” “I don’t want anything,” I said, taking a slow sip of my coffee. “I just wanted to tell you I loved the ‘Intimate Moment’ you logged last night. I hope you two have a reason to ‘Applaud for Love’ every single night.” I hung up, shutting their horrified, shocked faces out of my small phone screen. I packaged up the photo from my camera roll, along with the screenshot of the ‘Intimate Moment’ log, and sent them to my friend, Grant, a private investigator. The accompanying note read: [Find every hotel stay, all shared expenses, and all financial transfers between these two, starting one year ago. I need everything.] With that done, I booked a flight home. The war had just begun. 4. When I returned home, Cameron and Jenna still weren’t back. They were probably still in Raleigh, frantically strategizing their “explanation.” I walked into our master bedroom. Everything was exactly as I had left it: cozy and tidy. On the nightstand, our wedding photo sat in its silver frame. I looked at his face in the picture—a face smiling with false devotion—and felt nothing but nausea. I pulled open the closet. His clothes hung intimately next to mine. With a cold, emotionless detachment, I packed every single one of his suits, shirts, shoes, and ties into large suitcases. I called the deep-cleaning and sanitation service. “I need all bedding, curtains, and carpets replaced. Use the strongest possible disinfectant and scrub the entire house, especially the master bedroom.” That evening, Cameron finally arrived. The moment he opened the door, he froze. The custom leather shoes he loved were missing from the entryway. He walked barefoot into the living room, his face darkening as he saw the half-empty closet and the bare sink in the master bath. I was sitting on the living room sofa, calmly filing my nails. “Kendall, what is the meaning of this?” He stood over me, demanding an answer. “No meaning,” I said, blowing the dust off my nail file. “I just thought the house was a little dirty, so I had it cleaned.” “Where is my stuff?” “I threw it out.” “You!” He was shaking with fury. “How dare you throw away my things!” “Cameron,” I looked up, meeting his eyes, and spoke deliberately, word by word. “Everything in this house was purchased by me. I can throw out whatever I want.” When we married, my parents paid for this house in full, and the deed is solely in my name. The renovations, furniture, and appliances were all paid for with my pre-marital funds. He was essentially ‘Net-Worth-Zero’ coming into this marriage. His face cycled through red, white, and then a sickly green. “Kendall, listen to me,” he instantly deflated, trying to reach for my hand. “It’s not what you think with Jenna, it was her who—” “Stop.” I pulled my hand back, leaning into the sofa cushion. “I have zero interest in your pathetic excuses. Cameron, I’m only asking you one question: Are you divorcing me, or not?” He froze. He hadn’t expected the directness. “What about all these years we spent together?” “Don’t talk to me about feeling,” I scoffed. “Didn’t you use all your feelings to ‘Applaud for Love’ with Jenna?” “I…” He was choked into silence. “Cameron, I’m giving you two options.” I held up two fingers. “First, you walk away with nothing—net-worth-zero—and we get a peaceful, quiet divorce. This stays between us.” “Second, we meet in court. At that point, I think your parents, my aunt, and your entire company will be very interested in the evidence of your marital infidelity, especially with my first cousin.” His pupils constricted instantly. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Watch me.” I held his gaze, utterly fearless. We held the stare, the air thick with antagonism. Finally, he collapsed, sinking onto the sofa opposite me, defeated. “Kendall, can’t you just give me one more chance?” He lowered his head, a hint of plea in his voice. “A chance?” I laughed as if I’d heard the funniest joke in the world. “Cameron, when you and Jenna were repeatedly using our shared app to log your ‘intimate moments,’ why didn’t you think about giving me a chance?” He fell silent completely. I stood up, walked over to him, and tossed a pre-prepared divorce agreement onto the coffee table. “Sign it. Be at the courthouse tomorrow morning at nine.” I didn’t look at him again, turning and locking myself in the bedroom. I left him alone in the ravaged living room, staring at the divorce papers and the home that no longer belonged to him. 5. The next morning, I arrived at the courthouse doors at eight-thirty. Cameron hadn’t shown up yet. I wasn’t worried, leaning against my car and scrolling through my phone. Grant, my private investigator, had been efficient and already sent the first batch of data: three months of hotel stays between Cameron and Jenna. Raleigh, our hometown, even during our holiday visit to the suburbs—they’d managed to sneak away for rooms right under our noses. My stomach churned as I looked at the endless list of hotel names and times. At eight fifty-five, Cameron’s car finally pulled up, late. He emerged, looking haggard, his eyes ringed with exhaustion. He wasn’t alone. My mother was with him. Mom marched straight toward me, her face contorted in anger, and raised her hand as if to strike me. I smoothly stepped back, avoiding the blow. “Kendall! Have you completely lost your mind?! Why are you divorcing Cameron?!” I looked at my mother, a sheet of ice forming in my chest. Cameron had spent years manipulating her, charming her into treating him better than a biological son. “Mom, this is between him and me. Please stay out of it.” “Stay out of it? I’m your mother! How can I stay out of it? Cameron is such a good man! Where will you find a husband like him? You’re delusional!” she yelled, pointing a finger at my nose. Cameron stepped forward at the perfect moment, gently taking my mother’s arm, his face a perfect mask of “humble victimhood” and “understanding.” “Auntie, please don’t blame Kendall. It’s my fault. I messed up and made her angry.” My mother instantly melted. “Oh, Cameron, don’t say that. It has to be this hard-headed girl being difficult! Don’t worry, I’ll take care of this!” She turned back to me, her voice hardening. “I’m telling you, Kendall, you are not getting divorced today! If you walk through those doors, I’ll make a scene right here!” I looked at this perfect show of mother-in-law devotion and almost laughed. “Mom, are you absolutely sure you want to take his side?” “Of course I’m sure!” “Fine.” I nodded, pulling up the video I had secretly recorded outside the hotel in Raleigh. In the video, Cameron and Jenna walked out, arms linked, smiling radiantly. My mother’s expression froze instantly. “What… when was this? Who is that woman?” Her voice began to tremble. “Mom,” I looked at her, saying each word clearly. “That woman is Jenna. Your niece. Your sister’s daughter.” My mother looked like she had been hit by lightning. She staggered backward a step, caught only by Cameron’s quick arm. She looked at Cameron, then at me, total disbelief etched on her face. “No, it can’t be… Cameron, tell me it’s not true!” Cameron’s face had turned as white as paper. He opened his mouth, but not a single word emerged. “Mom, do you still want to take his side?” I asked, my voice flat and cold. My mother’s lips quivered. The look in her eyes for Cameron shifted from compassion to deep, gut-wrenching betrayal and fury. She violently shook off his arm, rushed forward, and delivered a harsh, echoing slap across his face. “You asshole!”

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A new broom sweeps clean, and I was the first piece of dust she decided to toss. “You’re fired.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t beg. I calmly opened my laptop and began wiping my work drives. The new director, an external hire, crossed her arms and let out a small, contemptuous laugh. “Oh, playing the rebel? Deleting files won’t help you, you know.” She leaned in, feigning curiosity. “By the way, what exactly was your project? I don’t recall seeing anything critical.” I just offered her a slight, hollow smile, pulled a thumb drive from the port, and pocketed it. “You’ll find out tomorrow morning.” 01 The conference room was suffocatingly hot. The harsh fluorescent lights above cast a sickly pallor on every face, including the freshly installed Head of Projects, Naomi Price. “To optimize our organizational structure and boost team vitality.” Her voice was clear and carried a sense of inherent superiority as her gaze swept deliberately over every person present. Finally, that sharp, predatory look settled on me. “Kai Lawson, you are terminated, effective immediately.” The room went completely silent. I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes lock onto me—some offering pity, a few genuine shock, but mostly schadenfreude and cool indifference. I was the sacrificial lamb, dragged out to be butchered in front of the flock. I didn’t give her the reaction she expected—no outrage, no desperate plea. I simply looked up, met her gaze through my glasses, and gave her a calm two-word reply. “Understood.” My compliance clearly threw her off balance. The rehearsed speech she had prepared must have died in her throat. She frowned, visibly annoyed that her ‘lamb’ was being so meek. The meeting concluded in an awkward, heavy silence. I returned to my desk, a quiet corner by the window where I kept a few struggling succulents. My colleagues avoided my eyes as if I were carrying a contagion. Only Sam Miller, the intern who sat across from me, risked a quick, worried glance. I gave him a slight nod, letting him know I was fine. Then, I opened my work computer. Every click of the mouse was loud and deliberate. – “Format drive C.” – “Format drive D.” Two progress bars appeared on the screen, the blue bands creeping forward with slow, steady certainty. The sharp click of high heels grew louder, stopping just outside my cubicle wall. It was Naomi Price. She stood there, arms crossed, looking down at me with undisguised mockery. “A tantrum, Kai? Really?” Her voice was low, yet loud enough to carry through the quiet office. “I wouldn’t bother with these petty theatrics. Everything is backed up on the company server.” I ignored her, my focus fixed on the slow march of the progress bars. My indifference infuriated her. She stepped into my space, and the rich, expensive scent of her perfume instantly saturated the air—so intense it made my stomach turn. “Still fighting? Deleting files won’t change anything, you know.” She leaned in, body forward, and whispered close to my ear, feigning conspiratorial interest. “Tell me, what was your project again? I don’t recall anything essential. Just some dispensable, fringe work?” She was too close, her breath tickling my ear, and a wave of nausea washed over me. I finally turned my head, looking her directly in the eyes for the first time. Her face was a mask of the victor’s arrogance and the contempt for the loser. I looked at her, and then, I smiled. It wasn’t a smile of anger or sadness, but one of complete, cold detachment that she couldn’t possibly comprehend. The instant the progress bar hit one hundred percent, I reached out and, with a soft click, pulled a small, plain black thumb drive—the one with the scratched casing—from the side of the host machine. I slipped it into my jeans pocket, grabbed my worn-out messenger bag, and stood up. I met her eyes—now wide with confusion and a flicker of unease at my inexplicable calm—and said, slowly, deliberately: “You’ll find out tomorrow morning.” Without a backward glance, I walked out of the place where I had poured three years of my life. The colleagues I left behind were frozen in their seats. 02 I slept until I woke up naturally the next morning. Sunlight filtered through the blinds, casting warm, shifting patterns on the floor. I rose leisurely, brewed myself a pour-over coffee, and carried the mug to the balcony to water my small collection of succulents. My phone lay silent in the living room. I hadn’t touched it. I knew that soon, it would turn into a scorching hot brand. Meanwhile, dozens of miles away, the headquarters of Vanguard Tech was already in chaos. At 6:08 AM, the core operations channel for The Nexus, the company’s flagship AI system, registered its first red alert. [Level 1 Alert: Core Database Connection Failed!] Immediately, hundreds of thousands of error messages flooded the screen like a burst dam. The backend indicators for The Nexus, normally a calming, stable green, were now flashing a frantic, blood-red. All front-end services relying on The Nexus, from the smart customer service on the company website to the AI recommendation engines in key partner applications, now displayed a single, chilling message: “SYSTEM ERROR.” “SYSTEM ERROR.” The Nexus was completely down. Naomi Price’s recently promoted Technical Lead, a man named Brian, was dragged out of bed by a frantic series of calls and arrived at the office by 6:30 AM. He sat in front of the terminal, his eyes puffy with lack of sleep, sweating as he stared at the screens filled with low-level code he couldn’t understand. His mind was blank. Server restart. No effect. Rollback to a previous version. Insufficient permissions. Attempted repair. The code was a monolithic firewall, rejecting all unauthorized access. At 8:00 AM sharp, the roar of CEO Robert Montgomery echoed through the entire Technical Department. “What in God’s name is going on! Someone tell me!” Robert, a man in his late forties who usually embodied polished professionalism, was disheveled, his face ashen, pacing like a caged lion. Naomi trailed behind him, pale but still trying to bluff her way through. “It has to be Kai Lawson! Robert, it must be him! He was disgruntled, he maliciously sabotaged the company system!” Brian immediately jumped in to agree. “Yes! It was definitely Kai! His access was the highest; he’s the only one who could have done this!” A few older employees gathered in a corner, murmuring amongst themselves. “Nonsense, Kai isn’t like that.” “The Nexus was built from the ground up by Kai. The core architecture, the algorithms—all his. No one else here can touch the foundation.” “I knew something was wrong yesterday. How could Naomi fire Kai so casually? It’s like cutting off your own arm.” Naomi overheard their comments, her face tightening with fury. She shrieked at Robert. “We have to call the police immediately, Robert! Get Legal ready to sue! This is corporate sabotage!” “Shut up!” Robert spun around, his bloodshot eyes fixed on her. “The priority is fixing the problem! Not finding blame! If the system isn’t back online before the market opens tomorrow, the company is finished!” The entire morning was spent in frantic, disorganized efforts. But faced with the impenetrable fortress of The Nexus, all attempts failed. The company’s stock began showing violent, anomalous fluctuations, and several major partners had already called with furious inquiries. In the midst of the chaos, someone finally remembered the sight of me formatting my computer the day before. “Robert, when Kai left yesterday, he wiped everything on his local drive!” “I checked it myself!” Brian immediately chimed in, eager for credit. “The drives are empty! He left nothing behind!” Robert’s gaze snapped to him. “What about the backup server?” A new layer of cold sweat broke out on Brian’s forehead. He stammered, “The backup server… the core module for The Nexus… it shows… it shows ‘Access Denied: Insufficient Permissions.’” Boom. Naomi felt a sharp, sickening explosion in her head. She finally understood. The cold smile I gave her as I left, the calm finality of “You’ll find out tomorrow morning”—it wasn’t a threat of a childish prank. It was the precise timing of a calculated counter-strike. Her face, already alarmed, completely drained to a terrifying shade of ash-gray. 03 The sunlight on the balcony was perfect, and the breeze was warm. I had just finished watering my last cactus when the phone in the living room finally rang. It was an unrecognized number. I slowly set down the watering can, dried my hands, walked into the living room, and picked up the call. “Hello.” There was a moment of sharp, ragged breathing on the other end, followed by a voice attempting to project calm authority. “Hello? Is this Kai? It’s Robert. Robert Montgomery.” The CEO. I waited, letting the silence stretch. “Kai, listen… we’ve had a bit of an issue here at the office. Are you available right now?” He chose his words with extreme care, as if testing a live wire. I took a slow sip of my coffee. It was rich and complex. “Robert, I’m no longer an employee of Vanguard Tech. Per company policy, my employment was terminated yesterday at 5:30 PM.” My tone was as neutral as if I were discussing the temperature outside. The line went audibly quiet. After a few seconds of silence, Robert started to play the sentiment card. “Kai, I know you’re upset. Naomi acted rashly, and I’ve already reprimanded her. But the company has supported your career for years, and you have a loyalty to the work we’ve done here, right?” He paused, his voice now laced with undisguised urgency. “Look, can you… can you please come in and help us restore the system?” I almost laughed out loud. Help? Supported my career?

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I was just scrolling, ready to call it a night, when I saw the post from the campus queen bee: [I’m three months into an online relationship and meeting him next week. What do I do if he’s a 300-pound absolute unit?] The top-rated comment was viciously brilliant: [Gift the account and the guy to someone you hate. Let those two hot messes internally combust.] The queen bee was thrilled with the idea and went through with it. I shook my head, silently thanking my lucky stars that my girlfriend wasn’t like that. Not long after, I was on a sweet date with my girl when the queen bee tracked me down, pointing at my girlfriend and screeching: “You bitch! I was supposed to be Silas Archer’s girlfriend! Hand him and that account back right now!” 1 I was about to crash, but the post grabbed my attention instantly. I recognized the poster: Madison Hale, the reigning queen bee of the whole university. Seriously, she was dating someone online? Madison was currently melting down in the comments: [I swear to God, he told me he was six-foot-one and looked like a Greek statue. I bought it for three solid months!] [But I forgot to ask about his weight!] [I had a delivery guy scope him out today. He said a giant stepped out—a mountain of a man with a belly bigger than his chest, like a walking water heater. I want to die right here just thinking about calling a water heater “Baby” for three months!] The replies were a joke-filled disaster zone: [When the destiny drama hits hard and you’re a total looks queen.] [A guy gets hot for someone online and a photo drop brings him back to reality.] Madison was clearly losing it: [This isn’t about being messed with anymore! I’m supposed to meet this guy next week. I want to run over every single Orc on the planet!] Huh. Funny coincidence. My girlfriend and I were also set to meet next week. I flipped to our chat. The last message was from earlier in the evening. X: [Headed to the lab tonight. Don’t wait up for me.] It was nearly ten now. I shot her a quick message: Me: [Baby still swamped?] Me: [Seriously, I just saw this post that is so messed up!] 2 She must have been busy; no reply came for a while. I knew she couldn’t carry her phone around in the lab, so I wasn’t worried. I went back to the thread. In the meantime, Madison had added several more updates, each more brutal than the last: [Ugh, the Orc never quits. He just messaged me again.] [Just seeing his avatar makes me nauseous, let alone chatting with him.] [I need to go throw up.] The thread was mostly people gloating, though a few defended the guy. Madison shot them down without mercy: [Oh, you’re so noble? You talk to the Sasquatch then.] [He looks like that and has the nerve to date online? Has he apologized to me? I’m being nice just by not ripping him a new one!] More suggestions were pouring in. I skimmed through them, losing interest, and switched back to the chat. Still nothing. What was going on? She’d never gone this long without replying. Was she pulling an all-nighter in the lab? I couldn’t stay up. I sent her a quick goodnight, turned my phone off, and passed out. First thing the next morning, I checked my messages. Still radio silence. What the hell? But Madison’s thread had new updates. I frowned at the top comment: [This is super easy to solve. Poster, you can give the account and the boyfriend to someone you hate, let those two hot messes internally combust!] Seriously? That was dark. A lot of replies agreed the idea was shady, but Madison loved it: [Brilliant, sis! I’m so over my cousin, the drama queen. Done!] 3 Madison had a cousin? Never heard of her. Whatever. That was their drama. My main problem was why my girlfriend hadn’t messaged back. I scrolled through our chat history again. Nothing bad. She’d sent me a sushi delivery and proactively told me she was heading to the lab. So why no message? Just as I was considering calling, my phone buzzed. Her: [Good morning, Baby.] I immediately relaxed. Me: [Why’d you ghost me all night?] Her: [So sorry, Baby. Lab got a little intense.] Okay. Just the lab being the lab. I was completely relieved. Me: [Fine. I’ll let it slide, barely.] Her: [Don’t let me off the hook so easily. You can throw a fit if you want, Baby.] I actually blushed a little at the repeated use of “Baby.” Me: [What’s with the sugar rush today?] Her: [Missed you.] I felt my cheeks warm. Me: [We talk every day. You still miss me?] A few seconds of silence before she replied: Her: [So much.] Her: [I can’t wait to see you, Baby.] 4 She was on fire today! A flicker of strangeness crossed my mind, but my heart was racing. I quickly switched apps to scroll and calm down. We’d been dating online for almost four months. She was usually the cool, pulled-together one. She used terms of endearment, but rarely this mushy. Something was off. Seriously off. Was she hiding something? Had she done something bad? The previous night’s thread flashed in my mind. The warmth I’d just felt evaporated, replaced by a cold knot of suspicion. I sent a serious message: Me: [You’re acting weird. Spill. What did you do?] The chat went silent for a moment. Then, a voice message came through: “Busted, huh, Baby? I bought you a coke. Looks like I’m derailing your diet plan today.” I felt a rush of satisfaction listening to it. She’d sent me voice messages before, but they were always a sort of overly sweet, affected “girly” voice. This one, though, was clearer, warmer, and totally melodic. I saved the clip and sent a voice message back: “You are so strange today. Your vibe is strange, your words are strange, and your voice is strange.” She replied quickly: “And this ‘strange’—do you hate it?” Of course not! I’m a total sucker for softness. I cleared my throat and held the record button: “I don’t hate it. Keep it up.” She laughed instantly: “Okay, Baby. Come downstairs and grab your tea.” 5 coke first thing in the morning—pure sin! I mentally chastised myself while sprinting out of bed to brush my teeth. “Silas, you’re up early today,” my roommate, Nolan, said, sounding amazed. I grinned. “My girlfriend sent me a coke. Need me to grab anything for you?” Nolan waved me off. “I’ll go get my own.” I frowned. “You grabbed mine yesterday. It’s my turn.” Nolan was already standing up. “Let’s just go together. I use the stairs as part of my workout.” He was dealing with some health issues and medication that caused weight gain, and he was always quietly trying to lose weight. Since he insisted, we went down together. Deliveries were on shelves near the dorm entrance. It was early, so few people were there. I quickly found the drinks—four of them—with a clear note: [One for my Fawn Baby, three to treat The Fawn’s roommates.] I stared at the note for two seconds and laughed, showing it to Nolan. “My girlfriend’s treating everyone.” Nolan took the bag and whooped. “Thanks, Archer and his lady! Is this an anniversary? Did we just hit the jackpot?” I was surprised, too. She rarely sent me food, and never to share. Did her all-nighter in the lab result in some breakthrough? Was she just ecstatic? I was about to text her when someone called my name up ahead: “Silas?” I looked up, stunned. “Madison.” It was Madison Hale. She walked over, her gaze drifting casually to Nolan beside me. A faint look of disgust crossed her face. Then she glanced at the coke in his hand, and I saw a flash of— Schadenfreude? 6 I hated her look. I cut her off. “Something I can help you with, Madison?” Madison snapped back to attention and cleared her throat. “My club is having a big retreat next weekend. It’s actually really cool. Want to come?” I frowned slightly. Didn’t Madison have a boyfriend? Why was she inviting me? Wait. I paused, remembering the post and the comment. Madison had handed the account to her cousin, the one she hated. So, she was… single? A cruelly single person. I rejected her immediately. “Sorry, Madison, I can’t. I’m meeting my girlfriend next weekend.” Madison’s face froze. “You have a girlfriend??” I held my patience. “Yes. We’ve been dating for a while now.” Ignoring her deep frown, I pulled Nolan along and walked away. “Archer, you don’t seem to like Madison much.” Nolan nudged me. “Didn’t she low-key try to flirt with you last semester? Posted those cryptic messages on the confessional wall?” Sending a few vague messages counted as flirting? Plus, she had an online boyfriend while hitting on people in real life. Her character was definitely lacking. Back in the dorm, I took a picture of the coke and sent it to her. Me: [Thanks for the treat, Wife!] She replied almost instantly, focusing on a peculiar detail: Her: [Wife?] I smiled and held the voice key: “My bad. Thanks for the treat, Girlfriend.” Her: [Say it again.] I indulged her. “Giiiiirlfriend.” Silence for a few seconds. Then, a shower of Venmo notifications hit. I watched a string of transfers—$500, $1000, $999. I was shocked. Me: [Are you insane? Why so much money?] To be clear, in all the months we’d talked, she’d only sent me money once for my birthday—a $5 and a $20, the most awkward $25 ever. Her: [So happy. My Baby needs to be happy with me.] I couldn’t help but laugh. I was about to reply when another message popped up: Her: [Baby, I want to come see you sooner. Can I?] 7 My heart leaped, and the corners of my mouth curled up. Me: [Sooner as in?] She sent a screenshot of a train ticket: departure this Saturday, destination my city. I noticed the booking time: 6:03 AM today. She’d bought the ticket the second the booking window opened. My heart felt warm and fuzzy, but also a little nervous. I looked again at the passenger name: Jocelyn Reid. A beautiful name. Seeing I hadn’t replied, she started to worry: Her: [Baby?] Her: [Was that too sudden?] Her: [Let’s stick to next week then, okay? Don’t be mad…] Mad? How could I be mad? I quickly typed: Me: [Not mad. Just surprised.] Me: [Come! I’ll pick you up at the station! (p≧w≦q)] Jocelyn immediately relaxed and copied my emoticon: Her: [Yay! (^o^)/~] She was such a dork. I scoffed good-naturedly, but I was smiling. I thought for a moment and asked: Me: [Should we swap photos first? Just so we don’t miss each other.] Jocelyn and I met through a game. We’d only added each other’s secondary accounts; neither of us had photos posted. Jocelyn didn’t reply. Minutes ticked by. I started to worry. Was she going to be—unconventionally attractive? After a moment of panic, I sent another message: Me: [At least tell me your height? To narrow down the search?] Still nothing from Jocelyn. I was beginning to understand Madison’s frustration! Just as I was about to give up and make a video call, my phone vibrated. Jocelyn had finally replied. 8 A straightforward selfie. White shirt, long dark hair, a look that was both pure and sultry, and a tiny beauty mark near the corner of her eye. I stared at the face for one stunned second, then slammed my phone face down. Holy hell, she was gorgeous!!! How did I, of all people, end up with her? My phone buzzed again: Her: [Baby, I’m not really pretty… My roommates say I look cold QAQ] Her: [Baby, I promise I’m not cold.] Her: [Baby, you can boss me around.] Where was my oxygen tank?! Where was my oxygen tank?! I let out a groan of disbelief before forcing myself to calm down, replying with forced nonchalance: Me: [Not cold. Very beautiful.] Then a new wave of anxiety hit. She looked like that. What did I look like next to her? As if she knew my thoughts, Jocelyn sent a comforting message: Her: [Baby just knowing what I look like is enough. I’ll love whatever you look like.] That made me sound even more shallow. I wanted to defend myself, but Jocelyn shifted the topic: Her: [Baby, I have my final exam for this class now. Gotta go.] I sent back an ‘OK.’ Looking at the little cat-kiss emoji she sent last, I sighed deeply. I deserved the best, sure, but landing this best made me seriously nervous! After some thought, since I had a light class schedule, I dragged Nolan to the mall. New clothes, haircut, styling… When I was finally done, Nolan squinted at me. “Is the Mr. World competition happening on campus soon?” I laughed. “No, I’m just about to meet my girlfriend!” Nolan shook his head. “Man, you should just wear gym shorts and show her your profile from the balcony.” We were joking around when I accidentally bumped into a passerby. I apologized immediately. “Sorry about that… Madison? You’re shopping, too?” Behind me, Madison Hale had the weirdest expression. She looked me up and down, her brows knitting together. “Silas, are you online dating?” “Are you and your girlfriend… meeting, too?” 9 What the hell? She was eavesdropping and connecting it to herself? My girlfriend was nothing like her! I gave her a quick, vague answer and hurried away with Nolan. Back at the dorm that night, Jocelyn was in an evening class, which she’d warned me about. Bored, I lay on my bed scrolling the university forum. Madison’s post was even hotter, with everyone curious about the outcome. [Poster, what’s the situation?] [You gave the account away, why the silence?] [Did the cousin get busted? Do you need a GoFundMe for her hospital bills?] Madison’s reply was smug: [My cousin is such a thirsty idiot. I told her he was a six-foot-one hottie, and she just nodded along.] [They’ve been talking so much. Calling each other ‘Baby’ constantly. I heard they’re actually going to meet up!] [Damn, my professor just called. I can’t witness the carnage, but it makes me feel so good, hahahaha!] I cringed at her continuous use of the word “Orc.” I’d been a chubby kid growing up, and my grandmother indulged me, making me anything I wanted. In elementary and middle school, I hadn’t thought much of it. It wasn’t until high school that I faced some isolation and bullying because of my size. That’s when I realized that in the teen world, fat guys are definitely not popular. I started desperately trying to lose weight. Though I did slim down, I was still sensitive to those kinds of insults. Disgusted, I was about to close the thread when the page updated. Madison had posted a new comment, but this time, it wasn’t smugness—it was confusion: [I ran into my crush tonight. He’s also online dating and about to meet his girlfriend. What are the odds?] The comments section was full of people laughing: [My dog just took a giant dump. Want to taste-test it?] [Who cares who he dates? Mind your own business!] [Did the Orc crash into your head? You seriously think your crush is your online date?] I narrowed my eyes and coldly logged off the forum. Saturday arrived quickly. I woke up early, got ready, and headed straight to the train station. When Jocelyn booked the ticket, I saw her departure point was just a few hours away within the state. I reached the station just after nine. I clutched the bouquet in one hand and my phone in the other, my heart pounding as I constantly checked the clock. 9:20 AM. Another crowd poured out of the arrival gate. A girl in a white coat instantly caught my eye. She was tall and slender, wearing a white baseball cap pulled low, hiding half her face. But her presence screamed “stunning.” I instinctively took a few steps forward, and our eyes met. She visibly froze. Oh no. Did I get the wrong person, or was she already disappointed? Just as I panicked, a hand clapped my shoulder. That annoying voice came from behind me: “Silas! What a coincidence. Are you here to pick someone up, too?”

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The day of the fire, they carried Lila, who only had a few superficial scrapes, down the stairs. They left me for dead, pinned beneath a burning rafter in the collapsing ruin. It was a miracle the firemen dug me out. I woke up three days later in the ICU. The day I was discharged, I had nowhere to go but back home. The moment I stepped through the front door, I saw my parents, Robert and Penelope Winters, and my sister, Delilah, gathered around a lavish, buttercream cake—a “Survival Celebration.” My mother, Penny, saw me, immediately shifted her body to shield the cake, and said, “Your sister is still shaken up. Don’t you dare cause a scene or ask for a piece.” Normally, I would have combusted. I would have screamed, thrown something, demanded to know why they hadn’t even checked the hospital’s discharge time. But this time, I just pulled the ghost of a smile across my face. I walked over and spoke in a tone of meek obedience they had never heard from me. “Mom, you worry too much,” I said. “I would never fight Lila for a piece. I’m just happy she’s safe.” I even picked up the silver cake knife myself, cut the largest slice, and offered it to Delilah with both hands. “Here, Sis. Eat this. You need to calm your nerves.” They all froze. My father, Rob, slowly lifted his head, his face a mask of suspicion. “You… you’re really not going to make a scene?” I nodded gently. “No. I won’t make a scene. From now on, I’ll do whatever you ask.” 1 Mom took the knife, her hand trembling. She stared at me for a long time, her eyes wide with a strange kind of panic. “Did the fire… did it fry your brain?” I shook my head, my smile a rigid, unsettling arc. “No. The doctors said my recovery was excellent.” My sister, Delilah, took a bite of the cake, then peered at me over the frosting. “Cassidy, you’re… you’re really not angry?” “Not at all.” My smile grew even softer, and I let my gaze linger on the faint scrape across her cheek. “I was so scared when I saw the blood on your face. I’m just relieved you’re okay.” The “blood” had been a tiny scrape she got from tripping on the lawn. I, on the other hand, had nearly been reduced to ash. At my words, Lila’s eyes immediately welled up. She dropped the fork and launched herself across the counter, throwing her arms around me. “Oh, Cassie, I’m so sorry! It was all my fault, I was just so scared…” Her warm, sweet-smelling body pressed against me, and I felt a chill of absolute revulsion. I lifted a hand and gave her a light, measured pat on the back. “It’s okay, Sis. Really.” My father stood nearby, his brows furrowed. He opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. He finally settled on a strained, “Just… good to have you home. Go up and rest.” I nodded, turning toward the stairs. I had only taken two steps when he called out. “Cassidy, wait.” I turned back. He shuffled his feet, his gaze darting away, unable to meet my eyes. “Your sister is having nightmares since the trauma. Your south-facing room… it gets the most sun. Could you let her use it? We fixed up the utility closet for you. It’s small, but… you won’t die in there.” You won’t die in there. What a perfect phrase. Before, I would have thrown a fit. I would have cried and demanded to know why. Now, I simply nodded again, my voice flat, without a single ripple of emotion. “Of course. I’ll go pack up my things right now.” My father froze. My mother froze. Even Delilah’s tear-filled eyes widened in disbelief. I ignored their reactions and walked upstairs. My old room was exactly as I had left it in high school: concert posters on the walls, and a desk covered in academic awards—every single one brighter, more numerous, than Lila’s. In this house, they were worthless. I folded my clothes, piece by piece, and packed them into a single suitcase. Lila followed me, standing silently in the doorway. I turned to her. “Come in, Sis. Sit down. This is your room now.” She bit her lip. “Cassidy… do you… do you hate me?” “No.” I tucked the last shirt into the case. “You’re fragile. You deserve the best room.” Lila’s tears fell. “But…” “No buts.” I dragged the suitcase out, past her. As I brushed by, I could smell the cloying, sweet vanilla buttercream of the cake on her sweater, a scent that already felt alien to me. “I’m heading to the utility closet. Get some rest.” As I hauled the suitcase downstairs, I heard my parents’ low, worried whispers from the living room. “She’s really changed,” Mom’s voice was laced with a strange, sick awe. “Good,” Dad’s was tinged with relief. “That fire in her, that constant arguing—it was exhausting.” “But… I don’t know. There’s something wrong. I feel… cold when she looks at me.” I didn’t stop. I dragged the suitcase straight into the utility closet. It was smaller and grimmer than I’d imagined. Mold stained the corner walls, the window was the size of a paperback book, and the ancient cot creaked with every shift of weight. The air was a stale mix of dust and rot. I sat on the cot and stared at the spiderwebs stretching across the low ceiling. My phone rang. It was my grandmother, Patsy. “Cassidy, I heard you were discharged? Why aren’t you here with me?” My throat tightened, but the tears wouldn’t come—they seemed to have been incinerated on the day of the fire. “Grandma, I’m fine at home.” “Fine my ass! I heard everything!” Patsy’s voice instantly rose, furious. “You wait right there, I’m coming over now! I’m going to tear them limb from limb!” The line went dead. I lay back and quietly listened to the fine, tight aches radiating from my injuries. The doctor said I needed at least three months of physical recovery. But I knew I couldn’t wait three months. Bang! Bang! Bang! The front door suddenly rattled under a furious, drumming assault, followed by Grandma Patsy’s strong, angry voice echoing through the entire house. “Robert Winters! Open this door! What did you do to my granddaughter?!” 2 Grandma Patsy arrived with the speed of a cyclone. She marched in, carrying a thermal food container, and launched immediately into an attack. “What in God’s name kind of parents are you? Your daughter just got out of the hospital and you put her in a storage closet?! Are your hearts made of granite!” Mom gave a nervous, forced smile. “Mom, please don’t be angry. Cassidy volunteered for it.” “Volunteered my foot!” Grandma shoved past her and charged straight into the utility closet. When she saw me on the cot, her eyes immediately filled. “My sweet girl, why are you being such a fool?” I sat up. “Grandma, I’m okay.” She placed the thermal container by my head and pulled a thick wad of crumpled bills from her pocket. “This is my emergency savings. You take it. Don’t you dare stay here and let them make you suffer.” I looked at the wrinkled cash, feeling a sharp twist of pain in my chest. This was all she had in the world, and she wanted to give it to me. But I gently pushed the money back. “Grandma, I really am fine. Dad, Mom, and Lila are fine, too. You shouldn’t worry.” Patsy’s hand froze in mid-air. She stared at me as if she were seeing a stranger. “Cassidy, you…” “I really am okay.” I offered a small, unsettling smile. “You’re getting older. You need to keep that money for yourself.” Grandma Patsy’s tears flowed harder. She reached out a trembling hand to touch my cheek, and I instinctively flinched away. The small, involuntary movement utterly broke her. She whirled around and stormed back into the living room, screaming at my parents. “What have you done to my girl? She won’t even let me touch her! You’ve turned my good, fiery granddaughter into this… this ghost!” Mom whispered, “Mom, Cassidy is just growing up. She’s being mature…” “Mature?” Grandma scoffed. “This is a heart that’s dead!” She pointed a finger directly at Dad’s face. “Robert, do you remember when Cassidy was a child and you promised her the world? And now? You give the world to Delilah and treat Cassidy like… like garbage!” Dad’s face flushed a deep red. “Mom, don’t listen to gossip. I treat both my daughters equally.” “Equally?” Patsy shook with rage. “The moment the fire broke out, you grabbed Delilah and ran! You left Cassidy trapped in the flames! You call that equal?” The living room fell silent. I heard Lila’s soft, whimpering cries. “Grandma, I’m so sorry, it’s all my fault…” “You shut your mouth!” Patsy roared at her. “How many things have you stolen from Cassidy since you were a toddler? And now you wanted her life, too?” Lila’s sobs grew louder. Mom quickly put her arm around her. “Mom, watch what you say. Lila is your granddaughter too.” “I don’t recognize that one as mine,” Grandma said, her face cold. “I only claim Cassidy.” She came back into the utility closet and grabbed my hand. “Cassidy, you’re coming with me. You are not staying here to be insulted.” I gently pulled my hand back. “Grandma, I’m not going.” “You—” “I really am fine.” I cut her off. “Please go home. I need to rest.” Grandma looked at me, the devastation in her eyes nearly overwhelming. In the end, she said nothing more, just tucked the wad of cash under my pillow, and left. The moment the door closed, I heard her crying outside. It was a choked, desolate sound. I closed my eyes and pulled the blanket over my head. Good. Now, the only person who had ever loved me had been pushed away by my own hands. No more weak spots. 3 In the days that followed, I became the most agreeable person in the Winters house. Mom asked me to do the dishes; I did them. Dad told me to mop the floor; I mopped it. Lila saw a dress of mine she liked; I took it off and gave it to her. She rooted through my jewelry box; I told her to take whatever she wanted. One afternoon, Lila took my favorite necklace. It was a delicate silver chain Grandma Patsy had given me for my eighteenth birthday. Mom saw it and quietly said, “Lila, that’s your sister’s birthday gift…” “It’s okay,” I said with a light, airy laugh. “If Sis likes it, she should wear it. I barely use it anyway.” Lila held the necklace, struggling to suppress a triumphant smile. But quickly, she dropped her eyes and put on her usual mask of practiced guilt. “Cassidy, are you… are you really sure you don’t mind?” “Not at all.” She hesitated for a beat, then fastened the necklace around her neck. That evening, I heard my parents talking in their room. “Cassidy has been completely abnormal lately,” Mom said. “Abnormal how? I think it’s great,” Dad scoffed, relieved. “The old Cassidy, fighting with Lila every day. Now we finally have peace.” “But…” Mom paused. “The way she looks at us… it’s strange. There’s no warmth, no daughterly affection. She looks at us like we’re absolute strangers.” “You’re imagining things.” The next day, Lila took my design portfolio to her school. It was the result of a month’s work—a complete collection I’d planned to submit to the prestigious Juniper Design Fellowship. She’d found it while rummaging through my things, and her eyes had lit up. “Cassidy, did you draw this? It’s incredible!” I nodded. “Can I… can I borrow it? My school has a portfolio deadline, and I’ve been completely blocked…” “Take it.” Lila paused, stunned. “Really? I can?” “Yes.” She grabbed the portfolio and ran. Mom had watched from the side, looking utterly conflicted. “Cassidy, that was your submission…” “It’s fine. I can draw another one.” Mom opened her mouth, but ultimately said nothing. A week later, Delilah won first place in her school’s design competition. She came home clutching the certificate, bursting with excitement as she showed it to our parents. “Mom, Dad, look! I won!” Dad was ecstatic. “That’s my girl! So talented!” Mom also smiled, relieved. “Lila, you’re so wonderful.” Lila then looked over at me, a flicker of guilt in her eyes. “Cassidy, thank you…” “Don’t mention it,” I said. “I’m happy you won, Sis.” She bit her lip, then suddenly rushed over and hugged me. “You’re so good to me, little sister.” I said nothing, just patted her back gently. But in my mind, I thought, Don’t worry, Sis. I have so much more ‘goodness’ coming your way. That night, my school principal called. Someone had reported Lila’s winning design as plagiarism. My parents’ faces immediately went white. They dragged Lila into the living room and tore into her. “How could you copy someone?!” “You’ve ruined the Winters name!” Lila was sobbing hysterically. “I didn’t copy! It was Cassidy who gave it to me…” Both my parents turned to me. I stood up. “I gave it to her.” “Why?” Dad demanded. “Because I helped her create it,” I said calmly. “That’s what I told the Principal when they called.” The Principal had indeed called me earlier. I had admitted, in front of the entire class, that the work was an assignment I had completed on behalf of my sister. I’d heard the cruel sneers behind me: “The plagiarist’s little helper is just as trashy.” Everyone looked at me with contempt. But I didn’t care. I didn’t care about anything anymore. My parents sighed in a collective relief. “You scared us to death. We thought it was real plagiarism.” Lila wiped her tears, looking at me. The guilt in her eyes had just deepened into something heavier, and more agonizing. 4 The turning point came without warning. My school offered me a special, early admission scholarship. It was the Presidential Scholarship to the Parsons School of Design, the best design program in the country, and there was only one awarded each year. The Principal called while I was mopping the floor in the kitchen. “Cassidy Winters, congratulations. You’ve been selected.” I stood there, gripping the mop handle, frozen for a long moment. “Thank you, Principal.” I hung up and went back to scrubbing. The stains on the tile, like the dirt on my life for the last twenty years, just wouldn’t scrub out. Lila was standing on the stairs. She’d heard everything. Her face turned pale, her nails digging into her palms. But quickly, she dropped her gaze and loosened her grip. That evening, she started to panic. She slammed doors in her room, crying and yelling that it wasn’t fair. “Why her? Why not me?!” Mom rushed in to comfort her. “Lila, honey, don’t cry…” “I don’t care! I want to go to that school! Mom, you have to help me…” Mom came out, finding me standing outside the utility closet, her expression complicated. “Cassidy, honey, you’ve always been the sensible one. Your sister has her heart set on that school. I was wondering… could you… give her your scholarship spot?” I set the book I was holding down on the cot. “Sure.” Mom’s breath hitched. “You… you agree?” “Mm-hmm.” I nodded. “If Lila wants it, she should have it. I don’t care either way.” Mom’s eyes lit up, but then a shadow of doubt crossed her face. “Cassidy, are you certain? It’s a full scholarship, to Parsons…” “I’m certain.” The next day, I went to school and signed the waiver. The Principal was stunned. “Cassidy, do you understand what you’re doing? This opportunity is one in a million…” “I understand.” I held the pen, signing my name across the official document. “But my sister needs it more than I do.” The Principal watched me, his expression heavy with disappointment. “You will regret this.” I smiled faintly. “No, I won’t.” When I got home, Dad called me over. He was sitting on the sofa, his posture rigid. “Cassidy, come here.” I walked toward him. He stared at me for a long time, then suddenly asked: “Your sister said she wants you to drop out, get a job at the warehouse, and give her the $3,000 a month you’d make to pay for her four years of college. Are you… also willing to do that?” The air froze for a few seconds. I nodded. “Yes.” My voice was as calm and still as stagnant water. “If you ask it of me, I’ll go.” My father’s face instantly drained of color. He shot up from the sofa, his hands gripping my shoulders, his eyes bloodshot with sudden, raw terror. He roared, his voice thick with a guttural rasp: “Cassidy Winters, goddammit, go back to how you were! You cry! You scream! Where is the old you?!” I looked up at him. I stared at him calmly. “Dad, did you forget?” My voice was a quiet whisper. “Three years ago, I argued with Lila over a cupcake, and you slapped me and said: ‘If you could just be sensible and easy like your sister, this house would have peace.’” My father’s hands fell away. All the color had fled his face, leaving him utterly white. I continued: “I’m sensible now. I’m doing exactly what you wished. Why… why do you look so upset?” Dad stumbled backward two steps. His mouth was open, but no sound came out. He stared at me, his breathing shallow and frantic, his eyes full of absolute dread. Mom rushed out of the kitchen. “What’s wrong? What happened?” She looked at Dad’s terrified face, then at me. “Cassidy, what did you say to your father?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked back into the utility closet. Behind me, I heard my mother’s rising shriek of panic. “Rob! What is it? Don’t scare me like this…”

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My best friend was dead set on setting me up with her brother, raving about how he was handsome, loaded, and even knew how to cook. Unable to withstand her constant nagging and pleading, I finally agreed to go to her family’s house. But before I could meet him, I ran straight into her other brother. My friend, Gemma, quickly pulled me aside. “My older brother is gorgeous too, but it’s a shame—he was seriously messed up by a horrible woman.” “I heard that woman had his kid and then just took off, leaving him to raise the baby alone. Poor guy.” I didn’t pay it much mind until halfway through my blind date, when a tiny child suddenly came barreling toward me. The little girl grabbed my dress and yelled, “Mama!” I looked up, and standing right in front of me was the deep-feeling, single-dad brother Gemma had just been talking about. It was my ex, the one I had dumped three years ago. Which meant I was, in fact, the “horrible, deadbeat mom” my best friend had been so passionately badmouthing. 1 Gemma Harrington and I were the ultimate hustle buddies. We were both broke. We ate pre-made meal kits, shared a cramped apartment, and our wardrobes were entirely sourced from Amazon Prime deals and Target clearance racks. To meet our performance metrics, we practically lived at the office, routinely working until midnight. Life was manageable, if unremarkable, until the day Gemma suddenly announced she wouldn’t be coming to work anymore. I assumed she’d been fired and was already gearing up to march down to the boss’s office to fight for her. Instead, she leaned in, her eyes wide with a secret, and said, “I struck oil.” It turned out Gemma was the long-lost daughter of a ridiculously wealthy, old-money family—the Harringtons—and her biological parents had finally tracked her down. Overnight, Gemma’s bank account had ballooned from four figures to seven. She was fiercely loyal. Her new-found wealth didn’t change our friendship; she spent every day dragging me to expensive lunches and ordering fancy cocktails. “Anya, this feeling of getting something for nothing is absolutely divine,” she gushed. “It really is true that you don’t feel bad spending money you didn’t actually earn.” “Seriously, quit your job. I’ll just find you a rich husband.” Gemma was impulsive, and I didn’t take her seriously. But three days later, she looked at me with an unnerving seriousness. “I’ve vetted the candidates, and I’ve decided my younger brother, Toby, is perfect for you.” Fearing rejection, she launched into a serious analysis. “First, he’s handsome, tall, and has a great temperament—meeting all the basic requirements.” “Second, he’s loaded, works out regularly, and he cooks. Major bonus points.” “Most importantly, he’s my brother. If he ever treats you badly, I’ll personally break his kneecaps.” “So,” she slapped the table, delivering her final verdict, “You are having a blind date with my brother this weekend.” I stared at her, utterly aghast. “Oh, absolutely not.” “What is ‘absolutely not’ about it? You are my best friend. You are far too good for any man on this planet.” When she reached for her phone to call him, I frantically grabbed her hand. After a brief struggle, I decided I had to tell her the secret I’d kept locked away. “Wait, you need to hear this first.” “I had a child a few years ago. With my ex-boyfriend.” 2 The story of Grant Harrington and me was an absolute cliché. While I was studying abroad in London, I saw him across a crowded room at a university mixer and was instantly, hopelessly smitten. I began a relentless, months-long pursuit. Grant was naturally aloof and reserved; it took me six agonizing months just to get close to him. The day I finally confessed my feelings, he reached up to his ear, took out a cochlear implant, and held it out to me. “I have a congenital hearing impairment. Are you sure you want to be with me?” Seeing my stunned silence, he gave a sad, self-deprecating smile, the look of someone who had faced this rejection before, and turned to leave. I quickly grabbed his sleeve. “I’m sure.” I didn’t care about his hearing; I was genuinely, powerfully in love with him. I looked up, meeting his eyes, and firmly repeated my question: “Can we date, Grant?” He stopped, turned back, and his previously shadowed eyes suddenly brightened. “Yes. We can.” Grant was incredibly awkward when it came to romance, but he was a fast learner. He quickly went from not understanding women at all to mastering their internal logic. He went from timid kisses to making me breathless, my thighs going weak beneath me. I would lie curled up against him, feeling the hard knots of muscle beneath his thin shirt, and subtly swallow my spit. My attraction to Grant was intensely physical. Every time I was near him, I felt an almost urgent need to explore. But for some reason, Grant was always incredibly restrained. Sometimes, he’d be visibly aroused, body temperature blazing, but he would always pull back before we crossed the final line. The turning point happened on Christmas Eve. 3 I had dressed up specifically for our Christmas date, but just before I left the apartment, an old mentor from my grad program, who was passing through London, called and asked to meet. He was flying out the next day, so I had to push back my date time and meet him quickly for a simple dinner. I hadn’t told Grant. I assumed he was waiting for me at our apartment, but when I looked up, he was standing at the entrance of the restaurant. He stood leaning against the door frame, arms crossed, thin lips pressed into a tight line, silently watching us as we spoke. After I said goodbye to the mentor, Grant quietly took my hand and led me back to our apartment. I tried several times to talk to him on the way, but he never responded. I assumed he’d forgotten his implant. The apartment door opened. Inside, a huge Christmas tree dominated the living room. Neon lights twinkled, and underneath, the rug was covered in presents and wrapped gifts. Before I could take it all in, he had pinned me against the wall. Grant trapped my waist with one hand and toyed with the delicate strap of my dress with the other, looking down at me. “You look beautiful tonight. Was this outfit for your mentor?” “You were laughing and talking throughout dinner. Are you two close?” That’s when I realized: he wasn’t deaf, he was furious. I tried to explain, but before I could get a word out, his kiss descended. It was commanding, aggressive, and so forceful that it stole my breath. We stumbled onto the sofa beneath the twinkling Christmas tree. The atmosphere in the room was suddenly thick with heat and desire. I fully expected Grant to do what he always did: stop just before the crucial moment and retreat to the bathroom for a cold shower. But this time, he pulled me closer and retrieved a small, carefully wrapped box he had prepared. Inside was a simple, yet stunning diamond ring. He slipped it onto my finger with a nearly reverent air. Then, he pressed his forehead against mine, his hand resting on the zipper of my dress. “Anya, I’ll be responsible for you. I’ll marry you.” “So, can we?” His eyes were flushed with a feverish intensity, his thick eyelashes hiding an ocean of surging emotion. I couldn’t say no. I leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth. “Yes.” I remember that night didn’t stop until dawn. Eventually, I was sobbing and begging for him to stop, just calling his name. He deliberately removed his cochlear implant, looked at me, and said innocently, “Anya, I can’t hear you.” The cold metal of the ring on my finger pressed against his spine. At the time, I thought it was just a ring, and I didn’t realize the massive scale of the decision he had just made to promise me marriage. Not until I posted a picture of us holding hands on social media. A single, jarring comment caught my attention. “That’s a Harry Winston diamond! Girl, are you dating a billionaire?” 4 I had never imagined Grant Harrington came from a dynastic, old-money family. And I certainly hadn’t expected the ring on my hand to be a six-figure diamond. It was too much. I couldn’t bear the weight of it. I tried to give the ring back, but he just smiled at me. “There’s no taking back a gift, is there?” The sunlight caught his plain white T-shirt. That deceptively simple shirt was from an obscure European high-fashion brand and was worth three months of my rent. The gap between our families was insurmountable. It made me want to retreat. I asked him, “Will your family force you into an arranged marriage?” Grant took my hand and looked me in the eye. “I’ll refuse. I told you I want to marry you, and I wasn’t joking.” Our time together in London was pure. After crossing that final line on Christmas, Grant dropped his lifelong restraint. He loved removing his implant, pulling me into every corner of the apartment, and allowing us both to fully drown in the moment. We always used protection. But the night before we flew back to the States was particularly intense, and in the heat of the moment, the condom broke. Neither of us noticed until it was too late. Three months later, I found out I was pregnant. At the same time, the Harrington family pressure hit Grant. His father, Mr. Harrington, demanded he agree to an engagement or be completely disowned. I had already prepared myself for the breakup, but then Grant showed up on my doorstep, dragging his luggage. Outside, the rain was pouring down. He was soaked through, but he was smiling. “I came for you, Anya. I’m here, and I’m never leaving.” Youth is often defined by a dizzying, reckless kind of love. Grant chose to be disowned just to be with me, and I chose to have his baby. Throughout my pregnancy, he was utterly devoted, attentive to my every need. But the money well had run dry, and the privileged son was plunged into the mud of the real world. He never complained, but I knew he hated wearing cheap Target clothes and couldn’t stand the crowded subway. While his peers were learning to run the family empire, he was stuck with me in a tiny, cramped rental apartment. When I was seven months pregnant, he lost his expensive cochlear implant. Because the original model was too costly, he had to buy a cheap replacement, but the quality was so poor he struggled to hear anything clearly. Once, while out buying groceries, a few teenagers surrounded him and mocked him for being “the deaf guy.” In that moment, Grant stood there, utterly humiliated. He’d been raised in luxury; when had he ever faced such cruelty? Watching him, my heart twisted in my chest. I realized for the first time that our stubborn choice to be together might have been a mistake. Three months later, I gave birth to a daughter. While Grant was still lost in the pure joy of new fatherhood, I asked him for a divorce. I had already planned my reason. I told him I couldn’t live with his hearing disability, and I wanted a normal man. I didn’t want to be tied to a deaf man for the rest of my life. The words struck him like a physical blow. His body swayed; he looked utterly shattered. Even so, he struggled to regain his composure and whispered, his voice trembling, “Then I’ll work harder. I’ll earn enough to buy the best implant, I’ll be normal. Just don’t leave me, please?” He begged and pleaded, clinging to me for a long, painful time, but I remained unmoved. Finally, he held the baby up to my face and asked, “What about her? You don’t want your daughter, either?” “No. I don’t.” “She’s too much trouble for me to raise. You take her.” Mrs. Harrington had promised me that if I broke up with Grant, he would be welcomed back into the family, and the baby would be properly cared for by them. Grant stared at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he laughed, tears welling up in his eyes. “Anya. When we started, you said you didn’t care about my disability. If you couldn’t accept it, why did you lie to me?” “Was it fun to make a fool out of me?” Our breakup was messy and cruel, but I got what I wanted: we separated. Grant took our daughter and returned to the Harrington estate, and I moved to a new city to start over. Before I left, Mrs. Harrington offered me a large check as “compensation.” I refused it. I was young then, and in my twisted logic, accepting the money felt like profaning the purity of our failed relationship. I never contacted Grant again, and I never saw my daughter. When I told Gemma this story, I deliberately blurred the names and simplified the events. After the initial shock, she threw her arms around me. “It’s okay, Anya. It’s all in the past.” “Having a child doesn’t matter. You’re single now, and you can absolutely find love again.” “Not all rich families are so old-fashioned. My parents are pretty open-minded; you don’t need to worry.” I quietly confessed, “The main thing is, I haven’t moved on from my ex…” “Then all the more reason to meet my brother! You’re not getting back together with your ex, so you should use my brother as a stepping stone to move on.” Once Gemma fixed on an idea, she became relentless. From that day on, every time she saw me, she badgered me about the blind date. “Please, just meet Toby once.” “He’s definitely your type. If you don’t like him, we’ll leave. Deal?” Worn down by her constant soft-and-hard lobbying, I finally gave in. “Fine. But we are only meeting. That’s it.” 5 The Harrington estate was in Greenwich, a truly elite suburb outside the city. The idea of going there initially made me nervous. Grant’s family lived in that area. But then I reasoned, the metro area is huge. Without an intentional link, how could I possibly run into him? Gemma’s biological parents were indeed wealthy; the mansion had acres of manicured gardens. On the walk up to the house, Gemma prattled on about her younger brother, Toby. Distracted, I glanced over and stopped, looking at a man sitting on a veranda in the distance. His back was to me, showing only a sliver of his profile. I couldn’t see his face clearly, but something about him felt deeply familiar. Gemma followed my gaze. “Oh, that’s my older brother, Grant.” “Honestly, he’s super handsome too. I thought about setting you up with him, but his love life is way too complicated.” Naturally curious, I pressed her. “Complicated how?” “Apparently, he dated a total deadbeat, and they had a kid. But the woman took off right after the baby was born, ditching him and their daughter.” “My poor brother was heartbroken, so he threw himself into his career, swore off love, and has been raising the kid solo.” The story sounded eerily familiar. If Gemma didn’t have the Harrington surname, I would have sworn she was talking about Grant. After we passed the veranda, the man disappeared from my view. I looked back, wishing I could see more, and wondered silently if Grant’s career had taken off like this Grant’s had. In the mansion’s back garden, a table was set with pastries and refreshments. Gemma’s brother, Toby, was already waiting. “I’m telling you, Toby might not be as brooding as Grant, but you are going to love him,” Gemma promised, right before we sat down. I was skeptical. But when I clearly saw the man sitting across from me, I froze. He was handsome, yes. Clear-eyed, high cheekbones, thin lips—definitely my aesthetic. But he was also three-parts Grant, especially the gentle, soulful look of his eyes. This was bizarre. Was I thinking about Grant so much that I was now projecting him onto every attractive man? I fought down the ridiculous notion and was about to introduce myself, but Toby’s eyes widened, and he spoke first. “You’re… Anya?” I nodded, assuming Gemma had given him my name beforehand. But when I confirmed it, he just stared, saying nothing. Gemma slapped the table, giving her brother a furious, disappointed look. “What are you doing? A guy has to take the lead!” “Look at Anya. Isn’t she gorgeous?” Toby pursed his lips and slowly nodded. Gemma pressed on. “Is she your type?” Toby didn’t want to answer, but under Gemma’s silent, intimidating pressure, he hesitantly mumbled, “Mmm.” “Then introduce yourself and get on with the date!” Gemma complained. After an awkward silence, Toby managed a smile that was more painful than a frown. “Gemma, Sis, she cannot date me. Absolutely not. Never in a million years.” “What’s ‘absolutely not’ about it? She’s only three years older than you, and she has a kid—I already told you that! You said you didn’t mind!” Gemma was starting to get angry. “Don’t go back on your word in front of my best friend!” “I don’t mind her past,” Toby stammered, his face bright red as he looked at me. “But… but Big Brother will mind.” I was completely confused. Just as I was about to ask why, a small child came running toward us. She had pigtails, wore a flowered dress, and looked about three years old, perfectly round and plump. I generally didn’t like kids, but she was so adorable that I felt a strange sense of closeness to her. I thought: My child with Grant would be about this age now. “This is my brother Grant’s daughter, Wren,” Gemma said, trying to scoop Wren up in a hug. But Wren ignored her, ran straight past, and threw herself into my arms. She wrapped her small arms around me and squeaked in a sweet, clear voice: “Mama.” My body instantly froze. Gemma quickly tapped the girl’s head. “Sweetie, you can’t just call everyone ‘Mama.’ This is my friend; you should call her ‘Auntie.’” Wren tilted her small face up, tugging at my shirt, and excitedly retorted, “She is Mama! She’s my Mama!” “I saw Mama’s picture! I know it’s her!” Looking up at her now, I finally noticed: she looked exactly like my baby pictures. All the blood in my body turned to ice. I looked at Gemma. “What… what is your brother’s name?” Before she could answer, a man’s voice came from behind me. “Wren, come to Papa.” The voice was familiar, yet I hadn’t heard it for four long years. I turned back slowly. In the warm autumn sun, a man in a crisp white button-down shirt was walking toward us. In the intervening years, he had lost some weight, and he had definitely gained a harder, more mature edge. It was Grant Harrington.

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