The day Julian Vance was arrested for killing a man for me, I ignored his pleas, aborted our child, and broke up with him. His eyes were bloodshot as he screamed at my back: “Scarlett, you killed my child! I will kill you!” After making bail, he dove headfirst into the underworld. In nine years, he clawed his way up to become the ruthless Mr. Vance. When he returned to power, the first thing he did was find me. He choked me, broke my father’s legs, and forced himself on me right in front of him. Everyone knew he hated me. Hated me enough to use my parents’ lives as leverage to chain me to his side. But when no one was looking, he kissed away my tears. “Scarlett, I hate you. I hate you to death!” Yet the next moment, he possessed me fiercely: “Scarlett, remember the pain I give you. Never forget it!” After the passion, he threw a skimpy dress at me. “Wear this to the Gala tonight. You’re going in Vivian’s place.” “She’s different from you. She has a future. You’ve been used before, once more won’t hurt. Don’t forget, your parents’ lives are in my hands.” I smiled miserably. “Julian, my parents are dead.” “Dead?” Julian froze for a second, lust still lingering on his face. “Those two old things willing to die? Scarlett, lying just to skip a party? How cheap.” I looked up, tears blurring my vision, voice trembling: “I’m not lying. They really are dead.” Chapter 1 They died before Julian arrived. Died in the wind. “Scarlett, we dragged you down. We’re sorry.” “Leave Julian. Start over.” “Live happily.” Leaving these words, they jumped right in the video call. I screamed and cried, but couldn’t break the golden chain on my ankle, couldn’t escape the cage named Julian Vance. Julian pinched my chin, leaning down to kiss away my tears, his tone grim: “Scarlett, what right do you have to cry?” “You killed my child. You’ve been used by so many men. What right do you have to feel wronged?” “Just replacing Vivian for one party. Stop pretending to be noble!” One party? He spoke of that absurd, debauched feast so lightly. Looking at Julian’s face, I felt numb. A tear fell on the back of his hand. Julian withdrew his hand instantly, wiping it violently on his clothes. “Dirty.” It reminded me of the day he killed for me. He reached out his blood-stained right hand, catching my tear before it hit the ground. The next second, he was pinned down by the police. Lying in the mud, he smiled brilliantly and said, “Scarlett, don’t cry.” “It hurts.” “Julian, my parents are dead,” I repeated. Slap! The slap landed on my face. Julian’s face loomed close. Patience gone. “Scarlett, don’t push your luck! Replacing Vivian is your blessing!” Blessing? At this moment, I couldn’t tell if Julian was humiliating me or if he really loved that escort. He brought Vivian home more than once. Slept with her in front of me more than once. And every time after, he made me clean her up. As if only this way could he get pleasure. In a trance, Julian’s face approached again, overlapping with memory. Smiling brilliantly, “Don’t want to go? Fine.” “Unless you tell me why you left me back then!” My body lost all strength. I threw off his hand and smiled mockingly: “I’ll go.” Julian exploded instantly, grabbing my hair and roaring. “You’re this cheap just to keep a secret? Willing to be used by those men?” I was thrown to the floor. The chain on my ankle clanged harshly. Julian’s face magnified again, overlapping with the boy in my memory. Unconsciously, tears fell again. I nodded heavily, screaming: “Julian, my parents are dead! They are dead!” “There is no truth! What truth do you want!” Slap! Julian slapped me again, eyes splitting with rage: “Since you’re so eager to be used, I’ll grant your wish!” “Someone! Clean this slut up and send her over!” After speaking, pain flooded his eyes, voice hoarse: “Scarlett, you owe me this.” Yes, I owed him. Maybe everything was a mistake from the beginning. Chapter 2 At eighteen, I ran away with Julian, breaking the marriage contract my family arranged. Since then, I was disowned, and my family’s business plummeted. The first night in the basement apartment, Julian cried under the shower. When I found him, he grabbed my hand, wanting to crush it into his bones. He swore with red eyes, “Scarlett, I will give you a good life. I will make you a proper lady again.” Julian took oaths seriously back then. And he did it. Without a degree, he took odd jobs, the dirtiest and hardest work. Tired, but hearts warm. Every night, Julian pointed at the skyscrapers in magazines, painting the future. “Scarlett, I’ll give you the biggest house. You won’t have to do anything, just be Mrs. Vance.” Now, it all came true. Julian used the biggest house in the city to build a cage for me. Even the chain holding me was gold. I wiped my tears and smiled miserably. “Yes, I owe you.” “Two years. Have I paid it off?” Julian froze. Disgust appeared. Just as he was about to speak, a voice interrupted. “Making Scarlett cry again?” Vivian walked over, skillfully linking arms with Julian. The diamond on her ring finger was blinding. My breath hitched. “Doesn’t Scarlett know?” “Julian, you really are something. Not telling Scarlett such big news.” “Slipped my mind.” Julian smiled gently. Vivian stepped forward, pulling out an invitation. “Julian and I are getting married.” Julian… getting married? To this escort? I looked at Julian, seeing a smile on his lips. Deep affection, just like before. But looking at me, it was cold disgust. “Vivian may have been an escort, but she is cleaner than anyone.” Heart ripped apart. Tears fell with a smile. Seeing my tears, hesitation flashed in Julian’s eyes. Next moment, he avoided my gaze. “Scarlett, your tears make me sick!” Julian dropped a sentence and sat on the sofa with Vivian. I was chained to the floor, like a stray dog. “Julian, since we’re getting married, Scarlett…” Julian raised an eyebrow. Vivian stopped instantly. “Tonight, let her go to the Gala for you.” “Is that appropriate? Scarlett is still…” Julian squeezed her hand, tone grim: “I said she goes, so she goes!” “You are my woman. Insulting you is insulting me, Julian Vance.” He kissed her. Vivian submitted skillfully, letting Julian’s hand explore. Sounds of wetness and Vivian’s gasps spread. I knelt aside, numbly watching the debauchery. Heart aching beyond words. Scarlett, it’s been two years. You should be used to it. Should have been used to it. Just like back then. … Chapter 3 The first Lunar New Year after running away with Julian, I got pregnant. Julian held me, laughing like a fool on the street. Back home, he lay on my belly, voice trembling. “Scarlett, we have a baby.” That night, he smoked downstairs all night. Next morning he rushed up. “Scarlett, let’s buy a house.” I laughed at his daydreaming, and the pitiful number in our bank account. But Julian pulled out crumpled bills. For the next month, he brought back more money than usual every day. Wouldn’t say how. He told me the money was clean, spend it freely, don’t mistreat myself. Until half a month later, I saw him in a local video. I ignored my three-month pregnancy and ran to the location. The biggest nightclub in the city. In the biggest VIP room, I saw Julian kneeling on the ground, barking like a dog. I pushed away the guest riding him like a madwoman, but was grabbed by the wrist. Later, Julian drank until his stomach bled before they let me go. In the ambulance, he still clutched the money, wiping my tears. “Don’t cry. It hurts.” The day after Julian’s stomach bleeding, a girl in a white dress brought a stack of cash with red eyes. “Brother Vance, I heard everything. Take this money. Take care of yourself and… sister-in-law.” She was Vivian. Neither Julian nor I took the money. Since then, every time Julian went to the club, I made him bring extra food. For Vivian. Julian was right. Though she was an escort, she was cleaner than anyone. Daytime, I drew designs for money. Nighttime, Julian went to the club. Finally, at five months pregnant, we saved enough for a down payment. Julian dragged me excitedly to pay the deposit. Vivian often came to help us pack. However, before moving, everything changed. That fifty-year-old landlord raped me while Julian was away. When Julian came back, he saw the landlord on top of me, panting. Instant rage. Later, my vision turned red. “Julian, run!” I cried hysterically. But Julian put down the knife, wiping my tears in the bloodbath. “Scarlett, don’t cry. It hurts.” Then, he was pinned into the mud by police. … When Julian changed position again, I interrupted him, handing him a condom. Julian scoffed, knocking me over. He leaned down and kissed Vivian’s brow, pious. “Vivian, give me a child.” Vivian didn’t answer, but her high-pitched gasps were the best proof. With a groan from Julian, everything stopped. I touched my empty belly, heart shrinking into a ball. Forcing back tears, I crawled over, handing tissues to clean up Julian’s mess. “Enough!” Julian suddenly raged, grabbing the chain, pinning me to the floor. “Don’t you have emotions?” “Don’t you have dignity?” “Scarlett, why are you so cheap!” I smiled miserably. My dignity, along with Julian’s child, was buried in that snowy night amidst gang rape. After Julian was taken away, I kowtowed until my head bled at the sales office to get the deposit back. In those few days, I begged everyone. Finally, the landlord’s son reluctantly agreed to settle. The condition: I accompany them for three days for free. “My dad was stabbed to death by your man. You think you can settle without giving something?” “Miss Scarlett, you don’t want your man in prison, right?” Amidst smoke and alcohol, the men laughed lewdly. Piercing and fatal. Three days of nightmare and hell. They used every method until the last day, when I hemorrhaged massively. They stopped. Afraid to go to the hospital, they dumped me on the roadside. Blood between my legs dyed the road, dyed the snow. I lay on the road, in the heavy snow, contractions coming one after another. That day, watching the sky full of snow, I bit the umbilical cord, holding the dead baby and wailing. “Julian, our baby is gone!” “Gone!!!” … Chapter 4 “Julian, it hurts so much.” Julian’s face changed instantly, eyes red, voice trembling: “Scarlett, I’m here.” The past is gone, only memories remain. “Sister Scarlett, what did you say?” Vivian spoke. The pain in Julian’s eyes vanished instantly. He kicked me away, as if touching something filthy. “You deserve to hurt?” “Why didn’t you say it hurt when you aborted the child and left me?” “Scarlett, you asked for this!” “Wash yourself clean tonight. Or I’ll make those two old things wish they were dead!” With that, he strode towards the exit. “Julian.” Julian stopped. “They are dead.” “My parents jumped off a building and died.” “Dead? Good. Scarlett, you go die too.” Julian strode away. He walked coldly. But I was chained to the spot. Yes. What chained me wasn’t just metal. “Scarlett, if I were you, living like this, I’d rather die.” Vivian stood up, walking to me barefoot. The diamond ring on her finger sparkled. “Familiar? You picked it.” Vivian looked down, disdainful and arrogant. I noticed the ring. Back then, Julian found out I was pregnant. The next day he brought back a diamond ring, crying and proposing. I looked at our balance, nagged Julian for a long time to return it. Later, when I was imprisoned by Julian, he bought that ring back. Every time in bed, he made me hold it in my mouth. Now, it was his and Vivian’s wedding ring. “Julian was right. You really are a good dog.” Slap! A slap blacked out my vision. “Scarlett, I’m talking to you!” I forced a smile. “Isn’t this what you always wanted to see?” “Not enough!” “Why does Julian only see you? He’s marrying me! Scarlett, why do you get all of Julian’s love! Why!” “Scarlett, die! Just die! If you die, Julian won’t hurt anymore!” Vivian’s words were like thunder. Numbing my ears. Julian loves me? He… did love me before. Maybe. When I came back to my senses, Vivian was gone. Under the moonlight, a phone, a key. Picking up the key, the phone unlocked automatically. “After all, a city girl. Pregnant but so soft!” “Hahaha, lucky day for the brothers! Everyone in!” Familiar voices echoed through the villa. The woman on screen was posed in shameful positions. Forced to endure humiliation. Surrounded by men’s lewd laughter. This was the video from back then! Back then, they forced me to take photos and videos. Using them as leverage to agree to the settlement. And I used them as reason to leave Julian after bailing him out. Even now, I remember his scream. Heartbreaking. Eleven years. Even the world forgot. Where did this video come from! My fingers trembled, almost dropping the phone. When the video ended and returned to the menu… my blood ran cold! This was my father’s chat screen! Sender: Julian Vance. I wailed in the villa, watching the video again and again masochistically. Finally, I fled the villa, heading for the nearby rooftop. The wind on the roof was strong, like that snowy night. I stood in the wind, unable to shed another tear. Familiar voices rang in my ears. “You unfilial daughter. If you go with him, don’t ever come back.” “Scarlett be good. Daddy doesn’t hurt.” “My Scarlett suffered. We dragged you down.” Wind filled my ears. I slowly opened my arms, smiling. A brave leap. “Scarlett!!” Julian’s roar pierced the wind. Before falling, I seemed to see that familiar figure running towards me. That was nineteen-year-old Julian. But, it didn’t matter anymore. It’s all over.

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I escaped twice after they brought me to Elysium Isle. The first time I was dragged back, that night, a video arrived: my fiancé, torn to a skeletal wreck by a frenzy of piranhas. The second time my escape failed, my brother—the person I’d shared a life with since childhood—was tied to a ship’s mast and pulled apart. Consumed by utter despair, I accepted the binding of the “System.” “Earn enough points, and you can resurrect your loved ones.” From that day on, I shed every last shred of my dignity. I submitted to the electroshock collar biting deep into the flesh of my neck, enduring the agony until I was unconscious, over and over again. Until today, when they forcibly extracted yet another embryo. I looked at the points finally accumulated on the screen and felt a strange flicker of joy. My hand was trembling as I reached to press the confirmation button, when laughter suddenly erupted from the corner. “That idiot really thinks she’s bound to a System. She’s actually trying to save up points to bring back her brother and fiancé, you know? Little does she realize Elysium Isle is a fake. The deaths and the System? All a lie.” “Tell me about it. The rich have a knack for training their dogs. All this, the fake deaths, the fake System—I heard Mr. Miller and Mr. Ashford only put on this whole show because she slapped Miss Belle a few years ago and refused to apologize. This was their way of teaching her to finally submit.” “Shh, quiet. Mr. Miller and Mr. Ashford are coming to check on the latest lesson…” I felt like I’d been plunged into an ice bath, a deafening buzz in my ears. The pills I’d swallowed earlier were already kicking in. Before I could even react, blood began to pour uncontrollably from my mouth. As my consciousness faded, the door was suddenly kicked open. “Dee!” I struggled to lift my head and met a pair of familiar eyes, wide with panic. It was my brother, Tristan. The one who was supposed to be dead. The person I had yearned for and dreamt of seeing again for three long years had appeared before me without warning. His eyes were bloodshot with urgency, his voice a strained, panicked roar: “I told you to just scare her! How could you let it get this bad?” He leaned down, carefully lifting me. He deliberately softened his tone. “Don’t be scared, Dee. It’s over. Your brother’s here now.” I stared blankly at his familiar face, and the words I’d just overheard crashed back into my mind. They had been telling the truth. To avenge Isabelle, my brother and my fiancé had truly gone to extraordinary lengths. Exhaustion and utter despair swallowed me whole. I managed a choked, bitter laugh, and a fresh torrent of blood instantly gushed from my mouth. The room erupted into chaos as everyone present was terrified. Tristan, frantic, slammed his fist on a nearby table. “Get a doctor in here! Why are you all just standing there like idiots?” The others exchanged nervous glances. After a moment, one stammered, “Mr. Miller, you forgot.” “Last time Miss Belle had a cold, you moved all your medical teams to her wing.” “You also specifically instructed… that Miss Dee is prone to faking illness for attention, and you didn’t want her interrupting Miss Belle’s recovery. No one can call a medical resource without your personal command.” Tristan froze, his gaze guiltily shifting away from me. After a long silence, he ground out two words through clenched teeth: “…Useless!” In the moment Tristan turned to make the call, several pairs of hands brutally pinned me to the bed. “Hurry! We can’t let her die before the doctor arrives! If Mr. Miller blames us, we’re all finished!” Before the words were out, various syringes aimed at keeping me conscious were jabbed roughly into my skin. Blinding pain exploded. The crude stitches from my most recent injury completely tore open, and my body spasmed violently. At that exact moment, Tristan’s hushed, coaxing phone conversation drifted into my ears: “Belle, sweetheart, don’t be angry. Just let me borrow your doctor for your sister, okay? When she wakes up, I promise I’ll make her apologize to you personally.” “Yes, yes. I’ll make your sister kneel and thank you. Whatever our little princess wants.” I bit down on my fingers, a self-mocking smile twisting my lips. So, even my survival now required a plea for Isabelle’s gracious consent. Another needle plunged in. Amidst the torment of the pain, I struggled to turn my head, gathered every ounce of strength, and seized the razor blade tucked near the bedside table. I brought it down hard, without hesitation, across my wrist. Blood splattered the moment Tristan spun back around. His phone crashed to the floor, his pupils constricting into pinpricks. “Dee!!!” The last thing I remember was my brother screaming as he lunged toward me. In the haze of fading consciousness, I had a dream. In the dream, I was a girl cradled by fate. My brother cherished me as a treasure, and my childhood sweetheart, Carter Ashford, never left my side. That was until Isabelle, my father’s illegitimate daughter, walked through the front door. That was when the battle began. For three years, she staged ten or more suicide attempts. Slitting wrists, overdosing on pills, turning on the gas… each time she was “miraculously” found by either Tristan or Carter. But Tristan would merely glance at the spilled bottles of sleeping pills and sneer, “What else can you do besides these low-level pity stunts?” Carter would simply step around Isabelle, who was sobbing on the floor, take my hand, and walk away. “Ignore her. I’ll take you to school.” The genuine disgust in their eyes was so real that I never once doubted the solidity of their devotion to me. So, on the day Carter and I went to sign our marriage license, when Isabelle once again climbed onto the rooftop threatening to jump, Tristan merely watched with cold detachment. Carter frowned dismissively, ready to hang up the phone. No one took her dramatics seriously. This time, however, Isabelle gave a desolate smile and threw herself over the edge. In the video, Tristan’s face twisted in horror. He lunged toward the ledge like a maniac. Carter froze where he stood, the phone still in his hand, his earlier indifference shattering into a million pieces. His face was stark white. That day, I walked out of the City Clerk’s office, clutching the two folders—one red, one green—in a daze. The words of Carter’s friends still echoed in my ears: “Ashford, married for three minutes and already divorced? Taking the Miller princess on a quick field trip to the registrar’s office?” “Didn’t you just say you couldn’t stand Isabelle? Why did your face go ghost-white when she actually jumped?” “You guys don’t get it. Carter’s just playing hard to get. He says he hates her, but deep down, she’s the one he can’t live without!” For once, Carter didn’t coldly object. He simply tightened his brow in frustration and muttered, “Shut up.” Then, he walked past me and dialed the number that, I now realized, he had prioritized and saved: “I signed the divorce papers. Now will you be a good girl and let the doctors treat your injuries?” She must have said something, because he sighed, his voice laced with an indulgent helplessness. “Fine. Everything you say… My little princess. I’m coming right back to you.” It wasn’t until his car sped past, barely missing me, that I belatedly registered what had just happened. When I arrived at the Miller mansion, Carter was carefully draping his jacket over Isabelle. The room was a mess. My gaze fixed on the claw marks scored across the frame of the wedding photo beside the bed. It wasn’t hard to imagine how intense their activities had been just moments before. My stomach churned violently. Isabelle peeked out from Carter’s arms, her voice frail. “Sister Dee, Carter and I—it’s not what you think…” Before she finished, the loud crack of a slap echoed through the room. Isabelle clutched her cheek, staring at me with wide, disbelieving eyes. In that same instant, a tremendous force slammed into my face. I was knocked to the floor, my ears ringing violently. “Delaney Miller! Apologize to Belle!” My cheek was burning. I looked up. Tristan stood over me, towering and ice-cold. “Belle’s depression is only alleviated when Carter is with her. Can’t you show a little understanding and just let her have this?!” “Go! Apologize to Belle right now!” Carter’s eyes were equally filled with rage. “Delaney, no matter what happens between Belle and me, I was going to marry you in the end. Why do you insist on pushing her to the brink?!” “Belle did nothing wrong! You’ve gone too far this time. Say you’re sorry!” Carter’s face was suddenly blurry and foreign to me. In a daze, I felt as though the boy who had grown up beside me, the one who once charged into a kidnapper’s den alone to save me, the one who’d willingly sacrificed his own future for my sake, was now miles away. I scanned the room, and my eyes met Isabelle’s. Her lips curled into a silent, triumphant smirk. I jolted awake from the nightmare. Before I was fully conscious, the name I had relied on for twenty years instinctively slipped out: “Tris…” No one answered. I awoke in an empty, pitch-black bedroom. Next door, the lights were bright, and everyone was revolving around Isabelle, who was loudly sobbing about running away from home. “Tris, look at Sister Dee! She comes back and immediately tries to kill herself with pills and a razor. She just wants to intimidate me, right? I don’t understand why, after all these years, she still can’t stand me!” “Carter, maybe I should just stay away from you. You need to go be with Sister Dee. Just let me leave this house!” Tristan quickly intercepted her, his voice tight with barely suppressed fury. “Belle, you’re the one who’s been wronged. Don’t worry, I promise I will teach her a lesson for what she did today!” “I never thought that three years of trying to teach her how to yield and apologize would make her worse. Now she’s using death to blackmail and seek attention!” “I saw how pathetic she looked today, and I almost… I almost fell for it!” I slowly lifted my hand and touched my wrist. The searing pain in my stomach had lessened, and the cut on my wrist was carefully bandaged. But the aching beneath my skin was still sharp and clear. My near-death struggle, it turned out, was merely a “pity stunt” in my brother’s eyes. Carter, meanwhile, pulled Isabelle into his arms and gently soothed her. “Belle, Delaney’s been spoiled for too long; don’t let her get to you.” “Our wedding is still on for tomorrow, don’t let her ruin your mood.” Tristan immediately jumped in. “Exactly, focus on the wedding. As for her… I’ve got her covered! Whether she likes it or not, she will be your maid of honor! We can’t let her give anyone a reason to gossip!” The wedding? The maid of honor? Three years ago, I was meant to be the bride in that ceremony. Now, without my knowledge, I had been demoted from fiancée to bridesmaid. My heart went utterly cold with every word they exchanged. I tried to force a smile, but nothing came out. I realized my legs were moving, uncontrolled, sliding off the bed. I tried to stand. But the moment my feet hit the floor, the surgical wounds on my abdomen instantly tore open. A wave of crushing pain hit me. My legs buckled, and I crashed heavily to the ground. The moonlight illuminated the brutal, crisscrossing scars on my body, and the memories of the last three years suddenly came flooding back. To earn points, I knelt beneath strangers, stripped and forced into humiliating positions. To earn points, I was strapped to a lab table, and as soon as I conceived, the embryo was brutally cut from my body—an ordeal repeated over countless days and nights. The searing pain of the electrical current, the numbness of my dignity being ground to dust… In my most desperate moments, I had wanted to smash my head against a wall and die. But every time I remembered that Tristan and Carter were waiting for me in the “other world,” I endured it again. And now I knew. The “points” I’d risked my life to earn were nothing but a sick, elaborate hoax designed to break me. I felt pathetic and ridiculous. I wiped the wetness from my face, struggled to grab the edge of the bedside table, and slowly, painfully, tried to pull myself up. I fell again a second later. The tablecloth went with me, sending glass shattering across the floor, shards embedding in my skin. I barely noticed. My eyes were fixed on the open window directly ahead. The noise quickly alerted the next room. Tristan’s footsteps approached. He knocked, his voice heavy with impatience: “Delaney Miller!” “I haven’t dealt with you for trying to kill yourself and scaring Belle today.” “Everyone’s busy right now. Can you please be a little mature?” I leaned against the wall, sliding slowly to the floor, gasping for breath. The pain was relentless, but the three years of suppressed trauma exploded within me. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I screamed toward the door: “Busy with what?! Busy planning Isabelle and Carter’s wedding?!” “Or busy forcing me to be a maid of honor for the woman who stole my life?!” The outside went silent for a moment. Then Tristan’s voice rose sharply: “What are you even talking about?! Belle and Carter have been a public pair for years! You’re the one who always tried to interfere—” His voice caught, as if he suddenly remembered his cue. When he spoke again, his tone shifted to a strained persuasion: “Dee, love doesn’t follow a timeline. Carter loves Belle now. And you know she has severe depression; she’s only gotten better because of Carter’s constant support. Letting them marry is just a temporary solution that’s best for everyone.” “Are you going to fight Belle for this one thing, too?” I didn’t answer him. I finally dragged myself to the window. The wind hit my face. My heart felt like cold ash. After an unknown time, there was a loud crash. The door was kicked wide open. I heard it, but I didn’t turn around. In the next second, I swung a leg over the sill and leaped out the window. As my body began to fall, a powerful hand shot out and grabbed me. Carter’s sweat dripped from his brow. Veins bulged on his neck, his face stark white. “Hold on to me, Dee!” His hand had been severely injured years ago while saving me, and he couldn’t exert much force. In a matter of seconds, his arm was violently shaking. He pulled with all his might, yanking me back into the room. The moment I landed, a stinging slap crashed across my face. “Delaney Miller! Even if you didn’t want to attend Belle’s and my wedding, you didn’t have to resort to this!” Carter’s emotions were rarely so volatile. “Do you even know what floor this is?! If I hadn’t reacted fast enough, you’d be dead right now!” Tristan was equally shaky. A maid supported him, barely keeping him upright. He took several deep, shuddering breaths, his voice still trembling. “Dee… What have you become?!” “Anyone would think you’d suffered some unspeakable hardship these past three years! We only tricked you! We fed you well, kept you safe, and even snuck in to check on you every few days! You never suffered a single bit of harm!” “You knew Belle is sensitive, and you deliberately chose her wedding day to repeatedly stage suicide attempts just to create a scene and make her feel guilty, didn’t you?” “Now I can’t even scold you? How could I have raised such a spoiled, ungrateful child?!” “I’m telling you now, whether you want to or not, you will be the maid of honor today!” He finished his scream, dragged me up, shoved me hard onto the bed, and waved the maids forward. “Dress her!” The maid of honor gown was presented. I stared blankly. The moment the maids’ hands reached for me, the memories of being touched by countless other hands violently overlapped. “No!!!” I struggled with every fiber of my being, but it was useless. Riiip! The dark clothing covering my body was brutally torn away by the maids. My wounded body, covered in scars, was completely exposed before everyone. The grotesque network of blue and purple bruises, the overlapping fresh and old burns, the two-inch-long surgical scar on my abdomen that was slowly oozing blood… The air solidified. Everyone froze. The maids with the weakest nerves shrieked in horror. Looking at the injuries on my body, Carter’s face went instantly, sickeningly pale. Tristan staggered backward two steps, his eyes wide in absolute disbelief, and he collapsed onto the floor.

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The annual company gala had just wrapped, and to celebrate our department clinching the top sales spot, my manager, Cynthia Ruth, insisted on treating us to a late-night dinner at a fancy seafood spot. It wasn’t until I slipped away to the restroom that she made her move, orchestrating a mass walk-out, leaving me holding the bag. When the restaurant manager, a man named Robert, slid the check across the polished table, my mind went blank. The tab was $12,800 for the meal. Add in the five bottles of Dom Pérignon and the rare Macallan 18-year-old they’d packed up to take home, and the total soared to $29,800. Two hours earlier, my annual bonus—the biggest in the department—had hit my account: a crisp $30,000. Now, seventeen people had vanished, and the bill was exactly $29,800. I snapped a picture of the bill and sent it to the department group chat, demanding they split the cost. Cynthia’s reply was instantaneous and venomous. “We gave up our best leads to make sure you hit your targets, Serena. You walked away with the department’s biggest bonus. What’s a single dinner compared to that?” she typed. “It’s not like we spent all thirty thousand. We left you two hundred, didn’t we?” “Grow up, Serena. Think about your reputation. You don’t want to be the one who embarrasses herself over a check.” The other seventeen people in the chat immediately chimed in, echoing her outrage, calling me cheap, unprofessional, and ungrateful. This wasn’t Cynthia’s first rodeo. It was a well-worn tactic. That’s why I hadn’t touched a single dish during the meal. They were too busy taking advantage of me. What they didn’t know was that my parents were quiet but powerful players in the restaurant investment world. This seafood restaurant? It was one of their minority stakes. I didn’t argue in the chat. Instead, I called Robert, the manager, over. “Please pull the security footage,” I told him. “Forward the photos of all seventeen of them to the three hundred-plus private hospitality groups my family invests in across the city.” “Notify every one of our affiliated businesses: these seventeen individuals dined and ditched. Blacklist them immediately. They are no longer welcome in any restaurant in this city.” They wanted to play a game of workplace bullying? I’d happily turn this celebration dinner into their department farewell meal. … I posted the bill in the chat, requesting they Venmo me their share. A moment later, Cynthia’s reply popped up. [Venmo? Serena, are you kidding me?] [We covered your late nights; did you offer to split your paycheck? I handed you high-value clients; did you offer to split your commission? Your bonus is three times what others got. We ask you to cover one meal, and you demand we chip in? Seriously?] Her message instantly ignited the previously silent group. [@SerenaWells, Cynthia is right! Seriously, girl, a thirty-thousand-dollar bonus! You have to drag everyone in here for this passive-aggressive split? So low-class!] [LOL, and we were just praising you, thinking you were so grateful to the boss that you pretended to go to the bathroom to secretly pay the bill. Turns out you were just running away. You’re pathetic!] I watched their frantic attempts at moral high-grounding and felt only a cold, sharp amusement. I had just reviewed the surveillance footage. I’d watched them gleefully point at the most expensive items, calculating exactly how to spend my $30,000 down to the last cent. I skipped the back-and-forth and dropped a direct Group Payment Request into the chat. [Cynthia explicitly stated before the dinner that she would be hosting personally, which is why the expense was not submitted to Finance as a team building event.] [The meal comes out to $1655 per person. Since Cynthia reneged on her offer, it is only fair that everyone pays their own share.] The group chat went dead quiet. A minute later, my phone exploded with notifications. Cynthia was blowing up my private messages with a barrage of voicemails. “Serena, what the hell is wrong with you?! I talked you up to the partners to make sure you got that thirty grand! You can’t spring for one dinner? What is your problem?” “You’re trying to tear this department apart over pocket change! I think you have an agenda!” I let out a single, humorless laugh. It was the first time I’d ever heard workplace psychological manipulation packaged so virtuously. I didn’t reply. I used my phone to record the full surveillance video, saving it to the cloud and a secondary backup drive. Then, I turned back to the manager. “Mr. Robert, please print the official itemized receipt and the formal invoice for me.” I sent the invoice to the group chat, then typed my final line. [You have twenty-four hours to settle your debt. Otherwise, I will be forwarding this matter to the Corporate Legal department.] It was a notification. It was also a sentence. Seeing that I wouldn’t fold, Cynthia chose silence. The chat went dark again. Robert looked at me. “Ms. Wells, should I call the police now?” I shook my head. “Not yet.” “First, blur the faces in those photos of them fleeing, and send them to all three hundred of our restaurant groups. I’ll get you the full names and company details in a minute. Let every business know: these seventeen people are on the blacklist for deliberate dining and ditching. No establishment with our investment will ever serve them again.” This was too far past her first attempt to let it go. Last month, she’d somehow found out I’d received a $5,000 commission. That very lunchtime, my DMs were flooded with Starbucks payment links. “Serena, you got a five-grand commission. You have to treat us to Starbucks!” I was due to be transferred to an overseas assignment after the New Year and, wanting to maintain a professional atmosphere, I reluctantly agRuth. But I was stunned when they managed to rack up a $2,000 bill on lattes and pastries that typically cost forty bucks each. Just then, Robert confirmed the notice had been distributed across the merchant network. I looked at the group chat, where I saw a uniform string of “Read” receipts. I curled my lip into a small, cold smile. Around 2:00 AM, I caught an Uber home. On the ride, I saw a new post on Cynthia’s private Instagram. It was a photo from a karaoke room, with all seventeen department members smiling maniacally in the background. Her caption read: “I finally ran into the backstabbing type. For an ungrateful parasite like that, if I don’t bleed her dry, my name isn’t Ruth!” She hadn’t named me, but the comments below were a frenzy of thinly veiled insults directed my way. I watched, ice in my veins, and took a screenshot just before she managed to delete the post. The next morning, I showed up at the office as usual. After the events of last night, the entire office was a black hole of isolation. By 9 AM, the main floor was completely empty. I sat at my desk, slowly finishing my coffee. Only after I put the cup down did Cynthia storm over. She slammed a folder onto my desk. “Serena Wells, a thousand-dollar fine for unexcused absence from the meeting! Your performance review for this month is unsatisfactory!” I laughed, a sharp sound that echoed in the quiet space. “I was never notified of a meeting. You can’t fine me. A communication failure is the manager’s responsibility, not the employee’s.” Cynthia crossed her arms, a cold smirk playing on her lips. “Seventeen people knew about the meeting, and you didn’t? You’re going to argue that wasn’t deliberate?” I ignored her bluster and lowered my head to start my work. She scoffed and walked away. A little later, she began assigning new projects. I volunteered several times, but she acted like I was invisible. Finally, she shoved a doomed project, one no one else dared to touch, onto my plate. She commanded me to complete it, or she’d strip my commission for the month. It wasn’t over. After lunch, the company was handing out holiday gifts. She called everyone to the conference room early to collect theirs. Everyone received three boxes of premium Rainier cherries. When it was my turn, all that was left was a single box of sad-looking satsuma oranges. I quietly moved the oranges to my desk, ignoring the collective snickering and looks of schadenfreude. I opened my laptop and compiled a detailed document outlining Cynthia’s unjustified fine, the withholding of company resources, and the patterns of departmental exclusion. I sent it directly to the corporate ethics and reporting email at headquarters. That afternoon, I kept my appointment with a client. It was Mr. Harold from the Runda Group, a high-value account the company had courted for years without success. When he heard I was treating him to dinner at the most exclusive, Michelin-level restaurant in the city—one that required a six-month reservation lead time—he took my call. That restaurant was also part of my family’s portfolio. I had a customized menu prepared based on his personal preferences. We were nearing the final handshake on the deal after our third glass of wine. I stepped into the restroom to refresh my makeup when my assistant, Taylor, called, her voice frantic. “Serena! We have a problem! Check the company intranet right now!” The company forum had exploded. An anonymous post, accompanied by several poorly framed, covert photos, was scorching the site. [SCANDAL! Sales Rep goes to ANY lengths for a deal! Spotted with an old man at a Michelin-level restaurant! Total turn-off!] The moment I saw the photo, a deep chill ran through my blood. My face was clearly visible, and the client’s silhouette was unmistakable. The comments were already a torrent of vile abuse, numbering over a thousand. [I’m so jealous. I wish I was a girl. Flash a little leg, show some cleavage, and the cash rolls in. I bet that’s how she hit those multi-million-dollar targets.] [Zero surprise who this is! We’re pulling all-nighters and eating ramen, and she’s waltzing out at 5 PM with a Birkin. How is that fair?] [I saw the photos. She can even stomach a bald, greasy old man. That’s next-level commitment to the job!] The next second, Cynthia’s number flashed on my phone. “Serena Wells! Your leave of absence was to entertain a client, wasn’t it?! How did you end up entertaining some rich, old geezer on your lap?!” Her voice was shaking with what sounded like rage. “I knew it! How are you a top salesperson every month? You’re just a low-life slut, a total public embarrassment! You’ve ruined this department’s reputation!” “Get back here immediately! All your projects are suspended, effective immediately! We can’t have your filth tainting the company name!” I forced the anger down. “Watch your mouth, Cynthia! That is a high-value client!” “The contract is about to be signed! Instead of finding out who sabotaged my deal, you’re here slandering me? Have you lost your mind?” Cynthia let out a cold, theatrical snort. “Client? Please. Do you think we’re all blind? I know exactly what kind of client! The one you use to pull strings through unethical means!” “After that meal we paid for last night, we feel sick! You are a plague!” “And you wanted us to Venmo you? I’m starting to think you conspired with the restaurant to scam us out of money!” “Get back to the office and cooperate with the company investigation, or wait for your termination notice from corporate!” She hung up. I instructed the kitChan to prepare a few apology dishes for Mr. Harold and promised a reschedule. Then, I gathered my papers and headed back to the company. The moment I entered, the office was silent, filled with stares of disgust and contempt. I ignored them, slipping a small voice recorder into my jacket pocket before pushing open Cynthia’s office door. The air in the room was thick with accusation. The company VP, Mr. Greg, and a few other managers were there. Cynthia threw the printed photos at my face. “Backstabbing your manager, taking shortcuts… Serena, is there anything you won’t do?” A stinging pain flared on my cheek. I touched it—the paper had cut me. “Leaders,” Cynthia continued, addressing the room, “What legitimate employee takes a client to the most expensive, six-month-wait restaurant in the city? A single vegetable dish there costs four figures! How could a junior salesperson possibly afford it? It’s clearly shady!” “She’s the top seller every month, and took the biggest bonus this year. Now we know it’s all from back-alley deals. She’s disgraced the whole department! How am I supposed to manage a team now?” I took a deep breath, keeping my voice steady. “I did nothing wrong. This is defamation…” “Serena!” Mr. Greg cut me off, his voice sharp. “The evidence is clear. How many contracts have you signed using this method? Also, I intercepted your email to the ethics department…” “You need to be less petty. The workplace is not a family drama. The company is considering revoking your bonus and placing you on administrative leave. This entire situation is a black eye for us. We’ve decided to rescind your overseas assignment.” I snapped my head up. “On what grounds?” Catching Cynthia’s triumphant glance, my fury spiked. I raised my voice. “That bonus is earned! That overseas assignment is the culmination of three years of top performance!” I thought of the sacrifices: the three months I spent on assignment in freezing Alaska, missing my grandmother’s final moments. The time I’d thrown myself in front of a difficult client to shield him from a falling bag of cement on a construction site. The client was fine, but my finger was fractured, the tendons severed. I still can’t fully bend my pinky. All that sacrifice, now negated by a baseless smear? “I do not accept this. If the company insists on this course of action, then I will resign.” Mr. Greg’s face shifted. He knew I was the company’s top earner. Losing me meant his department couldn’t meet its quotas for headquarters. “We’ll temporarily suspend you. All your current projects will be transferred to Cynthia for the time being. We’ll wait for the investigation results before making a final decision…” I said nothing, turned, and left the office. Outside the door, a crowd of my colleagues was clustered, eager for the drama. I met their smug, gleeful eyes and issued my reminder. “I expect to see the full payment for the dinner in my account by the end of the day. Otherwise, I’m filing a police report for grand theft.” The forced composure on their faces flickered, revealing a hint of panic. I walked to the stairwell, pulled out my phone, and quickly dialed a number. “Attorney James, we can move forward with the initial grand theft proceedings I discussed with you. Also, I need to add a count of defamation.” The situation escalated fast. Someone screenshot the anonymous forum post and dumped it onto public social media. The ensuing cyberbullying felt like a beast trying to devour me. People dug up my social accounts and real name. My LinkedIn inbox was filled with strangers, my DMs were a screen-full of aggressive, vulgar messages, and my work email was bombarded with inappropriate images. At the peak of the storm, Cynthia released a statement. She posted selectively cropped screenshots of our chat, making it look like I was the conniving coworker who initially offered to treat everyone, then suddenly reneged and forced the team to split a sky-high bill. Several departmental colleagues stepped forward, confirming her story, claiming I was in cahoots with the restaurant. I became the internet’s latest villain: “The Scam-Artist Waitress.” I was packing my personal items when Cynthia walked up and tapped my desk. “Don’t leave yet. I need you to hand over all your client contacts and files to me.” “Every single one,” she added, looking down at me, victorious. Client contacts are a salesperson’s lifeline. I gave her a small, controlled smile. “Fine.” “But, Cynthia, are you sure you want to do this?” A flicker of unease crossed her face. “What is that supposed to mean?” I didn’t answer and walked away. While waiting for the elevator, a text from my attorney came through. [Everything is prepped.] I replied with a simple “Got it,” and tossed the empty cardboard box I was holding into the recycling bin. As of this moment, I was severing all ties with this company. I heard Cynthia’s obsequious voice behind me. “Mr. Harold, can I treat you to lunch tomorrow? Serena was fired for poor character. I’ll be handling your project from now on!” “Oh, she was caught cheating and the company found out. Don’t worry, your contract is safe with me!” “Yes, yes. I know you have a huge following online. Tomorrow at the city’s most famous Michelin-level restaurant—The Apex Grill—I will personally treat you to lunch. Please, you must come!” The elevator doors closed, but not before I heard a small burst of triumphant cheering from the office floor. They were celebrating their successful bullying campaign. I smiled, a genuine, chilling smile this time. They were celebrating their stupidity. I had personally worked with Mr. Harold before. He was a local tech entrepreneur, known for occasionally live-streaming his contract signings to his followers. His contracts always contained a specific clause: “The vendor may not, in any form, fabricate or disseminate statements or information that damage the reputation or image of the client, under penalty of a one-hundred-million-dollar fine.” One hundred million. I felt the cold amusement grow into a deep, satisfying chill. That night, around 6 PM, I checked the group chat. Not a single payment had been made. Worse, I had been kicked out of the chat. They thought they had won. They didn’t realize that last night’s gathering had been their last supper as a department. The next morning, Mr. Harold appeared on a live stream. “Today, I’m headed to the most exclusive, top-tier Michelin spot in the city to sign a contract! My assistant has been on the waitlist for three months, and we still couldn’t get in!” I sat in a private booth on the second floor of The Apex Grill. The balcony overlooked the street, giving me a clear view of everything happening at the entrance below. Cynthia was walking ahead of Mr. Harold, bowing and scraping like a maître d’, completely missing the embarrassment on Mr. Harold’ face and his efforts to keep his camera angle away from her. She reached the massive wooden doors, ready to push them open. Suddenly, a hand blocked her path. “I’m sorry, ma’am. You are not permitted to enter.” Cynthia’s brow furrowed in irritation. “I paid a black-market scalper twenty thousand dollars for this reservation! Why can’t I get in?” Mr. Harold sensed the problem. He covered his phone’s mic and gritted his teeth, hissing at her. “What are you pulling, Cynthia?!” Her face flashed red, then green. She glared at the server and tried to shove past him. “Don’t you dare stop me! I paid for this reservation! Let me in!” Her aggressive behavior was broadcast live. The comment section immediately blew up with question marks. Cynthia caught a glimpse of the feed, her face a blazing crimson. Then, she snatched a thick wad of cash from her bag and tried to shove it into the server’s hand. “Is it a tip you want? Just let me in! Don’t make this difficult!” Passersby started to gather. The server politely pushed the money back. Cynthia, panicking, refused to take it, and the cash scattered across the sidewalk. A few security guards rushed over, carrying truncheons, ready to escort Cynthia away. Just as Cynthia began to shriek obscenities, the server spoke, his voice ice-cold. “I sincerely apologize.” “Based on your severe record of dining and ditching, with an outstanding balance of $29,800, you are permanently blacklisted at this establishment. I am authorized to refuse you entry.” Cynthia’s face froze. “Cynthia Ruth, for your act of grand theft and refusal to pay, I, representing the Eastbridge Hospitality Group, have formally filed a lawsuit against you and all seventeen individuals in your department.” I stepped out onto the balcony, delivering my sentence with a single, clear statement. The live stream, with hundreds of thousands of viewers, instantly went into meltdown. I glanced at the frenzied comments. Cynthia, your reckoning has only just begun.

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Five years into my tenure as Mrs. Brooks—Nolan’s perfectly sculpted, perfectly compliant wife—he found a college girl. He presented the divorce papers with the same impeccable, detached grace he used for closing a major deal. “After the settlement is final, there will be a substantial compensation package, Scarlett. Fifty million.” I choked on the tears that tasted like brine and fear. “Is there truly no going back, Nolan? If it’s the ingénue look you crave, I can… I can make myself look like her.” He frowned, a flicker of impatience—the barest tightening around his mouth—and I knew I’d annoyed the CEO, not moved the husband. Fear, cold and sudden, replaced the panic. I signed quickly. I couldn’t risk losing the payout, and besides, the clock was ticking. The secret I was carrying beneath my perfectly-fitted designer dress couldn’t be hidden for much longer. The day I moved out, his fresh-faced new girl, Cassidy, wired me a hundred thousand dollars. The other nine million will be installment-paid. Nolan had no idea. He thought he was disposing of me. In reality, I had sold him to Cassidy for ten million dollars. Priorities. A baby, a secret baby, was going to need a hefty college fund. 1 Nolan Brooks had untouchable wealth, but he was also a man of strict principle. Back in his romantic prime, he had divorced his perfectly suitable first wife for me. But he’d compensated Tatum with a string of massive projects, settlements that paid out in ten-figure profits, so much so that their business relationship never actually ended. Now, five years into my reign as the trophy wife, he had found a college student. Even for a woman with my nonexistent background, he was willing to pay out a generous eight-figure severance. I held back, my eyes brimming, refusing to touch the divorce agreement. Nolan sighed. “Take it, Scarlett. We’re still young. It’s good for you to get out there and see the world.” The tears fell then, not a hysterical flood, but a quiet, hopeless stream. Young? If he wanted young, he’d found it. Cassidy was barely twenty, a full two decades his junior. I was twenty-eight. Past my prime for a man like him. “Is there no room for maneuver, Nolan?” I pleaded, desperately. “If you like her type, I can make myself look like that.” I clung to a ghost of hope, knowing full well that nothing could shake a decision he’d already made. His brow furrowed again, a clear sign of his impatience. “I’ll add two more properties. A pied-à-terre in Manhattan, another estate in Miami. Don’t make this ugly, Scarlett.” I instantly shut my mouth, swallowing the sob. I was terrified that if I pushed any harder, he’d rescind the entire offer. I signed. Nolan and I had a prenuptial agreement that ensured I couldn’t touch his primary assets. The amount he offered—the staggering sum I’d just signed for—was more than I could earn in ten lifetimes. Not to mention the allowance he’d given me over the years, the endless jewels, the designer bags. Once the papers were signed, Nolan left for a business trip, instructing me to move out quickly. I nodded meekly, watching him go, a perfect picture of the devastated, compliant wife. It wasn’t until his sedan disappeared from the estate’s long, winding driveway that I wiped my face and instinctively rested my hand on my abdomen. It was time to go. If I didn’t leave now, the baby would betray me. And that baby? It definitely wasn’t Nolan’s. 2 Nolan Brooks was sterile. The universe had gifted him with staggering business acumen and classical, almost Roman good looks, but it had terminated his lineage. Not even a low sperm count; he was azoospermic. As a man who understood human nature intimately, he had no intention of raising another man’s child. That was why he was so incredibly generous to his women—to his ex-wife Tatum, to me, and likely to the next trophy wife, too. “Ma’am, Mr. Brooks has been gone for some time now.” The housekeeper’s voice startled me back to the present. I nodded, returning to the colossal emptiness of the house to pack. It took me three full days. I did it myself. I’d always been meticulously organized, so I had a detailed inventory printed out. I tracked down every single item: 308 designer bags, 588 pieces of fine jewelry, and a literal twenty pounds of gold bullion. The dozens of custom haute couture gowns I’d worn to events were also safely accounted for. I packed everything on the list, and then gathered up the remaining items—the shoes, the smaller accessories, even a few of Nolan’s five-figure watches that I “accidentally” swept into my pile. On the day I finally left the estate, three full moving trucks were loaded to capacity. But Nolan had returned early. Standing beside him, naturally, was the clean, innocent-looking college student, Cassidy Jones. A classic, all-American girl-next-door look, the kind of fresh beauty that promises peace and prosperity. Honestly, I could hardly blame Nolan. Even I felt a twinge of something akin to admiration. “I’m so sorry, Nolan. I didn’t know you’d be back early. I’ll leave immediately.” I lowered my gaze, letting my eyes redden. He gave a slight, almost imperceptible glance to the side, and Cassidy, ever the quick study, retreated discreetly. Nolan walked over to me and gently brushed a tear from my cheek. “If you need anything, reach out to my assistant, Chen.” I nodded frantically, knowing I would never dare. Unlike Tatum Vance, his powerful ex-wife, my secret was too big. If Nolan ever found out about the pregnancy, he would tear me apart. 3 After a month of carefully managing my pregnancy, I met Nolan at the Registry Office. As the final divorce certificate was handed over, his gaze casually flickered down to my abdomen. I tensed, my heart hammering. I’d intentionally worn the loosest-fitting dress I owned. Surely, he hadn’t noticed. “Where are you staying? Let me take you. Have you gained weight recently, Scarlett? You look… healthy. It suits you.” His voice was neutral, but even that small, three-tenths measure of concern was unbearable. I shook my head, smiling through a fresh mist of tears. “No, thank you. I wouldn’t want to trouble you.” Before he could say anything else, I rushed into the car parked nearby. It was a new car I’d bought myself—a modest sedan, maybe twenty thousand dollars. Low-key and dependable. A flash of concern—was it concern or pity?—crossed Nolan’s eyes, but he said nothing. When I was with him, I was a creature of absolute leisure, too lazy to even drive myself, preferring to recline in the passenger seat and breathe. Now, I was playing the role of the determined, self-reliant woman, ready to make my own way. The moment I arrived at my new place, Nolan wired me a check for ten million dollars. Hire a driver. My expense. We just got divorced, isn’t this inappropriate? I typed back. I kept the money. Watching the screen, I waited for him to reply. When he didn’t, I put the phone down. That man. Always swapping out the old model for the new. I changed my clothes and had my new driver—yes, I had already hired one, I just gave him a two-hour break—take me to an upscale restaurant. I needed to recoup as much as I could from Nolan. A baby’s expenses, after all, are astronomical. 4 As soon as I settled into the car, a transfer for a hundred thousand dollars arrived. It was followed by a text from Cassidy: The other nine hundred thousand will be installment-paid. I replied with a simple ‘OK’ emoji. I hesitated, then couldn’t resist offering a piece of advice. You should bring up your requests when he’s most relaxed during a massage. He usually agrees. Don’t ask for too much at once, though. Start with a few thousand, then slowly escalate. She didn’t reply. It was probably presumptuous of me. The car stopped. A valet led me to a private room where Nolan’s ex-wife, Tatum Reid, was waiting. Five years had passed, and she hadn’t changed at all. If anything, she looked younger, more radiant. Money and spite, I decided, were truly a woman’s best beauty products. I sat down across from her. “Tatum, this is for you.” I pulled out the most expensive jewelry set I owned and slid the case across the table. Tatum glanced at it, then pushed it back. “Nolan bought that for you with a flourish. I don’t want your sentimental cast-offs.” I made a show of looking troubled. It was true, everything I owned had been given to me by him. And I certainly wasn’t going to shell out several million for a new set of jewelry. Tatum gave a short, dismissive laugh. “You have such small aspirations, Scarlett. Five years with him, and you didn’t pick up a single skill for making money?” She sounded exasperated, almost angry. I pouted. “You think I didn’t try?” I threw myself into learning, honestly, but my brain was useless for it. Nolan told me which stocks to buy, and I’d still find a way to misread the ticker and lose the money. He’d funded three businesses for me in five years. The longest lasted three months. The shortest never opened its doors. Each venture cost him millions. I finally stopped letting him invest. I was afraid he’d see how incompetent I was and throw me out. Of course, in the end, I was abandoned anyway. But if you wanted to be technical about it, I was the one who abandoned him first. The moment I realized Nolan was genuinely interested in Cassidy, I knew this day was coming. I’d already made my preparations. 5 It had been a year ago. Nolan was giving a guest lecture at Cassidy’s university. He was charming, mysterious, and effortlessly cool, not to mention handsome with a flawless build. You could count the number of entrepreneurs his age with his looks and physique on one hand. The resulting chaos in the auditorium was exactly what you’d expect. Cassidy, a student council member, was the one bringing him tea and water that day. That was how she caught his eye. Nolan was a man of principle. He wouldn’t coerce her, and he certainly wouldn’t chase her while still married to me. But a person or a prize that Nolan wanted never escaped him. Despite his demanding work schedule, he managed to charm Cassidy and solidify their connection in just three hour-long meetings. “But I did learn something, Tatum,” I interjected, a sudden flicker of defiant pride rising when I thought of Cassidy. Tatum raised a surprised eyebrow, clearly unconvinced. To prove myself, I prepared to lay out my entire plan. But I only got as far as mentioning Nolan’s sterility when Tatum’s expression changed completely. “Who told you Nolan was sterile?” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. “H-he’s not?” Tatum shook her head with certainty. “But then… you were married for ten years. Why didn’t you have a child?” Her face became complicated. 6 “Because I’m infertile.” “No, but… he was sterile.” Tatum gave me a look of profound disbelief. Could a man be that noble? “Then why did you leave him, Tatum?” I asked, confused. “If he was willing to take the blame for you, why did you still divorce him?” Tatum took a sip of wine, her expression calm. “There was no love between us.” But did love truly matter? When I first got with Nolan, I didn’t love him either. My sole focus was on his assets, his looks, his power… Tatum laughed again. “Then why did you leave him?” My heart sank. I looked down, my voice quiet with feigned sorrow. “He was the one who fell for someone else.” Tatum studied me with a knowing, heavy gaze that made me want to shrink away. But she said nothing more, answered a phone call, and left. I assumed she was off to a business meeting. That night, however, I saw her on the celebrity gossip sites. A-LIST POP SENSATION SPOTTED WITH MYSTERIOUS, ELEGANT WOMAN. It was only a photo of her back, but I recognized Tatum instantly. She was wearing the same dress from dinner. Soon after, the heartthrob posted a clarification: We were together, she dumped me, and I’m chasing her again! Looking at his young, handsome face, full of vitality and the energy of youth, I had to admit he was a catch. I pulled up a photo of Nolan. He was refined and distinguished, yes, but youth was priceless. Tatum was living a great life. It explained why she had offered me a hundred thousand dollar annual salary to be her ‘yoga instructor,’ even though I couldn’t do a single pose. I did it for the money. And a year later, Nolan had noticed me. 7 A thought sparked in my mind, and I texted Tatum. Is the gossip true? You’re really throwing away that ‘It Boy’ darling? She took a while to reply. In the meantime, I was scrolling through the A-Lister’s videos. He’d burst onto the scene five years ago, right around the time Tatum and Nolan got divorced. It suggested that Tatum was the source of his funding and network. No wonder he was so reluctant to let her go. If I were him, I’d be reluctant, too. What? Do you have your eye on him? she wrote back. I clutched my chest, unable to contain the flutter of excitement. He’s actually not bad. Could you… sell him to me? I don’t have much cash, but I can offer you a hundred thousand dollars. You just need to set up the introduction. I’ll handle the rest. I looked down at myself. Nolan had kept me well-fed for five years. But since we separated, I found myself restless, thinking about him at night. I needed a distraction. I needed a replacement. Maybe a man who was sweeter, more attentive, would help me forget Nolan. Tatum was typing for a long time, then the phone rang. I snatched it up instantly. “Sister, please. You don’t want him, just sell him to me. A hundred grand is nothing to you, but I have a baby to raise, I can’t go higher. Just do me this favor. I desperately need someone with better looks and a better body than Nolan, you see…” “What child are you raising, Scarlett?” Nolan’s voice. Sudden, terrifying. I yelped and threw the phone across the room.

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My daughter, Delilah, complained for the ninth time that the fever medicine I’d mixed wasn’t as sweet as Rhett’s, but this time, I didn’t get angry. I simply poured the full bowl down the sink and called Rhett. “Sorry, but Delilah insists on you coming over. She won’t take her medicine otherwise. I apologize for the trouble.” Delilah stared at me, her eyes wide with surprise, as if she expected me to suddenly throw a fit. Rhett walked in with his wife, Blair, close behind. Blair immediately offered a strained excuse. “We just happened to bump into each other downstairs…” I ignored the faint, star-like love bites scattered across the base of her neck and smiled as I listened to Rhett sweet-talk Delilah into swallowing the syrupy medicine. Just before they left, Rhett paused and asked me, his voice carefully casual, “Nolan, my family is pressuring me hard about marriage. Would you mind if I borrowed Blair for a weekend?” He claimed it was just an act—a temporary show—and promised to return her completely intact. 1 As they both held their breath, waiting for my outburst, I gave Delilah a gentle push toward him. “Take her, too. A family of three is much more convincing.” The color drained from Blair’s face. She told me if I didn’t want to ‘lend’ her out, there was no need for the passive-aggressive tone. I sighed. “I’m being serious. Delilah loves your cooking, Rhett. And no, I’m not angry.” “Nolan, my family pressure is just too much, and since you’re an orphan anyway, you don’t have to deal with—” Blair sharply elbowed Rhett before he could finish the crass sentence. Her shocked gaze fixed on me. “You really don’t care? You’re giving your wife and daughter to another man? Nolan, I never realized you were this… generous.” The man Blair married—the old Nolan—had been consumed by her. I used to hate it if she came home smelling of another man’s cologne, so she’d fired her male assistants. When I was sick, she’d stay by my side 24/7, worried I’d be paranoid or suspicious. In the eyes of the world, she was the devoted, perfect wife. But that devotion had been chipped away as Delilah grew older. Our daughter was fragile, constantly battling colds and infections, and I’d devoted myself to her care. Blair had complained countless times that we had no life together, once joking that she wished she could stuff Delilah back into her womb. I always reassured her, until that night. Delilah, in a fit of pique, had screamed, “I never want to eat Dad’s cooking again! I want Uncle Rhett’s!” It was then I realized Blair had a new assistant, and he had been around for two years. I’d exploded in a furious, hysterical tirade. Delilah had pointed her tiny finger at me and called me a controlling maniac, demanding that Uncle Rhett be her real father. That was the first time I ever struck her. The sound of the slap was sharp and cold. I escalated the situation, forcing Blair to fire Rhett. We remained in a tense cold war until my parents begged me to apologize to Blair. That’s when I realized the leverage she had—our family business depended on the contracts Blair’s corporation provided. I had no choice but to bow my head. Then, my parents died suddenly in a house fire. My entire world collapsed. I thought my small family—Blair and Delilah—was my final anchor, but it had already been perforated with a thousand holes. I raised my eyes—calm, utterly flat—and offered an explanation for Blair’s past affair. “He was just your employee. You had a professional relationship. I didn’t think anything of it. A superior taking care of a subordinate is perfectly normal.” “But…” Blair wanted to argue, but Rhett physically ushered her out the door, taking the feverish, sleepy Delilah with him. My daughter was beaming as she left, her illness seemingly forgotten. “I always wanted to spend New Year’s Eve with Uncle Rhett! Dad is just so boring and dull.” I glanced at the framed family photo on the side table, then swept it—all of them—into the trash. After cleaning up, I called Professor Hale. “I’ve decided to restart the research group, Master.” “Nolan, that’s fantastic!” My mentor was overjoyed, explaining that the antidepressant drug trials had ground to a halt after I’d quit. I remembered who I was before I married Blair: a promising medical student. But when I’d confronted her about Rhett, she’d pointed a finger at me and sneered, “You’ve been a house-husband for so long, you think everyone has your free time. Rhett is actually building something. Don’t slander him.” It was ironic. She was the one who had cried and begged me for a chance to take care of me, financially. Every memory now felt like a needle pressed into my heart. “I’m filing for divorce,” I said into the phone. “After this, I’m dedicating myself entirely to the lab.” “Why the sudden change? Well… that’s good, I suppose. I’ll be waiting for you, son.” 2 The moment Rhett ‘borrowed’ Blair and Delilah, he began a relentless campaign of romantic posts on social media. He shared a photo of his hand intertwined with Blair’s, a visit to a cheesy, famous lovers’ retreat where they’d hung up an elaborate, color-coded ‘fate lock,’ and then a picture of Blair at his family’s home, showing off her generosity. She’d given a Rolex or Patek Philippe to every relative. Delilah went a step further, kneeling to greet his parents, calling them Grandma and Grandpa. I was scrolling past the feed when Rhett flooded my private messages: Nolan, how long has it been since you and Blair did it? She says seeing that ugly, hideous scar on your lower back makes her sick. I’m the one she’s spiritually and physically connected to, not you, the useless house-husband. I had your fortune read. You’re a total walking curse. You killed your own parents, and now you’re going to drag down Delilah and Blair, too. Isn’t that right? He followed up with a dozen explicit photos, Blair’s face clearly visible in several of them. I almost thanked him for the first-hand evidence. I ignored Rhett entirely and focused on the paperwork required to restart my research. On the drive back from Professor Hale’s lab, there was a sudden thud. An oncoming car swerved wildly and collided with mine. I instinctively wrenched the wheel, and my head slammed hard against the window. Just before I blacked out, I heard my phone vibrating. It was a text from Blair. Sweetie, Happy New Year. So sorry I couldn’t make it back for midnight. Rhett gets terrible motion sickness, so I’m staying one more night to help him. I woke up in the hospital. My leg was badly sprained and scraped, but nothing was broken. I’d need time to heal. Blair rushed in late that night, her eyes red, but she hadn’t even bothered to change out of the matching sweater she’d been wearing with Rhett. The overwhelming scent of his cologne filled the sterile room. “Why didn’t you call me when you were hurt?” she demanded. “Nolan, I’m your wife!” She was frantic, scanning me from head to toe, and only seemed to relax when she was certain I wasn’t critically injured. Her panic was so genuine for a split second that I almost believed the affair was a delusion. “What a horrible start to the new year, getting into a wreck,” she said, her voice dropping to a near-whisper. “Here, Rhett got you a good luck charm.” Blair extended her hand, and I sharply knocked the charm away. “I don’t need it.” “Nolan, Rhett was just being kind. Don’t read too much into it.” “I’m an agnostic,” I said, my voice cold and unfamiliar even to my own ears. “It has nothing to do with Rhett.” Blair frowned, ready to argue, when her phone rang. It was Rhett’s customized ringtone—a sickeningly sweet audio clip he’d recorded. She immediately hung up, but the calls began to flood in like a relentless, frantic attack. “You should take it,” I offered, preempting her excuse. “Could be something urgent at the company.” Blair quickly retreated to the hallway. I could hear Rhett’s low, anxious voice on the other end. “Blair, what do I do? I have severe anemia! I’m so scared. Can you please come stay with me?” Blair’s body stiffened. “I understand,” she whispered. “I’ll be right there.” She hurried back into the room, telling me to get some rest. She insisted it was urgent business… “A project issue, Nolan. I can’t trust anyone else to handle it.” “Go,” I told her. I leaned back against the pillows, offering no protest, no plea, no reason for her to stay. Blair, looking horribly guilty, promised she’d rush back as soon as she could. 3 During the days I spent recovering, Blair made a show of devotion. She had my favorite meals prepared by a nutritionist and sent fresh flower arrangements daily, with cards that rotated between syrupy declarations of love and apologies. The nurses raved about what a perfect wife she was—beautiful and so doting. But I knew she was spending most of her time accompanying Rhett to his barrage of medical tests. The man’s taunting texts continued: Blair says she only loves me, Nolan. Don’t you get it? You should have been gone a long time ago. My place is here, as Blair’s husband. Delilah even asked us to have a baby brother for her. Nolan, living a life like yours is truly a failure! I finally blocked Rhett, and as I was heading downstairs for a physical therapy session, I saw Blair hurrying in, looking concerned. She said she’d come to take me home and asked if I knew what day it was. I froze, instinctively pulling away from her touch. “What?” “Delilah’s birthday. And my day of suffering,” she said, forcing a little laugh. “Hospital stay must have muddled your head. You forgot.” She claimed I was normally so dedicated, usually planning the party for months. She also mentioned that Delilah was being good: “She promised not to run off and is waiting at home to celebrate with you.” I didn’t reply. As I settled into the passenger seat, I spotted a tacky, personalized sign that read ‘Rhett’s Ride’ and a branded, blue-bear keychain hanging from the rearview mirror. Blair quickly snatched them down. “The guy is forgetful. Left them in my car.” “Uh-huh.” We barely spoke on the drive. As we pulled into the driveway, Blair reached out to steady me, but her assistant rushed up. “Bad news, Ms. Sutton. Rhett was pushed down a flight of stairs. Massive hemorrhaging. His life is critical.” “How could that happen?” Blair’s face went white. She spun around and leveled a terrifying look at me. “It was you, wasn’t it? All that show of being so mature and generous. I thought you were finally over being jealous of Rhett, but you’re still a monster.” I had no idea what she was talking about, but Blair was convinced I’d hired someone to hurt him. She reminded me how I’d shown up at the company before, raving like a lunatic, calling them a cheating whore and a parasitic bastard. “I’ve been trying to make things right with you, Nolan, and this is what you do? When did you become so malicious?” Her eyes were blazing red as she told me to pray Rhett lived. Otherwise, she’d make me pay. “I had nothing to do with it,” I snarled. “If you don’t believe me, call the police!” She grit her teeth. “Don’t think I won’t. Don’t push me into being the one who sends you to prison.” Blair scrambled away to the hospital. Watching her retreating back, I called my attorney and instructed him to draft the divorce papers. Some things, once dirtied, just need to be thrown out. When you find one cockroach in the kitchen, the truth is, the entire foundation is already infested. I spent the whole night alone. Rhett was in surgery. Blair sent me several texts, telling me Delilah had suffered a sudden cardiac episode after getting scared on a roller coaster. She was still hospitalized and screaming for her father. “She keeps calling out for Dad. You’re her biological father. Who else is going to go to her?” Now she remembers me. I’d repeatedly warned them not to take Delilah to the amusement park. My protective nature wasn’t a perverse need for control; it was a desperate attempt to shield a brittle child I couldn’t afford to lose. “Rhett was being wheeled into surgery and all he could do was worry about Delilah. And yet, you, her own father…” “Get the papers ready,” I told the attorney. “I want a divorce. I’m no longer responsible for your family of three.” A sudden silence fell on the line. Then, Blair’s voice roared: “You want a divorce? Dream on!” 4 Blair went ballistic. She had her people surround the house, keeping me trapped inside. She demanded I stay put and pray with her that Rhett survived the surgery. “Ma’am, bad news. We have a blood shortage. Mr. Rhett is in desperate need…” “Take him.” Blair glared at me with icy indifference. She said Rhett and I shared the same, rare blood type. I stood frozen, refusing her demand. Her cold eyes hardened. “Don’t force my hand, Nolan.” “Don’t touch me, Blair. You disgusting, cheating fraud!” She grabbed my throat, her grip painfully tight, and claimed I owed this to Rhett. That I was the one who put him in that hospital bed. “It’s just a little blood, Nolan. After this, I promise I won’t let Rhett come near you again.” “Be a good boy. Don’t make a scene.” Blair was pretending to coddle me, but it was a final ultimatum. Her staff pinned me down and dragged me to the hospital. The cold needle pierced my vein, and I watched my blood flow away from me. “That’s 400 CCs, Ma’am. Mr. Nolan’s vitals are dropping. We should stop.” “Keep going. Rhett still needs more. Nolan, it’s just a little blood. I’ll compensate you later. Be a good boy.” Blair insisted Rhett needed more, and that they shouldn’t stop. I was dizzy, verging on collapse. As my vision tunneled, I saw the true Blair: ruthless, cruel, and without a shred of humanity. Just before I fainted, I heard the good news being shouted from the operating room. Rhett was stable. “Thank God! Rhett is going to be okay!” “Where’s Uncle Rhett?” Delilah’s small figure stumbled through the door. She had only just been cleared from the ICU, but her first thought was for Rhett. My child, the one I’d risked everything to raise, didn’t even glance at me. She rushed past, desperate to see Rhett. Tears streamed down my face. Though I had accepted their cruelty long ago, the reality of it still tore my heart apart. I was the victim, yet I was the one paying the price. Boom. My world imploded. I could only hear Rhett’s whiny, tearful voice, and Blair’s ecstatic reassurance. “I thought I’d never see you again, Blair.” “I’m here.” “I’m here too, Uncle Rhett.” “Is that Nolan? He looks unconscious. Is he alright?” “He deserves a lesson,” Blair snapped. “There’s a limit to jealousy. He shouldn’t have hurt you like that…” Thump. Thump. My world was reduced to the heavy, staggering sound of my own heartbeat. Am I dying? Just as I completely lost consciousness, a strong arm lifted me.

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My twin sister, Stella, was live on national television, her eyes wet with what looked like genuine, heartbreaking tears. She was facing the camera, accusing our mother of “literally chaining her to an oak tree like a dog” during our childhood, all while letting me “run wild.” The comments section exploded. The entire internet was pouring sympathy onto her, vilifying me as the spoiled, privileged golden child. I scoffed. “We chained you to the tree, Si, because if we didn’t, you were going to try and swim in the septic tank again.” Her neck stiffened in indignation. “Fine, but what about elementary school? Mom spanked me in front of the whole class, then bought you a Snickers bar? That wasn’t for my own good, was it?” I gave her a flat look. “That was because you put plant food in my mashed potatoes, claiming you wanted to help me ‘grow taller.’ If my teacher hadn’t seen the bag, I would’ve aged out of the gene pool at six!” Suddenly, the furious, pity-filled scrolling in the comments section stopped. The online mob went silent. [Wait… the sister didn’t pull a full ‘Medea’ on her?] 1 I was slamming my head against my desk, desperately trying to finish a graphic novel deadline, when my phone buzzed. It was Stella. “Sis.” That word. She usually calls me Roxanne or Ro. She only uses “Sis” when she’s either completely wrecked the car or is about to cash in a major favor. The tip of my stylus didn’t stop moving on the screen. “Spit it out, Stella. I’m on a deadline.” She chuckled nervously. “I need to use one of the I.O.U. cards.” Years ago, after a particularly violent sibling feud, I’d scribbled out three “One Favor Owed” coupons to placate her. I played dumb. “Didn’t you use those up trying to get me to clean your room that one summer?” “Bull! One left!” Her voice shot up an octave. “Did it? I don’t recall.” “Yes, you do! It says ‘Must attend one public event of my choosing.’ You have to come on this reality show with me.” “Absolutely not,” I said, without even thinking. There was no way I was going to be a prop in some forced-drama reality show. I’d rather face my deadline alone. Stella squealed. “But I used the I.O.U.! You have to honor it, you human-sized block of ice!” “Fine. What do you want?” “It’s a mother-daughter bonding retreat. You and Mom, me and you, the whole shebang. Three pairs.” “I’m not going,” I repeated. A silence stretched across the line. Then, Stella deployed the nuclear option. “Mom said if you don’t go, you’re not allowed to pull all-nighters in the den anymore. Also, those front-row tickets for The Void Hearts? The ones you’ve been obsessed with for six months? I managed to score two. If you ditch me, I’m giving them to Gary next door.” My stylus clattered onto the desk. The temptation was too much. 2 Stella and I hauled our luggage into the rental house. The other two pairs of guests were already in the living room, staring at each other in awkward silence. Stella, the professional host, thrives on this. She dumped her bags and immediately took the lead. “Hey everyone! I’m Stella, and I host a morning talk show.” I trailed in after her, doing my best impression of a person who understands social interaction. “I’m Roxanne, Stella’s twin, and I’m a comic artist.” The comments feed on the live stream went wild. [Wait, Stella has a twin sister?] [Genetics are wild. They look identical, but the vibe is completely different.] [The one in the green sundress is the happy one; the one in the black jacket looks like she’s ready for a funeral.] The other guests introduced themselves. First, there was Piper, a soft-spoken indie folk singer, with her mother, Victoria. Then, there was Harper, a massively popular K-pop-style idol, and her mother, Patrice. When it was Harper’s turn, Stella’s interviewer instinct kicked in. She leaned forward. “Harper, you were a high-achieving NYU grad working at a major tech firm. What made you walk away from all that stability to enter the chaotic world of pop stardom?” It was a question everyone was curious about. Harper glanced at her mother, Patrice, and her voice was dangerously flat. “Being an idol is the only effective way to delay an engagement.” The livestream comments exploded again. [I worship this woman. She is a genius.] [So the no-dating clause is actually an escape clause? I see the light!] [The most effective anti-marriage strategy ever invented.] 3 Patrice clearly didn’t get it. She stared at Harper, utterly baffled. “What on earth does being a celebrity have to do with getting married?” I took pity on her and gave a quick, basic explanation. “Ma’am, in the idol world, if a star dates, it’s considered an ‘unacceptable breach of contract.’ They have to pay massive penalties and often retire.” Patrice whirled on Harper, her eyes blazing. “Is that true?” Harper nodded, her eyes placid as a stagnant pond. “I told you years ago, I don’t want to get married. You just never listened.” Patrice instantly became a furious, wounded thing. “What’s so bad about marriage? That nice young man’s family owns a factory, they’re offering us two hundred and fifty thousand dollars cash, and he bought you a new car! The man is stable and honest; you’d be the lady of the house! What more are you looking for?” “You’re an idiot who’s read too many books! I wish I’d never let you go to that pretentious university!” Harper’s hands, resting on her knees, clenched into tight fists until her knuckles were white. The cool, distant composure on her face dissolved, replaced by a devastating despair. She looked like she might shatter. The comments section filled with pure outrage. [Is this woman seriously selling her daughter?] [Harper makes millions. What is $250k to her? This is insane.] [This isn’t pressure to marry; it’s a social execution.] When Harper didn’t respond, Patrice’s voice grew louder and more choked with tears. “If you don’t marry him, do you know what the neighbors say about me? Stop being so selfish!” “You’re quitting this show, and you’re coming home to meet him!” Harper finally snapped. She shot up, her eyes like chips of ice. “Mom, why can’t you accept that some people in this world simply don’t need a husband? Or a marriage?” Patrice looked thunderstruck, her eyes wide. “Are you a monster? You need a doctor!” The living room fell into a deathly silence. A dozen cameras were focused entirely on Patrice’s distorted face. Her chest heaved. The words spilling out of her mouth were poisonous. “A woman who doesn’t marry isn’t a woman! When you get old, you’ll die alone in your apartment, and no one will even know until you start to smell!” The entire scene felt like a massive emotional chokehold. [Someone help Harper! I’d have lost it already.] [How is being asexual or simply single ‘being a monster’? This mother is terrifying.] [She has money. She can afford a retirement home and full-time care. A man isn’t the only solution!] Watching the comments, a familiar ache settled in my chest. It was the tight grip of inherited obligation, the kind of emotional bondage that’s universal but feels particularly inescapable when the words are dripping with ‘for your own good.’ Harper couldn’t hate her, and she had no energy left to love her. 4 As the situation spiraled toward complete catastrophe, the production assistant quickly rushed in the task cards, trying desperately to change the subject. The first segment: “Open Up Your Heart.” Harper offered a self-deprecating smile. “My heart’s issue is pretty public now. It’s how to avoid an engagement.” We were right back where we started. Patrice smacked her daughter on the back, hard. It sounded painful. “I’m doing this for you! I won’t die happy if you don’t marry!” Harper opened her mouth, but nothing came out. She just closed her eyes in sheer exhaustion. My phone vibrated. Stella had texted me: [Sis, I know why they hired me.] I texted back: [Because you were cheap?] Stella: [Shut up! Because only I can save this train wreck!] She had a point. The atmosphere was at absolute zero. If she didn’t intervene, the show was over. Stella flipped her phone over, took a long, exaggerated breath, and let out an audible sigh. It was loud in the quiet room. Everyone looked at her. Her eyes were slightly red, her voice raw. “Actually, when we were kids, my sister was definitely Mom’s favorite.” “She got to run free. Me? Mom literally chained me to a tree in the backyard because she didn’t trust me.” She sniffled dramatically. She looked utterly wounded. The living room fell silent. The guests exchanged shocked, horrified glances. The comments instantly boiled over. [OMG? That’s abuse!] [Stella seems so outgoing, but her childhood was that bad?] [These parents should have their kids taken away!] [Chained to a tree? That’s how you treat a dog!] Stella’s melodramatic confession had instantly redirected the room’s hostile energy into pity for her. I watched her Oscar-worthy performance and couldn’t help but roll my eyes. The story was technically true, but her framing was a complete distortion. I made a disgusted sound. “You’re a performance artist, Si. You left out the context.” “You were borderline feral. You once snuck out and were baptized in a neighbor’s inflatable pool filled with stagnant rainwater. Mom was afraid you’d drown or infect yourself, so she put you on a leash.” Stella’s face went blank. “…Huh?” The comments section was a flurry of question marks. [???] [That twist came faster than a hurricane.] [LOL, so it was a behavioral safety measure.] [Okay, that makes sense. Security first.] [But why only Stella? Still feels like favoritism.] 5 Stella, clearly frustrated, quickly moved to her second big revelation. “What about the elementary school thing? Mom spanked me in front of the whole class, then bought you a candy bar. That’s pure favoritism, Roxanne!” I gave her a withering look, like I was addressing an idiot child. “That was because you resented me for being shorter, so you secretly mixed liquid plant food into my mashed potatoes. If my teacher hadn’t caught you, I almost bought the farm at six.” Stella was speechless. Now, even the pitying viewers were silent. [I take back every ounce of sympathy.] [Stella was a menace as a child, holy cow.] [Plant food in food? What kind of twisted logic is that?] [The spanking was justified. Maybe even too lenient.] The other guests burst out laughing. The tense, stifling atmosphere was instantly washed away by the sheer absurdity of our childhood antics. I saw the flush creep up Stella’s neck, and I couldn’t help but let a slight smile touch my lips. Stella glared at me, completely unhinged. “Roxanne! You heartless monster! I dare you to bring up the stupid things you did as a kid!”

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On the first of every month, my mother, Carol Evans, would review my performance from the previous four weeks before transferring my allowance. It wasn’t money; it was a contract. “A mandatory good-morning or good-night text to your father and me earns you twenty dollars,” her voice, sharp and precise, cut through the phone line. “But you only managed ten days last month, which means two hundred dollars.” I gripped the phone, standing in the cramped kitchen of my off-campus apartment in Seattle. “And the three-hundred-dollar ‘Excellence’ bonus is completely gone, of course. Full attendance, full communication, full grades. You know the rules.” My jaw was tight. “Add that to your ‘base stipend’ of one hundred and fifty, and this month’s grand total is three hundred and fifty dollars.” Three hundred and fifty. The number felt like a physical slap. “You’ll email me a written explanation for your poor performance. A signed, five-hundred-word apology and plan. When I deem it acceptable, I’ll transfer the funds.” My voice, when I finally spoke, was thin with panic. “Mom, I was taking my finals. I had to be at the library by five every morning just to grab a decent study spot. That’s why I missed those evening calls.” Tears were already stinging my eyes, a deep, hot shame mixing with despair. “The Greyhound ticket home to Pine Grove, Idaho, for Spring Break is nearly six hundred dollars. Three hundred and fifty isn’t enough. Mom, please, couldn’t we just—” She cut me off, her tone chillingly decisive. “The allowance contract, Lara, was designed specifically for you. It’s to help you break this entitlement and this deeply ingrained habit of expecting something for nothing. When will you understand my intentions?” The line went dead with a clipped snap. Just as the wall of helplessness was about to crush me, a flash of bright, coppery-blond hair appeared in the common area of the student union. He looked entirely wrong, like a cheap caricature of a bad boy. A guy named Mitch. He offered to buy my bus ticket. If I would just go with him. 1 I lowered my gaze, shame burning my cheeks. “I… I can’t pay you back.” Mitch and the two guys flanking him exchanged a look, the kind of dismissive, condescending glance people give a lost kid. “No repayment needed, sweetheart,” Mitch drawled, a cheap smile splitting his face. “Just have dinner with us. Do a little celebrating. I’ll give you the cash for the ticket right away.” A meal. That’s all it took to get the money to go home. The thought was intoxicating. I had to get home. Just last week, Grandma Betty had called me from the corner store in Pine Grove, using Mrs. Henderson’s landline. She’d made a point of saying she’d fluffed up my quilt with the softest, newest cotton. She’d also spent an entire afternoon sun-drying my favorite pecan brittle in the yard. Take it all back to Seattle, she’d said. Share it with your professors and classmates, ask them to keep an eye on you. Grandma Betty raised me. She was seventy-eight. And last year, she’d been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. Every visit now was a gift—a precious, finite moment we wouldn’t get back. A thousand miles away, she was waiting. Home was waiting. I squeezed the pitiful $350 in my pocket, the crumpled bills slick with the sweat of my anxiety. I took a deep, shaky breath, and then, I nodded at Mitch. They took me to a dingy, off-the-grid rental house a few blocks from the bus station. Mitch gestured to a worn kitchen table where six bottles of cheap American beer were lined up. He slapped six hundred-dollar bills down next to them. “One hundred bucks a bottle, little girl. Finish all six, and your bus ticket is yours.” I stared at the cash. My grandmother’s face—wreathed in wrinkles, her eyes full of nothing but unconditional love—floated in my vision. You’re too thin, sweetie, she’d say, her hand stroking my cheek. Didn’t you eat at school? Grandma’s gonna cook you something good. The tears came again, blurring the harsh lines of the room. I quickly wiped them away, giving myself a silent, desperate pep talk. You can do this, Lara. Mom always taught me that if you’re a small-town kid, you have to work twice as hard and pay twice the price for what you want. This was just the price. Six bottles of beer, and I’d be home. It was nothing. I grabbed the nearest bottle, twisted the cap off, and began to chug. I had never had alcohol before. It hit me like a physical blow, choking me, sending me into a fit of violent coughing. The men around me cheered and whistled, their eyes predatory, sweeping over my body with a sickening, vulgar familiarity. The air suddenly turned cold, and a terrifying, primal alarm screamed in my head. I muttered something about needing the bathroom, scrambling to lock the flimsy door behind me. I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed my mother’s number. She has to pick up. She has to. It rang. Once. Twice. Then, a click. “Mom, help—” Her voice, loud and furious, cut me off before I could finish the word. “Lara Evans, I am so utterly disappointed in you!” “You always try to find a loophole. Always trying to break the system and cheat the rules. This need to get ahead without putting in the work is a moral failing!” Her breath hitched with manufactured outrage. “I am going to beat this disgusting entitlement out of you once and for all!” She slammed the phone down. I frantically tried to call her back, but the line went straight to voicemail. The flimsy bathroom door exploded inward. Mitch’s face was a mask of cold fury, and his hand clamped around my arm, yanking me out into the center of the room. 2 He was too strong. I couldn’t break free. Fear paralyzed me, a cold shock that told me it was already too late to run. I struggled, screaming and begging, but my pleas vanished into the indifferent air. They were like hunters with their prey, forcing the beer down my throat, bottle after bottle. My vision swam, and the world dissolved into an endless, terrifying dark. I slipped into a nightmare where I was a blood-soaked lamb, cornered by a pack of wolves, helpless and waiting for the inevitable slaughter. The next time I woke, I was on a bus heading home. I blinked, dazed, then a wave of pure, thrilling excitement washed over me. I was on my way. I would see Grandma Betty soon. But something was wrong. When the ticket attendant walked down the aisle, verifying each passenger, she passed right through me, as if I were thin air. Once off the bus, I ran, my feet barely touching the ground. I had to get to her. When I reached the edge of the village, I saw her immediately. Grandma Betty, frail and small, leaning on her old wooden cane, standing alone by the granite millstone at the town square. She was staring fixedly down the road where my bus should have come from. A neighbor, Mrs. Henderson, walked by and gently touched her shoulder. “Betty, it’s freezing out here. You really should go inside.” Grandma Betty shook her head stubbornly, a hopeful, heartbreaking smile on her face. She kept muttering, “Just a little longer. She’ll be here any minute.” I sprinted toward her, shouting, “Grandma! I’m home! I’m right here!” I threw my arms out, ready to fold myself into her familiar embrace. My hands passed right through her body. No resistance. Nothing. I stopped dead. I’m dead. I had died in that rotten rental house, murdered for a six-hundred-dollar bus ticket. I died during the first Spring Break of my freshman year of college. Grandma Betty waited until the sun had completely vanished below the horizon, and the light in her eyes faded, inch by painful inch. Shoulders slumped in disappointment, she slowly began the walk back home, her figure deeply bowed. The old yellow Labrador, Max, who followed her everywhere, bounded up to me, whining excitedly, nudging my leg with his head. He could see me. I followed Grandma Betty back to the house. A brand-new, sleek SUV was parked in the yard. My parents, Carol and Robert, were cheerfully unloading bags and boxes of expensive Christmas treats and gifts, their faces flushed with good cheer. Since when could we afford a car like that? Mom had been complaining all year that money was tight, that I needed to scrimp and save and stop asking for transfers. My little brother, Toby, now seven, skipped out of the car and ran to Grandma Betty. “Grandma, where’s Lara? Why isn’t she home yet?” he asked. “I wanted her to read me that storybook.” Grandma Betty gently touched his head. “The bus tickets must have been hard to get, honey. She probably had to book for tomorrow.” At that, Mom—Carol—slammed the heavy suitcase she was holding onto the gravel drive. “That spiteful little brat!” she shrieked. “She’s trying to punish me! Just because I docked her pathetic allowance, she refuses to come home!” “She can stay gone for all I care! I’ll pretend I never had a daughter!” Her face was mottled with rage. “She spends her father’s and my hard-earned money and can’t even manage a polite phone call every day. An ungrateful little wretch!” I stood right in front of her, waving my hands, frantic. “Mom, no! I’m not spiteful! I didn’t refuse to come home! I’m here! You just can’t see me!” “I’m not ungrateful! I tried so hard! I got the highest GPA in my entire major last semester!” But no matter how loudly I screamed or how wildly I waved, they couldn’t hear me. They couldn’t see me. 3 Grandma Betty went inside, and I followed, leaning gently against her back, just as I used to when I was little. I inhaled the familiar, comforting scent of old cotton and lavender, wishing the moment would never end. She put on her reading glasses and pulled a battered wooden box from under her bed. She opened it carefully, revealing three small bundles wrapped in faded floral cloth. She opened the first one. Inside was a passbook. “This is my life savings,” she murmured, a gentle smile lifting the corners of her mouth. “Fifty thousand dollars. I’m saving it for my Lara. For her wedding. A girl needs money of her own so she can stand tall and never be looked down on by her in-laws.” She had terminal cancer and wouldn’t even buy her own medicine, but she was hoarding every penny for me. My eyes were wet. So ghosts can cry. She unwrapped the second cloth. Two heavy, golden bracelets glittered inside. She’d never worn them, but they were polished until they shone. Grandma Betty fell silent, lost in a memory. “These were my mother’s, given to me on my wedding day. They are the most precious things I own.” She sighed, a deep, weary sound. “Oh, I just wish I could hold on a little longer. Wait for my little girl’s wedding day so I can put them on her myself.” I was sobbing now, a tearing, ragged sound no one could hear. “Grandma, I’m so sorry! I can’t do that! I can’t wait!” Finally, she opened the third bundle. Inside was a neatly folded piece of paper—the deed to the old property. A thread of guilt entered her voice. “Your parents already bought Toby a big house in the city, and he’s only five.” (She didn’t know he was seven). “I’m just a foolish old woman, I can’t buy you a mansion. But this old farmhouse… it will always be here to shelter you.” “If you ever get hurt out there, you come home to your own place. And if you miss me, you go to my grave on the east side of the cemetery and tell me about it. I promise you, I will hear you.” I flung myself at her, screaming the truth. I’m dead! Use this money for your treatment! Forget me! Don’t worry about me! Live! But my cries were silenced by the veil between worlds. I could only watch, paralyzed, as she lovingly tucked the wooden box back under the bed, her eyes full of bright, impossible hope. At dinner, Carol prepared a massive feast. Grandma Betty sat at the table, taking only a few small bites. She kept glancing at the door, her face a heartbreaking mixture of hope and anxiety. Robert, my father, finally broke the strained silence. “Maybe we should just call her, Carol.” My mother instantly slammed her chopsticks down. Her face darkened. “Call her what? You’re both spoiling her rotten! Do you think I don’t know how to raise my own daughter?” “I’m telling you now, no one is calling her today. She needs to reflect. We can’t enable her selfish, ungrateful behavior!” Grandma Betty, already frail, was so startled by the sudden violence that she began to cough uncontrollably. Robert rushed to pat her back. Carol spoke to Grandma Betty with a brittle, forced firmness. “Mom, I have to say this. Lara is undisciplined because of how you’ve raised her. My allowance system is good for her.” “It’s teaching her the rules of the working world before she enters it. She needs to understand that you pay the price before you get the reward! No handouts!” “As her grandmother, your indulgence isn’t love, it’s a handicap. She’ll be eaten alive by the real world if she doesn’t learn boundaries!” Grandma Betty was a meek, gentle soul who had never raised her voice in her life, much less argued with her son and daughter-in-law. Her lips trembled as she tried to argue, but the words wouldn’t come. She just sat there, her eyes welling up with tears, looking like a helpless child. 4 After a long, painful silence, Grandma Betty finally found her resolve. “If you two won’t call my girl, I will.” “If you won’t let her come home, I will!” She struggled to her feet, leaning heavily on her cane. My mother was instantly livid. She pointed a trembling finger at Grandma Betty’s back. “See! This is exactly how you’ve spoiled Lara! She’ll never be able to adapt to a tough environment! She’ll never be successful!” Driven by a blinding, self-righteous fury, Carol stormed toward my old bedroom—the room Grandma Betty had carefully prepared for my return. A knot of dread tightened in my ethereal chest, and I followed her in. I watched as Mom violently yanked my brand-new, fresh-smelling quilt off the bed and threw it onto the dusty floor. She stomped on it twice, her mouth twisted in a snarl. “She wants to cross me? Fine! She won’t sleep under this! She can stay out in the cold!” Then, she turned her attention to the wall. It was covered in ribbons, plaques, and awards—my achievements from elementary school all the way through high school. They were my pride, and Grandma Betty’s joy. Carol began to rip them off the wall, tearing them into small, vicious shreds. “What good are these stupid papers? Can they buy her food? Can they teach her respect?” she screamed. “Ungrateful, entitled! All the awards in the world don’t change the fact that she’s a deadbeat! A nothing!” I looked at the fragments of my hard-won honors scattered on the floor and screamed at her, a silent, raging plea. “Mom, I’m not spoiled! I worked so hard!” “I was hauling buckets of water to help Grandma water the garden when I was five!” “I cooked, I did the laundry, I took care of Grandma when she was sick. I knew you struggled for money; I never complained.” “Grandma and I lived on welfare and food stamps. I was careful with every single penny. I never wasted a thing!” I pointed to the closet, begging her to open it. Every garment inside was old, mended, patched. If she wouldn’t believe me, she could ask the neighbors, the teachers. Everyone knew I was kind, devoted, and a hard worker. Grandma Betty always told me that my parents loved me, but they were just too busy building their lives. I worked myself to exhaustion, studied until I was numb, and tried to be the perfect, dutiful daughter so I wouldn’t be a burden, so they would finally like me. Just then, a hurried commotion and the sound of heavy boots came from the doorway. A relaxed smile spread across Robert’s face. “See, Carol? I told you. She came back. The kid caved.” Mom instantly straightened, her spine rigid with smug vindication. The door burst open, and Mayor Thompson, the head of our village council, stumbled in, his face ghostly. Carol saw him and assumed I’d sent him to mediate. She crossed her arms, a cold, unyielding mask settling on her face. “Uncle Thompson, did Lara send you to talk us down? Well, you can tell her no. She made a mistake, and she needs to face the consequences.” “You tell her to write that five-thousand-word letter of apology and read it out loud in the town square. Otherwise, she is not setting foot in this house!” The Mayor’s jaw dropped. He was frantic, shaking his head and waving his arms. Grandma Betty was looking past him, desperate. “Where is my girl, Thompson? Tell me, where is she?” The Mayor looked at Carol’s self-satisfied face, and his own face crumpled. He stomped his foot and let out a tortured cry. “There’s been a tragedy! You blind, foolish parents! How could you push your child to this point?”

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After the engagement, my fiancée arranged for a child to be sent to me from overseas. The delivery came with an email, too: “Ben, I was so bored overseas, and oops, I made a baby with Noah Becker. Since you’ve been so eager to lick my boots for years, consider this your reward.” “I’m leaving the kid with you. You can get some practice in before I come home. Then you can be our live-in nanny.” I didn’t argue. I simply handed the child over to the housekeeper. Seven years later, all the foreign CEOs were recalled to the States for annual reports. Blair Harrington rolled up to the gates of the Caldwell estate in a black Maybach, an intimidating entourage in tow. She was blocking my way out. She pulled a cigarette from her mouth, tilted her head, and slid her sunglasses down her nose. “Miss me so bad you were waiting by the gate?” “Just so you know,” she continued, “Noah and I got married overseas for the kid’s passport. You two will be like brothers now. He gets what you get.” “The Caldwells and the Harrisons are family, Ben. You don’t care about a piece of paper, right?” She blew a stream of smoke straight into my face, and the acrid smoke made my eyes water. Wiping my tears, I backed away quickly. Jamie’s mother—my wife, Quinn Caldwell—is incredibly possessive. She had repeatedly warned me to maintain distance from all younger female relatives. If she saw her niece harassing her husband, the Caldwell estate would turn into a war zone. Blair watched me retreat, then burst into a condescending laugh. “Alright, drop the act. I know you’re practically crying with excitement,” she sneered. “I’m back. There’s no need for these silly games. As long as you keep me and Noah happy, the position of ‘little Mr. Harrison’ is still yours. Don’t worry, it’s not going anywhere.” The sheer arrogance of her statement almost made me laugh myself. I wiped away the last of the tears and offered a slow, cold rebuttal. “Blair Harrington, what makes you think I’m still obsessed with you?” She took another drag and then exhaled a plume of smoke, looking at me as if I were a particularly slow child. “We were engaged since we were twenty. You’ve been wearing the Caldwell tag for years, and you’ve raised my son for me. Who else are you going to go with, Ben? Who would even have you?” Hearing her, I was only grateful. Grateful that I had dumped this trash and moved on to a real marriage. The last time we parted at the airport, she was holding me, teary-eyed and swearing, “Wenjing, give me five months. I’ll make a name for myself and come back to marry you early.” Tragically, just eight months later, her and Noah’s baby was delivered. They had been sleeping together all along. Everyone in the city knew, and I was the last to find out. The thought still makes me want to slap her. I raised my hand. “Daddy!” Jamie suddenly popped up, arms outstretched, waiting for me to pick him up. His mother was busy in a board meeting today, so he had to stick with me. As I bent down, Jamie was violently yanked away. “Who are you calling Daddy?! I’m your father!” Noah Becker leaped out from behind Blair, face flushed with anger, and delivered two quick slaps to Jamie’s arm. My eyes twitched with rage. I spun around and shoved him. Before he even hit the ground, he was clinging to Blair’s sleeve, his eyes red and theatrical. “Blair, I just wanted the boy to call me Dad. If he refuses, fine. But why did Ben have to get physical?” His shout instantly drew Blair’s entire security detail. They surrounded Jamie and me. Blair stood back, watching with cold eyes. I pulled Jamie behind me and gritted out a question. “Are you blind? You’re circling me for a hired hand? Do you even know who I am?” “Enough!” Blair raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow, crushed the cigarette under her heel, and pointed at me. “Ben Harrison, who gave you the guts to talk about Noah like that?” “He is my husband, the boy’s biological father. Not only are you blocking them from reuniting, but you’re insulting him in public?” I scoffed and shoved her hand away. “A servant wants to be my son’s father? Does he really think he’s worthy?” If I hadn’t been kind enough to let him stay at the Caldwell place years ago, he would have starved. The thanks I got was him crawling into my fiancée’s bed. Blair was even more enraged. She forcibly snatched Jamie from my arms and shoved him into Noah’s. The courtyard echoed with Jamie’s frantic cries: “You’re bad people! Go away!” Seeing Jamie’s face bright red with tears and distress felt like a physical tearing in my chest. Then, Noah suddenly dropped to his knees at my feet. He stroked the boy’s cheek and burst into tears. “Ben, even if you hate me, you can’t poison the child against me. Jamie is so small, and he keeps calling you ‘Daddy.’ How could you abuse him behind our backs?!” With that, he lifted the boy’s shirt, revealing patchy, red marks on his back. Blair’s eyes went wide. The look she gave me shifted completely. “Ben Harrison! I kindly gave you my son for practice, I trusted you—and you beat him with a whip?” “Did not getting me turn you into such a monster?” The boy’s back was covered in stripes that ran from top to bottom, terrifying in their shape. Blair couldn’t imagine the suffering her son had endured over the years. But she didn’t know. Those were cupping marks—a deep tissue massage done to relieve the fever. A few days ago, Jamie had a high fever of 104 degrees because he’d gotten cold. He has a sensitive constitution and can’t be given strong medication. The doctor recommended only physical therapy. Because of this fever, every nanny, housekeeper, and even the nutritional team who oversaw his care was given a formal warning by his mother and temporarily dismissed from the main house. If Quinn knew the humiliation and suffering Jamie and I were enduring today… a hundred Blairs wouldn’t be enough to satisfy her rage. Seeing my own security team start to close in from outside the gate, I gave up the pretense of negotiation. I pointed at the two sickening people. “Take them! And give them a lesson on Caldwell house rules!” Blair’s face turned bright red with fury. While wrestling with the bodyguards, she didn’t forget to yell at me. “Ben Harrison, you maniac! Keep this up, and I swear I’ll never take you back! I’ll have you thrown out of the Caldwell estate this minute!” I gave a cold laugh. “Try it.” These bodyguards were hand-picked by Jamie’s mother. With them here, Jamie and I wouldn’t be harmed. Realizing they were losing ground and that the bodyguards were wary of the child in his arms, Noah’s eyes darted around. He suddenly grabbed Jamie and threatened. “Stop right now! Or I’ll strangle him!” Jamie struggled desperately in his grasp. His breathing grew shallow, and his face started to turn blue. Even his cries were fading. I immediately pulled the pocket knife from my coat and plunged it toward Noah’s arm. Noah shrieked and instantly released his hold. I lunged forward, quickly trying to restore the air to Jamie’s lungs. “Jamie, Jamie?” “Don’t be afraid. Daddy’s here!” Seeing the child convulsing and gasping for breath, I quickly pulled out his asthma rescue inhaler. Just as I was about to administer it, I was violently seized by the wounded Noah. He went crazy, hitting and punching me. “You dog! It’s not enough that you abused my son, now you’re trying to murder him in public!” Blair’s face was deathly pale. She screamed, “Ben Harrison! Don’t you dare!” But it was too late. The medication was already in Jamie’s mouth. Almost immediately, the child’s convulsions and wheezing began to subside. The two of them shut up, stunned. But the child was over-stimulated and had passed out. He needed immediate IV fluids. I ordered my bodyguards to restrain Blair and Noah, slung Jamie onto my back, and ran. Blair’s frantic, furious shouts exploded behind me: “Ben Harrison, you’ve caused enough chaos! If you walk away now, you’ll never be my man again!” “No one’s begging you!” The woman let out a loud snicker. “You’re all talk! If I don’t want you, who would take a piece of rotten goods like you?” Ignoring the mad dog, I gave my command to my men. “To the main estate!” I calculated the time. Jamie’s mother should be leading the Caldwell family in the ancestral rites right now. As soon as the car stopped, I sent someone to notify her, then rushed the child into the on-site clinic. Jamie had woken up at some point. His small hand was tightly clutching my coat, and he was trying to comfort me. “I don’t hurt, Daddy. Don’t cry…” The more composed he was, the deeper the guilt and self-reproach cut into me. If I hadn’t brought him back to the Caldwell compound today, we would never have run into those two lunatics. “Mr. Harrison, please don’t worry. The young master… he’s under a lucky star!” The doctor, terrified by Jamie’s weak breathing, was stammering as he spoke. Just as Jamie was being placed in a medical hyperbaric chamber, the clinic door was kicked open again. Blair, supporting Noah, stormed in with her bodyguards. Seeing me, a look of triumphant realization flashed across her face. She looked at me with disdain. “Didn’t you say you weren’t begging for me? Yet you ran straight back to the main estate? How pathetic!” Noah leaned on her shoulder, his eyes full of venom. “Ben Harrison, you stole my child, stabbed me, and now you dare to cause trouble here at the main estate? Aren’t you afraid of offending the Head of the Caldwells?” “Everyone in the city knows that if you cross the Caldwell Matriarch, you won’t even know how you died!” After he spoke, Blair put him down, shooed the doctor out, and dragged me into a corner, her tone impatient. “Ben Harrison, I’ll spare you this one last time, purely out of charity for your past devotion to me. Now, get lost!” Seeing her bully me, Jamie picked up a nearby water pitcher and hurled it at her. Clang— Blair touched the blood on her forehead, her face dangerously dark. She lifted the child with one hand. “Are you looking for a death wish?! Attacking your own mother!” Seeing Jamie’s face turning purple again, I fought free, turned, and slapped her. “Let go of my son!” Noah’s expression changed. He snatched the sterile cotton from the table and tried to gag me. “Why are you screaming?! If you want to die, don’t take us with you! Disrupting the ancestral rites—ten of you wouldn’t be enough to pay for it!” His sudden surge of crazy strength knocked me to the floor. Caught off guard, my mouth was stuffed full of cotton. I couldn’t worry about anything else. I immediately started fighting with Noah. In the midst of the muffled grunts and shoves. Blair watched me with wide, bewildered eyes. “Ben Harrison, I only allowed you to look after my child because of the old family engagement—you were educated and presentable. But look at you now!” “You’re acting like a lunatic! The boy will go crazy if he stays with you. From today on, Noah and I will personally raise Jamie!” The moment the words left her mouth, she let out a sharp cry of pain. Jamie, seeing me being brutalized, was frantic. He mustered all his strength and sank his teeth deep into Blair’s wrist. He grew up by my side because of his asthma. He is closer to me than to his biological mother. When he was four, he would swing his tiny fists to chase away stray cats and stand in front of me, his voice piping up: “I’m here! Don’t you dare bully my Daddy!” Seeing Jamie shaking, yet still refusing to let go of her wrist, a raw, sharp pain tore through my heart. I finally delivered a last kick that sent Noah sprawling. Just as I was about to grab the child back, Blair grabbed my hair and kicked me away. “Ben Harrison! You’ve trained my son into a little beast who doesn’t recognize his own mother and father!” “Don’t hit my Daddy!” Seeing me thrown to the ground, my forehead bleeding, Jamie screamed desperately. He prepared to bite her again. Blair saw through him. She grabbed his jaw, looked toward Noah in the corner, and tightened her grip. “You little animal! Open your eyes and look! Your real father is right there!” “He is not my Daddy! You are bad people!” Jamie strained his neck, his mouth torn and bloody, still trying to bite and tear at her. Blair completely lost her patience. She slammed him onto the floor, the sharp heel of her shoe coming down hard on his chest. She laughed coldly. “This boy has been totally ruined by Ben Harrison. He doesn’t even recognize his own parents!” “Fine! Fine! I’ll teach you a lesson today on how to apologize to your mother and father!” She applied pressure to her heel, grinding and pressing into the child’s chest. Jamie’s muffled cries of agony echoed in the room. “Let go of him! You monster! You don’t deserve to touch my son!” I screamed hoarsely, scrambling desperately toward Jamie, my voice ragged with blood and tears. “He’s having an asthma attack! Can’t you see he’s fading?!” “If anything happens to him, Blair Harrington, your entire family will pay!” The woman laughed as if I’d told a joke. She turned her head, glanced at me, then at the bloody and pathetic Noah. A cold ferocity washed over her face. “Asthma? Can’t breathe?” “He doesn’t recognize me, so why should I care if he lives or dies? Even if I accidentally kill him today, it’s all your fault for raising him wrong!” With that, she grabbed Jamie’s hair and forced him to kneel. Poor Jamie could no longer even hold himself up on his knees. He couldn’t even cry out for help. I lunged toward Blair like a madman, wanting to tear her apart. She kicked me hard, knocking me back down, then shoved my head toward Noah. “It’s your fault the child is ruined! Now, kowtow three times to Noah and apologize!” I was held down, my head slammed violently against the floor. Blood ran down my face, mixing with my tears. I stared at her, stubborn and silent. My silence completely enraged Blair. She pulled a steak knife from the fruit basket, flashed it in front of my eyes, and smiled with dark meaning. “You stabbed Noah. By all rights, you should repay him! If you’re smart, just apologize and beg…” She leaned close to my face, her voice soft and tempting. “I’ll forget all the past incidents. Otherwise…” Before she could finish the sentence. I opened my mouth and spat a mouthful of bloody foam right into her face. Blair closed her eyes, then opened them again, her gaze completely overtaken by towering rage. She slowly wiped her face, violently yanked my hair, and condescendingly patted my cheek. “Don’t blame me for being cruel. I gave you a chance, and you threw it away!” She then looked down and kicked Jamie. “Watch, this is the first lesson Mother is teaching you!” “When a person is foolish, when they make mistakes, they have to pay the price!” Jamie was startled awake by the pain. His eyes snapped open and he saw the knife plunging toward my heart. His pupils constricted instantly. “Daddy!” I don’t know where he found the strength. He struggled free from Blair’s feet and darted, throwing himself in front of me. “No!” Thwack! Hot blood sprayed like scattered petals, covering my face. I stared blankly at Jamie. My vision was filled with crimson. Tears mixed with blood poured down my cheeks. My heart was completely shredded. Jamie trembled, his hand reaching slowly, haltingly, toward me. His voice was broken. “J-Jamie doesn’t hurt… Daddy, don’t cry…” The bloody little hand fell limply before it could touch my face. Blair’s eyes were bloodshot. She pulled out the knife and aimed for my heart again. “You really did it! You let my son die for you!” When the tip of the knife had pierced an inch into my chest. A sudden gunshot erupted behind us. “The Matriarch has arrived!”

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The day I took Victoria Sullivan’s money—a cold, sickening million dollars—to save my dying father, I knew I had signed away my entire future. When I told Rhys Sullivan I was leaving him, I didn’t just shatter our decade-long love story; I shattered him. He didn’t argue. He didn’t yell. He just found the silver letter opener on his mahogany desk and, in one swift, brutal movement, drew it across his wrist. The sight of his blood, bright against the pale skin of his hand, stunned the air from my lungs. He looked at me, his face bleached white from shock and blood loss, but his eyes were filled with a terrifying, absolute devotion. “Jas,” he whispered, his voice dangerously soft. “Jasmine Moore, you are it for me. If I can’t marry you, I don’t want to be here.” He used his own life as a weapon, and his mother, Victoria, finally had to back down. But the moment he had me, he began his long, calculated revenge. On our wedding day, standing before a hundred shocked faces, he replaced the five-carat cushion-cut diamond with a cheap, plastic toy ring. “You’re a transaction, Jasmine,” he sneered, loud enough for the front rows to hear. “A deal made in an office. This ring—this piece of plastic—is the only fidelity you’ve ever earned.” After the ceremony, his life became an endless parade of beautiful women. He’d spend fortunes on them—designer bags, watches, sports cars. On me, his legal wife, the request to buy groceries required a formal, written application and an endless wait for approval. Years later, when my father’s condition worsened and I needed fifty thousand for emergency surgery, I begged Rhys for the money. I got on my knees and debased myself, sacrificing every shred of dignity left to me. For my father’s life, I was only rewarded with five hundred dollars and a cold, chilling laugh. “A good little lapdog only gets kibble,” he said. I picked up the crumpled bills, my vision blurring with tears, and rushed to the hospital. By the time I arrived, my father was gone. While I was collapsed in anguish at his bedside, Rhys was out buying out an entire luxury boutique for his latest flavor-of-the-month. Five days later, I was dead inside. I went to his office, the signed divorce papers clutched in my hand. He laughed then, too. “Seriously? All this drama over fifty thousand dollars?” … I arrived at Rhys’s office suite, the divorce agreement feeling heavy and final in my hand, and was stopped by his assistant, just like always. “I’m sorry, Mrs. Sullivan, but Mr. Sullivan requires all meetings to be scheduled. You must have an appointment to enter the CEO’s office.” I stared at the heavy mahogany door, a bitter smile twisting my lips. Seven years of marriage. Seven years of being barred from his office, always forced to wait for permission, for a notice, for the honor of his time. I stopped counting the hours I’d spent waiting years ago. Five days ago, when I received the emergency call about my father, I had tried to storm in. The assistant and two bodyguards wrestled me to the ground. I fought like an animal, clawing at the door, the skin on my fingertips tearing and bleeding, but I wouldn’t let go. Rhys finally opened the door, a scowl of annoyance on his face, after his assistant called him. He looked down at me, a dishevelled, desperate wreck on his pristine carpet, and gave a cruel, cold laugh. “Here for another handout, Jasmine? You never cease to amaze me with how low you’ll sink for cash.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to an arctic whisper. “How much this time? Five thousand? Fifty thousand? A hundred?” “The money comes with a price,” he continued, slow and deliberate. “I need a… a lapdog today. Kneel right there. Bark for me. I’ll give you a hundred dollars for every sound you make.” The raw, stark humiliation of the command caused my whole body to shake. But the image of my father, pale and barely breathing in a hospital bed, was enough. I slowly bent my knees. Under the cynical, mocking gazes of the staff, I sank to the floor and whispered the one-syllable sound. “Woof.” Rhys threw his head back and roared with laughter. He gleefully called his latest paramour, Savannah Locke, over and led her, his arm around her waist, into his office. I couldn’t remember how many times I had to bark that day. I couldn’t remember how many sickening sweet words I heard him utter to Savannah from behind that closed door. The next morning, he opened the door, gifting Savannah his ten-thousand-dollar custom watch. He didn’t even look at me when he dropped five hundred-dollar bills onto the floor. “A good little dog only gets kibble,” he mocked, then swept Savannah away, not sparing a glance for me, even as my tears streamed down my face and I begged him to save my father. I gathered the five hundred dollars and rushed to the hospital, but it was too late. Dad was gone. His eyes had been open when the nurses found him, still calling my name. I held his cold body and cried until the darkness took me. When I woke up, the nurses were gossiping about Rhys Sullivan clearing out a major luxury store for his girlfriend. They murmured about the ten thousand dollars he’d given the sales clerk as a tip. They didn’t know that his legitimate wife had been pushed to the edge of the abyss, unable to find fifty thousand dollars to see her father one last time. My heart was a lump of cold ash. I called him, requesting the divorce, and was met with a dismissive grunt. “What, you’re throwing a fit now? Didn’t get the cash so you’re trying to use manipulative tactics? Threatening me with divorce?” “Jasmine, you’re pathetic! You couldn’t even be a good dog! Even dogs are more obedient than you are!” “What right do you have to demand a divorce? Your father’s medical bills, that apartment you live in—it all comes from me!” “You spend my money, so you follow my rules. I tell you to take it, you take it!” Before he could finish, I heard a rustling sound—Savannah, no doubt—and he abruptly hung up. I hadn’t even had the chance to tell him Dad was dead. My heart shriveled. For seven years, I’d retreated, swallowed his insults, and endured his cruel demands. Standing before that heavy, always-closed door, I finally snapped. I grabbed a glass vase from the side table and hurled it against the wall. The sound of shattering glass was deafening. I grabbed a jagged shard, held it to my throat, and screamed. “I need to see Rhys Sullivan now! If you don’t let me in, I swear I’ll bleed out right here, right now!” The assistant finally gave way, frantically punching the code. The door opened, revealing a scene that stabbed me like a thousand knives. Rhys and Savannah were tangled together on the sofa. Savannah shrieked in shock when she saw me. Rhys’s face went thunderous. He snatched a heavy crystal ashtray from the coffee table and launched it at me. “Get out! Who the hell let you in?! Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” The ashtray struck my forehead hard. My temple split open and warm blood immediately poured down my face, but the agonizing tear in my heart overshadowed the pain of the wound. A hysterical, furious laugh escaped me. I fixed a cold stare on the two of them, barely dressed and utterly shameless. “I don’t care what games you’re playing. Rhys, I’m here for one reason only. Divorce.” Rhys snatched the papers from my hand and ripped them into snowdrifts without a single glance. “Don’t use divorce to manipulate me, Jasmine! That trick doesn’t work on me anymore!” Savannah was stroking his chest, a sickeningly sweet smile on her face. “Mrs. Sullivan will do anything for attention, won’t she, honey?” She leaned in, whispering in his ear. “Rhys, don’t let her ruin our mood. Just throw her some cash and send her away. A hundred thousand isn’t worth your time.” Rhys gave a smug chuckle, then turned his icy gaze back to me. He opened a drawer, pulled out a stack of hundred-dollar bills, and slammed them onto my face. “Seriously? All this drama over fifty thousand dollars? You’re always making a scene for money, and it disgusts me!” “Take the money and get lost! I don’t want to look at you!” The bills scattered across the carpet. I ignored them, my eyes locked on his. “I told you. One purpose. Rhys, divorce.” His patience snapped. “Divorce? You’re nothing but a dog I bought for money! You don’t get to make demands!” He walked up to me, pretending to gently wipe the blood from my face, then suddenly clamped his hand around my throat. “You think I don’t know your little games? The push-and-pull?” “I’m telling you now, Jasmine. You will never leave me. Not unless you’re dead!” Just as I felt myself choking, he abruptly released me and crushed his lips to mine. The ultimate violation. I struggled wildly, desperate to push him away. “Get off me! Don’t touch me!” He grinned, a terrifying, savage look. “Stop pretending. You’re my dog, so play the part.” “Serve me well, and I’ll reward you with scraps.” Pure, blinding rage surged through me. I didn’t care about the consequences; I sank my teeth into his cheek, hard, until I tasted blood. He cried out and shoved me away. I hit the ground hard. Staring at the blood streaming down half of his face, I had a sudden, terrible flash of memory from when I was seventeen. I had been jumped by a group of thugs, and Rhys had rushed in, fighting them off. He’d smiled at me then, too, with his own face covered in blood. How did we get here? It didn’t matter. The misunderstandings, the pain, the betrayals—they could all be buried with my father. I was finally free of obligation. I could leave this prison. A sharp, dizzying pain brought me back. Rhys was dragging me up by my hair and slamming my head against the wall. His face was a mask of pure, distorted fury. “Ungrateful bitch! Get out!” With my temple still bleeding and my clothes ripped, he physically kicked me out of the office. This time, my frantic pounding and hysterical sobs at the door only earned me a final, frustrated roar from inside. “Jasmine, for the love of God, go away! Stop bothering me!” Employees hurried past in the corridor, their eyes filled with thinly veiled scorn. The feeling of being exposed was unbearable. I had to leave. I stumbled out onto the street, humiliated and disoriented, enduring the stares of passersby. The early winter chill was a physical assault, but my heart was colder. I was shaken from my daze when a group of men blocked my path. They were rough-looking, reeking of alcohol. I hugged my torn clothes tighter, but it didn’t deter their leering eyes. They closed in, forcing me into a deserted alleyway. I had nowhere to run. Their hands were immediately all over me, their actions growing bolder and more aggressive. I was sickened and in pain, but the harder I fought, the more they seemed emboldened. In that moment of absolute despair, I remembered our first encounter again. Seventeen. Working multiple jobs to support my ailing father. Cornered on the way home late at night. Rhys, my white knight, bloody but smiling, dispatching my attackers. He’d promised me, so earnestly and nervously, on the day he proposed, that I would never suffer another moment of pain or shame. Yet, for seven years, every humiliation I’d endured had been because of him. I gave a bitter, exhausted smile and lost the will to struggle. Suddenly, a piercing screech of tires echoed from the alley entrance. Rhys. He charged in like a man possessed, kicking the man on top of me clear across the alley. “Don’t you dare touch her! Are you trying to die?!” He ripped off his expensive jacket and threw it over me, shrouding me completely. I must have been delirious, because for a fleeting second, I saw tenderness and fierce protection in his eyes. The warmth was a mirage. The next second, his expression was back to his usual look of repulsion and disgust. “Jasmine, your sickness is beyond my comprehension!” “You set this up for attention? You think this cheap stunt will make me notice you? You have no shame!” His anger flared, and he planted the heel of his designer shoe on my chest, pressing down hard. “Then again. The woman who sells ten years of love for a million dollars has no shame to lose.” I bit down on my tongue, refusing to give him the satisfaction of a defense. Years ago, Rhys’s mother, Victoria, had approached me repeatedly, offering increasingly obscene amounts of money to leave her son. I refused every time. I don’t want your money, Mrs. Sullivan. I just want to be with him. But then, Rhys was away on a business trip, and the hospital called. Heart attack. My father needed a million-dollar bypass surgery, immediately. The mountain of debt was insurmountable. I called and messaged Rhys, but my calls went unanswered, my messages unread. Desperate, I went to Victoria. She didn’t even offer a chair. She simply slid the breakup agreement and a cashier’s check for a million dollars across the table. I had no choice. I signed. I rushed to the hospital with the money, only to be told the diagnosis was a mistake. My father was stable. The doctor, avoiding my eyes, sighed. “Ms. Moore, Mrs. Sullivan asked me to tell you this. Today was a mistake. Next time, it won’t be. Please keep your agreement and remain silent.” The words stole all the strength from my legs. My father’s life was now a direct variable of my cooperation. I had to break up with Rhys. He wouldn’t accept it. He cut his wrist in front of me. I thought it was love then. It wasn’t until the public humiliation at the altar that I realized it was hatred. The marriage was a meticulously planned act of revenge. He was determined to break my spirit, step by step, piece by piece. My father’s life was the chain that bound me to his cruelty. But Dad was gone now. The chain was broken. I was finally free. I struggled to my feet, throwing his jacket off. I didn’t look at him, simply walked toward the exit. He grabbed me from behind, his arms locking around my waist, his voice thick with fury. “Where do you think you’re going? Look at the state of you! Stop your pathetic games and come home!” I let out a bitter, cold laugh—and then coughed violently, bringing up a mouthful of blood. The darkness returned. When I woke up again, I was in a hospital bed. Gauze covered every part of me. I tried to sit up, but Rhys was there, his eyes red and swollen, gently pushing me back down. He looked at me with an odd, almost childlike vulnerability. “Jas,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “Why didn’t you tell me you were pregnant?” I froze, instinctively looking down at my flat abdomen. We had talked about wanting a family, years ago, when we were in love. But the years of torture had killed that wish. Now, just as I was finally leaving, a new life had arrived. Rhys’s tears streamed down his face. He gripped my hand. “Since we have a child, let’s forget all the ugliness. I forgive you.” The word meant nothing to me. I had waited so long for his forgiveness, but it was too late. I remembered the first time I found out he was with another woman. I had sobbed, clinging to him. Rhys, please believe me, I had no choice! Forgive me! Let’s stop this cycle of torture and just be a family! I had been crawling in the dust for him, but he’d shoved me away with a cold, cutting laugh. What kind of ‘choice’ makes you sell me out for a million dollars? How am I supposed to forgive you? I can’t force myself to believe you! I had no evidence. The initial misdiagnosis papers were gone. And my father’s life was still held hostage by his mother’s word. All my sacrifice hadn’t even bought my father a long life. My heart was a twisted knot of pain. I wanted to tell him the truth now, to finally unload the burden. But Rhys continued, blissfully unaware. “Jasmine, just focus on the baby now. Don’t worry about your father; I’ll cover all the medical expenses.” His absurdity made me laugh out loud. The doctor, who had just entered for rounds, looked confused. “Mr. Sullivan, you haven’t heard? Ms. Moore’s father passed away five days ago.” Rhys’s eyes widened, the shock of the lightning strike evident on his face. I stopped laughing. My voice was unnaturally calm. “I’ll say it one more time. I have only one purpose. Divorce.” Rhys’s face turned frantic. He shook his head violently. “No, nothing but death will separate us now! Jas, please, just rest. We’ll talk about this in a few days.” I watched his desperate escape, my gaze cold and empty. When I talked to the social worker about my father’s final arrangements, I discovered I couldn’t even claim his body. I was too poor to pay the eight hundred dollars for cremation. It was laughable. The wife of Rhys Sullivan was too broke to bury her own father. As I was leaving the hospital, I bumped right into Savannah. She smiled, blocking my path, her eyes gleaming with malicious triumph. “Mrs. Sullivan, I hear you’re pregnant. Funny, isn’t it? I’m pregnant with Rhys’s baby, too.” I looked down, unwilling to engage. She became bolder. “Just heard the nurse say you don’t even have money for your father’s funeral? You’re certainly the most pathetic socialite I’ve ever seen.” I sighed. Socialite, high society wife—I didn’t want any of it. I pushed past her and walked away. To earn the money for the funeral, I managed to get a job as a server at a luxury hotel. That very evening, the hotel was hosting a huge gala. Rhys arrived with Savannah, making a grand entrance, intimate and happy. I hid behind the velvet curtains, watching them. The event was their One Hundred Day Anniversary—a commemoration Rhys had organized to feel like a full-blown wedding reception. As the party peaked, Rhys held Savannah’s hand to cut a massive four-tiered cake. I, the legitimate Mrs. Sullivan, was weaving through the tables, serving champagne to the guests. I tried to avoid their eyes, but Rhys spotted me. His face contorted with revulsion and displeasure at my server uniform. Savannah gasped dramatically. “Mrs. Sullivan! What are you doing dressed like that?!” “Showing up here in that outfit—are you trying to humiliate Rhys? You really have no shame, begging for money this way!” I tried to hurry past, but Rhys grabbed my wrist. His eyes were blazing with fury. “Have you had enough, Jasmine?! I told you to stay home and rest!” I yanked my arm away, my voice flat and icy. “Mr. Sullivan, I’m just trying to earn money to bury my father. It has nothing to do with you.” Rhys sighed, shaking his head. He waved his hand, and an assistant rushed over, holding a small, ornate wooden box. “You’re acting like such a victim,” Rhys said, disappointment etched on his face. “I told the assistant to inform you I would handle your father’s arrangements. What is this performance for?” As he finished speaking, Savannah stepped forward and took the box. She walked toward me, then theatrically “tripped” on a small step, sending the box hurtling to the floor. My breath hitched. I screamed, diving forward, but I was too late. The urn shattered. My father’s ashes scattered across the polished ballroom floor. I frantically tried to gather the fine gray powder, but the harder I tried, the more it slipped through my fingers. My heart was a vortex of white-hot agony. I stared up at Savannah, my eyes red and burning. “You! You did this on purpose! You won’t even let my father rest!” Savannah feigned shock, her voice falsely sweet. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. Sullivan. I truly didn’t mean to.” A surge of blind rage propelled me toward her. I raised my hand to strike. A hand clamped down on my wrist, hard. I looked up into Rhys’s cold, lethal gaze. He drew back his arm and slapped me across the face with brutal force. “Enough! Stop this hysteria, Jasmine!” “Your father is dead! It’s just a pile of dust! What difference does it make?!” “Savannah apologized! Can’t you let it go?! You’re turning into a monster, what’s the point?!” He shoved me to the floor and barked orders at his security detail. “Lock her up somewhere to cool down. Don’t release her without my explicit command!” He didn’t spare me another glance as he wrapped his arm around Savannah and walked away. My head was spinning. The guards dragged me to the service elevator. The wound on my forehead, still not healed, bled freely, staining the pristine carpet. Two days later, Rhys finally remembered me. He rubbed his temples, his face etched with impatience. “Where is Jasmine? Two days is enough time to cool off, isn’t it? Where is she?” “She’s pregnant, take her home.” His assistant dropped to his knees in front of Rhys. “Mr. Sullivan, she… she can’t go home. Two days ago, she jumped.”

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Five years after the divorce was finalized, my best friend, Olivia, called to deliver the news, her voice heavy with that familiar, weary resignation. “Maddie, it’s a small world. You’re going to run into him eventually, and when you do—” “I won’t,” I cut her off. “I will never cross paths with Grant Montgomery again. Not in this lifetime.” The second I hung up, a friend request popped up on my screen. The profile picture was a landscape photo I’d taken years ago, a random snapshot from a college road trip. The verification box read: “I’m back. Can we meet?” “I have something very important I need to tell you in person.” Important matters? I stared at those two words, a bitter laugh bubbling up in my throat. What could possibly be important between us? Was it the crucial legal work my parents did, clearing his family’s name, only for him to bankrupt and displace them in return? Was it the way I helped him build the Montgomery Group from the ground up, nearly bleeding out in a restroom from entertaining old-money clients, only to find him cheating repeatedly, defiling our new home with another woman? Or was it his final, monstrous act: canceling our son’s surgery, locking us both in the wine cellar to teach me a lesson, which ultimately cost Jamie his life? What on earth could be important now? I pushed the sickening memories back, dragging his profile picture and the associated number into the digital abyss of the permanent block list. 1 After ending Olivia’s call, another message arrived, this time from Chelsea, our university class representative. She was asking if I would attend the alumni reunion this year. She added a hurried, sympathetic note: “I completely understand if you don’t want to go. Everyone knows the situation, and we all support you.” She followed up with a few more carefully worded paragraphs of comfort and advice. I looked at the dense block of text and found it strangely amusing. I had found peace, but everyone around me seemed stuck in the tumultuous history of it all. Perhaps our spectacular, dramatic fall had left too deep a mark. But I was truly past it. Now, I had to actively search my memory to recall what Grant Montgomery’s face looked like. Yet, he had once been my most cherished person, closer than family. We were an ecosystem. We attended the same schools, from grade school through university, and studied abroad together. My phone alarm blared, interrupting the rewind. It was time for the truly important thing. I parked the car at the base of the mountain trail, took a deep breath, and started up the path toward the chapel. The young novitiate saw me and smiled immediately. “Ms. Stone, you’re back!” I handed him the gift bag. He took it, his expression thoughtful. “Ms. Stone, you’ve come here every year for five years, at the exact same hour and minute. Why is that?” I offered a small smile but didn’t answer. I walked directly to the back of the chapel grounds, to a small, private meditation room that was always locked. Inside, the room was simple. There was only one small altar. On it sat a lone, solitary memorial plaque. I opened the large bag and began placing the items on the table. “The toy store clerk said these were the biggest hits this year,” I whispered, carefully arranging the small figures. “I don’t know if you’re into heroes and villains up there, but I grabbed a few different action figures.” “And this mystery box. They say you can pull a hidden chase item. You’d love trying to find it.” After the toys, I laid out a pile of candy. “They probably don’t make you brush your teeth over there, right?” I chuckled, the sound brittle. “So you can eat all the chocolate you want before bed. No cavities. Haha.” My laughter caught in my throat, and the tears started to fall. I gently wiped the inscription on the plaque: Beloved Son, Jamie Stone, Placed by Mother, Madison Stone. The line for the father’s name remained empty. 2 The chapel had a parking lot, but I always chose to park at the base and walk the eight thousand stone steps down. By the time I reached the bottom, my tears were usually dried. I reached for the car door when my phone rang—an unfamiliar number. The voice on the other end was too familiar. “Maddie, even if you won’t see me, you have to let me see my son!” I hung up immediately, blocking that number, too. For five years, Grant Montgomery has not existed in my life. I had been fine. I drove to my office. As I walked into my space, my assistant, Chloe, looked distressed. “Maddie, the partner we’ve been working with for months suddenly terminated the contract.” I looked up. “Why? Our product quality and pricing were competitive.” Chloe frowned. “I pressed them. They hinted that we… might have offended the owner of the Montgomery Group.” Grant’s methods for crushing people hadn’t changed much over the years. Chloe chewed her lip. “But we don’t compete with them. Why would he target us?” I set my pen down and gave her the simple, quiet answer. “Because he’s my ex-husband.” Chloe’s eyes widened instantly, her mouth gaping. “He’s… that ex-husband? The one in the rumors who was with the salesgirl?” She instantly clapped a hand over her mouth, mortified. “Maddie, I am so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” I waved a hand dismissively. “It’s fine. It’s all history.” Chloe still looked ashamed. “I honestly thought those rumors were fabricated. You’re so successful, so amazing. How could he possibly betray you?” Years ago, everyone thought that. Even I did. But the truth proved that no vow is unbreakable. I called Chelsea back. Based on my plans, this would likely be my last chance to see them before leaving town. I wanted to gather my old roommates one last time. That evening, the six of us squeezed into a booth. We ordered a case of beer, determined to drink until dawn. After the third round, the conversation loosened. Chelsea picked up her bottle, hesitating before she spoke. “Maddie, there’s something I never told you.” “Grant kept calling me, trying to get me to set up a meeting. He said—” She didn’t finish. Olivia slammed her bottle down with a loud thud. “To hell with him! Grant Montgomery is a pathetic, ungrateful parasite!” Chelsea shot her a look, trying to quiet her, worried about upsetting me. But Olivia was too heated. “I want to say it! If the Stones hadn’t raised him, he’d be a charity case! And if your mom and dad hadn’t cleared his parents’ name, he wouldn’t have a name to begin with!” “Then he turns around and destroys your life? That man deserves to be hit by a bus!” Olivia’s eyes were bloodshot. “Maddie, you’re too damn forgiving! How can you be so calm after what he did?” I smiled sadly. “It’s not forgiveness, Liv. It’s indifference.” Grant was indeed a bastard, but I had to admit, he was also a genius entrepreneur. When my parents finally cleared his family name, he was already twenty-five. But his parents’ business empire was already dust. The Montgomery Group was entirely his own creation. And I had been his fiercest soldier. Thinking back to those early startup days, the rush of building something was still exhilarating. For one huge contract he coveted, I drank with a room full of powerful, aged men until I had a stomach bleed. To land a key project, I once stayed awake for four nights straight preparing a proposal. I was so consumed by his ambition, his dream, that I practically slept at the office. I was too busy to even notice when he started sleeping with her. 3 The first time I saw Tess Holloway was at Grant’s mother’s estate. I was heading to his place, carrying the latest business proposal. But when I walked in, I saw a strange woman kneeling on the floor, carefully massaging Grant’s mother’s aching feet. Grant stood nearby, his gaze soft as he watched them. The sight instantly felt wrong. But Grant explained quickly: “She’s just a sales associate from the mall who happens to have a natural touch. My mother’s knees are bothering her, and they just clicked.” I started to say something, but Grant cut me off, a subtle furrow in his brow. “Maddie, you are a professional, a founder. Don’t be one of those petty housewives who wastes her time chasing shadows and feeling jealous.” I chose to believe him. I thought our decade-long history was enough to withstand anything. The day the Montgomery Group officially went public, we got married. But I quickly realized it wasn’t a casual affair. I saw Tess again, this time at our corporate headquarters. She was in a tailored suit, walking two steps behind Grant—his new Executive Assistant. I confronted him. His justification was cold and efficient. “Tess has ambition in her eyes. She’s hungry, trainable. I like employees with strong potential.” From that day on, I noticed him systematically minimizing my authority. I had built the entire Market Strategy division; every single person was my handpicked hire. But Tess, using vague excuses, started pushing them out one by one, replacing them with her own staff. I went to Grant to complain, but he only smiled. “Competition drives growth, Maddie. It’s called creative destruction.” It hit me then: he was slowly but surely eating away at my power in the company. As his partner, seeing the team I built crumble was crushing. My anger and betrayal became unbearable. I fought with him and gave him my resignation. Just as I prepared to launch my own venture, I discovered I was pregnant. Feeling that faint flicker of life inside me, my resolve softened. I willingly stepped back from the corporate battlefield, becoming the uncontroversial Mrs. Montgomery, a stay-at-home mom. I believed my sacrifice for our family would earn his understanding. The world slapped me again. The rumors about him and Tess grew into a storm. Newspapers and tabloids were full of photos of them together at industry events, arms linked, looking like the picture of a devoted couple. I shoved the stack of magazines in his face. He grabbed my arm, yanking me to the mirror. He pointed at me. “Look at you. Do you think I want to take this out in public? You think I want people to laugh at me?” Once a crack forms in trust, the structure can never be fully restored. On Jamie’s first birthday, we hosted a massive party. I had a terrible gut feeling all day. That evening, I walked into our master bedroom and saw it: Grant and Tess, naked and entangled, on my sheets. Tess was wearing my favorite silk robe. My mind went blank. My stomach rebelled, and I fell to the floor, retching violently. Grant showed no remorse, only the anger of a man caught. He pointed a finger at me. “Maddie, if you dare make a scene, if you embarrass me, I will personally guarantee your parents’ business is wiped out by morning.” From that day, he dropped all pretense. He brought Tess to live in the house. I realized then that his mother, who always claimed to treat me like a daughter, had known all along. She even pulled me aside, offering a piece of wisdom: “A successful man has options, dear. You just need to be reasonable.” I couldn’t maintain this filthy, rotting marriage for another minute. I decided I was going to divorce him. 4 But as I prepared the papers, Jamie was diagnosed with acute leukemia. The doctors said the best option was a bone marrow transplant. I tested immediately, but I wasn’t a match. In my darkest hour, Grant was a match. He became my last, desperate hope. For Jamie’s life, I swallowed my pride and put the divorce on hold. He donated marrow twice. Both surgeries were successful. Just as Jamie’s health stabilized, Tess became pregnant. She brought in a spiritual consultant who declared the child was the Montgomery family’s “lucky star,” destined to usher in a golden age. The entire household treated her pregnancy like a sacred event. Tess decided the primary bedroom I lived in had bad energy and demanded I move. Grant indulged her, moving me into a dark, tiny utility room. Next, she claimed Jamie’s nursery had the best light and needed to be converted into her baby’s room. I watched the house staff begin throwing Jamie’s favorite toys and books into garbage bags. I charged forward, blocking them. “You can’t touch my son’s things!” The private security were all Grant’s hires, now explicitly protecting Tess. She ordered them to restrain me. They held me down on the floor. Tess sat on the sofa, a smirk playing on her lips. “Fine, Maddie. You want to save his little room?” “Wipe the mud off my boots with your sleeve. Then I’ll call them off.” “Go to hell!” I screamed, glaring up at her. “You pathetic whore! You’ll rot for this!” The words were barely out of my mouth when my hair was seized, and a sickening crack echoed through the room. Grant’s hand slammed into my face. My cheek instantly swelled. Grant stood over me, his eyes cold and empty. “Are you insane, Maddie? You dare curse her? She’s carrying the Montgomery heir!” Once, if I’d gotten a paper cut, he would have fussed over me. Now, he hit me for another woman. After that day, life for Jamie and me in that house became a continuous nightmare. At Tess’s instruction, the house staff fed us spoiled leftovers. Our utility room was tiny, freezing, and without heat in the winter. One night, freezing, Jamie cried and shook me awake. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” I tried to sneak to the kitchen for food. Tess caught me, screaming that I was stealing from the pantry. That night, in the twenty-degree cold, Grant locked me outside in the garden for the entire night. Shivering violently, I repeated my mantra in my head: Just hold on. One more surgery. Then everything will be fine. The doctors had confirmed it: one final bone marrow transplant, and Jamie would be cured. I endured the humiliation, focusing only on that goal. But I never imagined Grant would deliver the final, lethal blow. The day before the surgery, I noticed the staff was packing up suitcases. A terrible premonition hit me. I rushed to find Grant. He was discussing the plans with the same casual air he’d use to talk about the weather. “Tess wants to give birth in London, and the company needs to expand overseas. We’re moving tomorrow.” A cold dread washed over me. “What about Jamie’s surgery tomorrow?” Grant waved it off. “I’ve already found a suitable new donor for Jamie. The surgery will proceed as scheduled.” “Don’t worry. Once I settle the overseas business, I’ll be back for you both.” I immediately called Jamie’s doctor. The doctor confirmed the surgery had been canceled. And there was no new donor. I charged back to Grant, hysterical. “Why did you cancel the surgery? Are you trying to kill Jamie?” He was instantly annoyed. “Maddie, can you stop being dramatic? You’re just looking for a reason to stop us from leaving!” To ensure he wasn’t delayed from flying out with Tess, he ordered his security to lock me and Jamie in the downstairs wine cellar. A sudden, sharp ring of my phone snatched me out of the memory. I thought it was my daughter, Stella, calling for a bedtime story, and snatched it up. Instead, I heard Grant Montgomery’s frantic, tortured voice on the line. “Maddie, they’re saying… they’re saying Jamie is gone…”

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