1 When my parents divorced, I was left as useless baggage on Gran’s doorstep. By four each morning, she’d drag me out to feed pigs, split wood, and scrub the drafty house. My hands were raw with chilblains and thick calluses. Dad, living comfortably in the city, kept promising to bring me over, but Gran locked me in my room like a lunatic. Buried in textbooks, I swore: the day I got into university, I’d leave and never look back. But on the day I planned to run to Dad’s, my phone buzzed with a strange email, dated exactly one year ahead. The attached video showed me, a year later, sobbing at Gran’s fresh grave. I stared, scowling at my reflection. “What are you crying for? The old hag’s gone. Pop champagne, don’t weep.” The girl on screen slapped herself, screaming, voice cracking. “Idiot! That loving dad? He remarried years ago—new wife, precious son. He wants you in the city to sell you to an old creep for a twenty-thousand-dollar dowry!” She gasped. “The grandmother you hated? She spent freezing nights digging through trash heaps, scraping pennies for your tuition! But the day you were to register for uni, she was shoved while stopping them from dragging you away. Hit her head. Never woke up.” Future-me stared, eyes swollen, choking back sobs. “Don’t trust him. If you get a second chance, save Gran. Give her the life she deserves.” I stood in the dim stairwell of my father’s apartment building, my heart hammering against my ribs. I was skeptical. My dad called me every month, his voice always dripping with affection. Could he really be planning to sell me? With trembling fingers, I dialed his number. The line clicked open. “Sylvia, sweetheart,” his voice was warm, almost too sweet. I swallowed hard, trying to keep my voice steady. “Dad, I’m almost at your place. I wanted to come see you.” He let out a delighted chuckle. “That’s wonderful! I’ll head out right now and buy all your favorite foods. Hurry on up, okay?” I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding. It was all a mistake. The email was just a sick, twisted joke. But then, through the thin apartment door, a muffled voice drifted into the hallway. “Is that the daughter you were talking about?” a man’s gruff voice asked. “Sounds like a sweet thing. If we get this settled, the twenty thousand dollars is yours. Every single penny.” My blood turned to ice. Then came my father’s frantic whisper. “Keep your voice down! Just make sure you have the cash ready. Once she walks through that door, she isn’t escaping.” I took a sharp step back, my boot squeaking against the concrete. Panic tore through me. I turned and sprinted down the stairs like a hunted animal. When I finally burst out of the building, my stomach violently rebelled. I leaned against a rusted lamppost, dry-heaving until my throat burned. The raw, desperate screams from that future video echoed in my ears, louder than the city traffic. He was going to sell me. My own father was going to trade my life to secure a future for his new wife and son. With shaking legs, I boarded the overnight bus back to our rural town. Tears silently tracked down my face, freezing in the midnight air. It was three in the morning when I pushed open the creaking wooden gate of our yard. Gran’s house was dark, save for the single dim bulb hanging in the main room. I crept inside, my footsteps silent on the packed-dirt floor. Gran was crouching by the well. The water was near-freezing, and her hands were swollen, raw, and bleeding in places as she scrubbed a pile of salvaged scrap metal. She stopped every few seconds to cough, a deep, rattling sound that shook her frail frame. The scene hit me like a physical blow. The video, the cold numbers on a scrap paper, her tragic end: it was all real. A choked sob escaped my throat. Gran whirled around, her eyes wide. When she saw me, her expression instantly hardened into a scowl. She grabbed a dirty broom resting against the well, pointing it at me like a weapon. “You miserable brat!” she barked, though her voice cracked. “Where the hell have you been? Trying to sneak off to that deadbeat father of yours again?” She raised the broom high, but as her eyes swept over my tear-streaked face and blue lips, her hand froze. She lowered the broom, clicking her tongue in annoyance. “Get inside, you useless thing,” she muttered, turning back to the well. “There’s a cold sweet potato in the pot. Eat it and get back to your books.” I didn’t move toward the kitchen. Instead, I threw my arms around her bent, bony shoulders, burying my face in her rough, dirt-stained coat. Gran went completely rigid. “Gran, I’m sorry,” I wept, my tears soaking into the worn fabric. “I’m not leaving. I’ll never try to find him again. I’m going to study, I’m going to get into a great university.” I squeezed her tighter, feeling the sharp outline of her ribs. “Once I make it, I’m going to take you away from here. I’m going to give you a wonderful life.” Gran’s hands remained suspended in the air for a long moment. Finally, she let out a rough sigh and gave my back a clumsy, trembling pat. “Stop talking nonsense,” she mumbled, her voice surprisingly thick. “If you don’t pass those exams, I’ll break your legs.” Her words were harsh, but her touch was incredibly gentle. For the rest of the spring semester, I became a ghost in my own house, living only for my textbooks. I studied until my eyes burned and my fingers cramped. Gran still scolded me daily, complaining that I was too slow with my chores. But every night I fell asleep at my desk, I would wake up with her heavy wool coat draped over my shoulders. And every morning, a soft-boiled egg and a tube of cheap ointment for my cracked hands would be waiting next to my books. We lived in a silent truce, bound by an unvoiced understanding. Then, on a humid afternoon in April, Richard showed up. He brought two flashy boxes of cheap vitamins, and behind him stood his new wife, Vivian. She held a silk handkerchief over her nose, her eyes filled with disgust as she surveyed our crumbling yard. Richard spotted me scrubbing clothes by the tub. He immediately put on a warm, paternal smile and marched over. “Sylvia, look at you,” he said, his voice dripping with mock sympathy. “You’re skin and bones. What’s the point of a girl studying so hard anyway? I found a wonderful family for you in the city. The husband is a wealthy businessman. You’ll be living in luxury. We can finally be a real family again.” Looking at his eager, greedy eyes, a wave of intense nausea hit me. This businessman was the old creep who bought girls for twenty thousand dollars. I wrung out a wet shirt, keeping my voice cold and flat. “No, thank you. I want to take my exams first.” Richard’s smile faltered, but before he could snap, Vivian chimed in with a sharp sneer. “Oh, please. You really think you’re university material? Your father is trying to save you from a lifetime of shoveling dirt. Even if you manage to get into some low-rate college, how do you expect to pay for it? We certainly aren’t funding your little dream. We don’t have money to waste on a useless girl. Be smart and pack your bags.” The back door slammed open. “Keep your filthy mouth shut!” Gran roared. She charged out of the house, wielding a broom covered in chicken coop grime. Without a second thought, she swung it directly at Richard and Vivian. “Get out! Get the hell off my property!” “My granddaughter’s education is none of your business, you parasitic bastards!” Richard tried to duck, but the dirty bristles swiped across his expensive trousers, leaving a streak of filth. He went red, pointing a finger at Gran’s face. “You crazy old hag! Watch your step! I’m her legal father, and what I say goes!” Gran let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “Her father? You drove her poor mother to her grave, and now you want to sell her daughter? You miserable piece of trash. As long as I have breath in my lungs, you won’t touch a hair on her head!” She swung the broom again, striking Richard’s arm. Vivian shrieked, ducking behind him. “Keep acting tough, you old corpse!” Vivian yelled, her voice screeching across the yard. “Richard hasn’t sent you a single dollar of child support in five years! You think you can put her through college on the pennies you make selling trash? You’re delusional!” The world seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Five years without a single dollar? I stared at Gran in absolute shock. Gran didn’t look at me. Instead, she grabbed one of the vitamin boxes they had brought and threw it directly at Vivian’s head. “Get out! Get out before I get the pitchfork!” Richard scrambled backward, shielding his wife as they retreated to their car. Before slamming the door, he rolled down the window, his eyes dark with malice. “Fine! Let’s see how long you can feed her! When she’s starving, you’ll come crawling to me on your knees!” The car sped off, kicking up a cloud of red dust. The yard fell into a heavy silence. Gran dropped the broom, her chest heaving as she leaned heavily against the wooden doorframe. I walked over and gently touched her arm. “Gran, is it true? He hasn’t paid anything in five years?” She violently shook my hand off, her face twisting in anger. “That’s grown-up business! Get back to your room and study! If you don’t get into university, I’ll throw you out myself!” She turned and limped inside, her back more hunched than ever. That night, after her breathing turned slow and heavy, I quietly crept into her room and opened the bottom drawer of her wooden cabinet. There was no bankbook. Only a bundle of crumpled paper scraps and torn cigarette boxes, covered in crooked pencil marks. “June 6th: Sold scrap metal for two dollars fifty.” “July 10th: Sylvia’s practice exams, thirty dollars.” “October 5th: The pigs are growing well. There is hope for Sylvia’s tuition.” The very last entry, dated yesterday: “Sylvia is looking too thin. Go to the market tomorrow and buy half a pound of beef.” My tears fell silently, wetting the rough paper. She was killing herself to build a bridge for my future, just like the video had said. That was why she stayed up until dawn. That was why she never touched the eggs she prepared for me. Every single penny she scraped together was meant for my escape. I gripped the paper scraps tightly. I swore I would rewrite our story. I would make Richard pay, and I would give Gran the life she deserved. In June, just three days before the state exams, a massive storm hit the valley. The temperature plummeted, and I came down with a vicious fever of 103 degrees, shivering violently under my thin blankets. Gran stood over my bed, grumbling angrily. “Of all the times to get sick! You really are a curse on my life! I must have done something terrible to deserve you!” She slammed the door and went out into the pouring rain. I lay there, my joints aching, drifting in and out of consciousness. Hours later, I felt a damp presence by my bed. I opened my eyes. Gran was standing there, soaked to the skin, her clothes plastered with yellow mud. In her hands, she held a chipped ceramic bowl. Steam rose from a fresh bowl of chicken noodle soup, with a beautifully fried egg hidden beneath the surface. “Eat this,” she ordered, her voice hoarse. “And take these.” She set the bowl down and pulled out two boxes of fever medicine from her coat. They were wrapped in three layers of plastic bags, completely dry. My throat tightened. The nearest pharmacy was in the town five miles away. This frail old woman had walked ten miles through a torrential storm, risking her life on the muddy mountain roads, just to fetch me medicine. “Gran…” I whispered, my voice cracked. “Shut up and eat!” she snapped, turning away quickly. But I could see her shoulders trembling. The medicine broke my fever by morning. Three days later, I walked into the exam hall with a clear head. When the results came out, the entire county was in an uproar. I had scored in the top five of the state, securing the top spot in our district. Admissions officers from prestigious universities called our neighbor’s phone throughout the night. Gran did something she had never done before: she bought several rolls of firecrackers and set them off in the yard, filling the air with smoke and noise. She stood at the gate, handing out cheap candies to anyone who walked by. “My girl did it!” she beamed, her chest puffed out with pride. “She’s going to the big city! She’s going to be someone!” But the joy was short-lived. The following afternoon, our wooden gate was kicked off its hinges. Richard marched into the yard, followed by three burly men. “Well, aren’t you a clever little bitch, Sylvia?” he sneered, his eyes scanning the yard. “Mr. Henderson saw the news. He said since you’re the top scorer, he’ll raise the dowry to fifty thousand dollars! That’s enough to buy a nice apartment in the city for your brother Toby.” He waved his hand to the men. “Find her acceptance letter. Without that piece of paper, she can’t register anyway.” The men lunged toward the house, tossing chairs and tearing down shelves. “Stop it! You thieves!” Gran screamed, charging at them with a wooden cane. One of the thugs grunted in pain as she struck his leg. He whirled around and slapped her across the face with brutal force. Gran hit the floor, her lip split and bleeding. But even as she fell, her arms wrapped tightly around her chest. I noticed a bulge beneath her shirt: she had tucked my university acceptance letter inside her inner vest, keeping it safe against her skin. “Hand it over, you old corpse!” Richard yelled, stepping forward and grabbing Gran by her gray hair. Gran groaned, her eyes shut tight in pain. Vivian stood by the gate, holding her nose. “Richard, why are you wasting your breath on this old lunatic? Just grab the girl and let’s go. Toby is waiting at home for his new toys.” Richard nodded, releasing Gran’s hair and stepping toward me. Gran tried to crawl forward to grab his ankle, but she was too weak. I didn’t think. I sprinted into the kitchen, grabbed the heavy meat cleaver from the counter, and lunged back into the yard. “Get the hell back!” I screamed, holding the heavy blade with both hands, pointing it straight at Richard’s chest. My vision was red. I was shaking, but my grip on the handle was iron-clad. “Touch my grandmother again, and I swear to God I will gut you right here!” My voice carried a raw, murderous conviction that stopped the men in their tracks. Richard froze, his face going pale as he took two steps back. “You… you dare point a knife at your own father?” “Try me!” I snarled, stepping forward. “I would rather go to prison for murder than let you sell me. Get your dogs out of our yard right now, or I’ll start swinging.” The thugs exchanged uneasy glances. None of them wanted to risk getting hacked by a desperate teenager. Richard spat on the ground, trying to salvage his pride. “Fine! You want to play tough? Let’s see how long you can protect this old hag!” They scrambled back to their cars and sped away, leaving the yard in ruins. I dropped the cleaver, my knees giving out as I collapsed next to Gran, sobbing hysterically. Gran pulled me against her chest, her thin arms shaking as she held me close. It was the first time she had ever embraced me so tightly. “Don’t cry, Sylvia,” she whispered, her voice cracking. “Gran is here. Even if it kills me, I’ll get you out of these mountains.” Hearing my name from her lips for the first time, a strange sense of peace washed over my terror. I held her tight, and with my free hand, I pulled out my phone. I compiled the video from the future along with audio recordings of Richard’s threats and photos of Gran’s injuries, and sent them directly to the regional police and child protection services. It was time to end this. The monsters were going to pay. By late August, our backyard pigpen was empty. Gran had sold the two fat pigs we had raised all year. That evening, she sat on the edge of her creaking bed, a rusty needle in her hand, sewing beneath the dim bulb. Spread out on the blanket was a pile of crumpled small bills and a few crisp hundreds. “It’s twelve hundred dollars,” she murmured, folding the bills neatly and wrapping them in a piece of red cloth. Then, she took my old undershirt and began stitching the cloth pouch securely into the inner lining. “When you’re in the city, don’t go flashing your money,” she said without looking up, her voice thick. “Buy decent food. Wear what the city girls wear. Don’t let them look down on you because of where you come from.” I sat beside her, staring at her calloused, scarred hands. “Gran, once I get settled and find a part-time job, I’ll bring you to the city to live with me.” She snorted, clicking her tongue. “Who wants to live in the city? Go on your own. Once you’re gone, I’ll finally get some peace and quiet.” She was as stubborn as ever. But as she pulled the thread tight, I saw a single tear fall onto the red cloth, darkening the fabric. The next morning, we left before dawn to catch the long-distance bus to the provincial capital. If we could just get on that bus, we would be free. It was half-past three in the morning when we quietly slipped out of the yard. But as we reached the dirt road at the town entrance, three vans suddenly lurched out of the darkness, blocking our path. The doors slid open, and a dozen heavy-set men stepped out. Richard stood at the front, and beside him, Vivian was waving my official registry documents with a triumphant smirk. “Running away?” Richard sneered. “Did you really think getting into college meant you won, Sylvia? I used your legal documents to officially withdraw your registration at the university. You’re not enrolled anymore. You have nowhere to go but to Mr. Henderson.” With those few words, he shattered everything. The late nights, the frozen hands, the miles Gran had walked in the storm: all of it, wiped out by a stroke of a pen. Pure, unadulterated hatred flared in my chest. “You’re insane! This is kidnapping! It’s illegal!” “Kidnapping?” Richard laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “A father arranging a marriage for his daughter? Even the sheriff won’t touch this. Grab her!” Two men stepped toward me. “Don’t you dare touch my girl!” Gran screamed. She dropped her worn canvas bag and hurled her frail body at the first man, her teeth sinking deep into his arm. “Ah! The old bitch bit me!” the man roared, violently throwing his arm back. Gran was flung to the ground, but she scrambled right back up, throwing herself in front of me. “Sylvia, run! Run to the highway!” Richard’s face twisted with rage. “Get this old pest out of my way! Now!” One of the thugs raised a heavy boot and kicked Gran squarely in the chest. A sickening thud echoed through the silent morning. Gran was thrown backward, her head striking a sharp, jagged rock on the side of the road. Blood, thick and dark, immediately pooled in the dirt. The sight of that crimson stain seared itself into my brain. Gran lay motionless in the mud, her eyes turning to me with a faint, fading light. Her lips moved slightly, making no sound, but I knew what she was saying: Run. “No! No! Please, God, no!” A choked, animalistic shriek tore from my throat. I fell to my knees, scrambling through the dirt to reach her. I pressed both hands against her head, trying to stop the blood, but it kept seeping through my fingers, warm and sticky. The horrific vision from the future had caught up to us. I gathered her rapidly cooling body into my arms, my world collapsing into absolute darkness. “Gran! Please! Gran!”

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1 The day I got into Juilliard, the Sinclairs brought me home. Eleanor wept, promising to make up for lost years. Brent bought me a Maserati and enrolled me in the best driving school, vowing to drive me to college. The night before my road test, Ken, their foster son, stole the car and killed a man in a hit and run. Rachel squeezed my hand. “Austin, take the fall. His heart is weak. Prison will kill him.” Eleanor knelt, sobbing. “You can rebuild. Ken cannot.” Brent slid a pre-written confession over, promising freedom in six months. Gwen smashed the dashcam card. “I will wait for you.” I was sentenced to seven years. Ken wore Eleanor’s custom suit for my debut, flying to a European conservatory with Gwen waving beside him. On a damp autumn evening, I finished washing a Porsche Cayenne and handed over the keys. Gwen stood there, holding a five-year-old boy’s hand. “Austin, why didn’t you come find me? Still hate us?” I pushed the Venmo QR code toward her, not looking up. “That is eighty dollars. Scan, please. Card or Venmo?” She didn’t move. She simply stood with the boy just outside the muddy puddles of the washing bay. Her designer coat was pristine, completely out of place in this wet, gritty environment. The boy stared with wide eyes at the high-pressure water gun in my hand, while Gwen’s gaze drifted down to my cheap, water-stained rubber boots and plastic apron. “Austin, you shouldn’t have let yourself fall this low,” she said, her voice laced with disappointment. “Even if you are angry, you shouldn’t ruin your own future just to spite us.” I shut off the water pump, tossed the dirty rag into the bucket, and watched the murky water splash over my boots. “Do you want to scan the code, or should I call my manager?” Suddenly, the boy broke free from Gwen’s grip. He pointed at the glass cabinet behind the counter, shouting that he wanted to play with the old cello bow resting inside. Before I could stop him, he reached out to grab it. I lunged to intercept him, but the sudden movement tore at the old fracture in my wrist. A sharp, white-hot pain shot up my forearm. My fingers slipped, and the bow clattered onto the wet concrete. Gwen yanked the boy back, her eyes dropping to my exposed wrist. Under the harsh fluorescent light, the thick, jagged scar running across the bone looked monstrous. Her face drained of color. “What happened to your hand?” I pulled my sleeve down, hiding the scar, and bent to pick up the bow. “It has nothing to do with you.” Gwen frowned, her tone softening into that familiar, condescending pleading. “Austin, stop acting like this. The Sinclairs told me you were only supposed to be in there for six months. You chose to disappear for seven years just to make everyone feel guilty. Who are you trying to punish? Do you have any idea how sick Eleanor got because she thought you ran away?” My hands froze on the damp rag. Six months? I had spent seven grueling years in a concrete cell. Seven years of absolute hell, and to them, it was nothing but a childish tantrum. I wiped down the wet counter, my voice dead. “I didn’t run away. I’ve been working here.” Gwen’s expression darkened. “Ken hasn’t had an easy time either. He loses sleep every night because of his guilt. Just come back with me. If there are misunderstandings, we can sit down and talk them through.” She reached out to grab my arm. I took a sharp step back, avoiding her touch entirely. “The car is clean. Pay the bill and leave. Don’t block my station.” A soft chime sounded from my phone. The payment had gone through. I slung the rag over my shoulder. “Have a good evening, Gwen.” Ten minutes later, a black Audi sedan screeched to a halt by the curb. The door slammed open, and Rachel stepped out, her high heels clicking loudly against the wet pavement. She looked at the cheap neon sign of the car wash, then sneered at my face. “Austin, your mother is desperately ill in the hospital. How long do you plan on carrying out this ridiculous drama?” She didn’t ask how I was. She didn’t ask where I had been. She only stared at my stained apron and rubber boots with absolute disgust. “A Sinclair son washing cars for pocket change? You are dragging our family name through the mud. Pack your things and come home to apologize to Mom right now.” I threw the wet rag back into the bucket. The dirty water splashed onto the hem of her expensive trousers. “You have the wrong person,” I said quietly. “My name is Austin Reed. I am not a Sinclair.” Rachel’s jaw clenched, a vein throbbing at her temple. “Ken already apologized for what happened back then. Besides, you only spent six months in a low-security facility, and the family compensated you generously. You vanished without a word after you got out. Do you have any idea how long we’ve been looking for you?” Looking for me? A wave of nausea hit me so hard I nearly gagged. This city wasn’t that big. They didn’t even bother to check how long I had actually served, yet they had the audacity to claim they had been searching for me for seven years. The only person who had ever looked for me was my adoptive mother, Mary. Gwen sighed, attempting to play the peacemaker again. “Austin, Rachel is just worried. Your mother was admitted to the hospital again two days ago. No matter how resentful you are, you should at least go see her.” Rachel pulled out her phone, dialed a video call, and shoved the screen in front of my face. On the screen, Eleanor lay in a sterile hospital bed, her face pale and sunken. When she saw me, her eyes immediately filled with tears. “Austin, do I have to get on my knees and beg you to come home?” She clutched her chest, her voice trembling. “Do you know how many nightmares I’ve had about you? Even if you hate us for what happened, how could you be so cruel as to hide from your own mother for seven years?” I stared at her perfectly moisturized face. Seven years ago, when she knelt in front of me begging me to take Ken’s place, she had cried the exact same way. “Austin, say something,” Gwen urged. “Do you really have to make this so ugly?” I looked up, meeting their eyes. “What do you want me to say? That I should be grateful? That going to prison for Ken was a privilege granted to me by the grand Sinclair family?” Rachel’s face turned icy. “Don’t take that sarcastic tone with me.” I let out a soft laugh. “But you always loved it when I was agreeable, didn’t you? I used to say exactly what you wanted to hear.” The night of my welcome-home gala, Brent had insisted I perform a cello solo in front of all of Boston high society. He wanted to prove that his biological son was the true prodigy. I wore the custom tuxedo Eleanor had bought for me. I had practiced that piece for weeks, my fingers raw and blistered, just wanting to make them proud. But right before I was supposed to go on stage, I discovered someone had loosened the pegs of my cello and stolen my backup sheet music. Ken had walked into the dressing room, a bright, innocent smile on his face. He leaned in and whispered, “Do you really think you can just walk back into this family and take what’s mine?” I didn’t have time to confront him. I had to go on stage and play from memory. Midway through the performance, the tension in the damaged string snapped. The thick steel wire sliced deep into my finger, dripping blood onto my white shirt. I rushed backstage, holding my bleeding hand, wanting to demand answers from Ken. But he was already collapsed on the sofa, clutching his chest, weeping louder than I ever could. “Austin, I’m so sorry. I only wanted to help you tune your cello. Please don’t hate me for ruining your big night.” Eleanor had pushed past me, screaming for a doctor. Rachel had grabbed my shoulder and demanded I apologize. “You’ve been back for five minutes and you’re already bullying your brother? You know he has a weak heart!” Even Gwen, who had seen my hand dripping blood, pushed me down. “Austin, Ken is sick. Just let it go and apologize.” That was the night I learned that in the face of Ken’s tears, the truth meant absolutely nothing. No one cared about my bleeding fingers. They only cared that Ken was crying. Later, I overheard Ken yelling at a maid in the hallway. “As long as he is in this house, I am the outsider. I will make sure he never feels welcome.” When I confronted him, he screamed and threw himself down the stairs. Rachel didn’t even bother to look at the security cameras. She slapped me across the face so hard my lip split. “How can you be so vicious? He is sick!” That night, Gwen came to my room. She told me Ken was just insecure and that I should be the bigger person. “Austin,” Gwen said, cutting through my silence, her patience clearly wearing thin. “You pushed Ken so hard back then. He had to sneak away to Europe just to escape your shadow.” She looked at me as if I were a petulant child throwing a tantrum. “Can you please stop using the past to torture everyone?” Gwen honestly believed Ken was the victim. She had no idea that I was the one who had been pushed into an abyss. During my first year in prison, a guard looked the other way while an inmate broke my wrist with a heavy metal spoon in the cafeteria. The incident was swept under the rug as a common brawl, and I was thrown into solitary confinement for three days. Before the heavy steel door slammed shut, the inmate whispered in my ear, “Ken Sinclair sends his regards. He told me to make sure you were well taken care of.” Now, because of that shattered wrist, I could barely hold a coffee cup, let alone play the cello. Rachel took my silence as submission. “If you come home and apologize, the family will overlook your dramatic disappearance,” she said coldly. “Overlook it?” I looked down at the muddy water beneath my boots. Suddenly, I didn’t even have the energy to explain. They weren’t ignorant of the truth. They simply chose not to know. On the night before my final road test, a torrential storm was raging. Ken had stolen the keys to the Maserati Brent had bought for me. At three in the morning, he had stumbled back into the house, drenched in mud, sobbing that he had run someone over. Brent’s first reaction wasn’t to call an ambulance. He locked the front gates and threatened the staff to keep their mouths shut. Rachel had gripped my hand until my bones ached. “Austin, you are stronger than Ken. You have to take the blame.” Eleanor knelt on the floor, weeping hysterically. Brent pushed the written confession into my hands. “We have the best lawyers, Austin. It will be six months at most. I swear I will get you out.” I refused. I cried, telling them I was terrified, that my test was tomorrow, and my Juilliard classes started next month. Seeing my resistance, Ken clutched his chest and collapsed onto the sofa. The entire family rushed to his side, leaving me standing alone in the cold hallway. Gwen dragged me to the end of the corridor. Her eyes were filled with a desperate, suffocating devotion. “Austin, I will wait for you. It’s only six months. I’ll help you rebuild everything.” I clung to her coat like a drowning man grasping a straw. “The dashcam. There’s a camera in the car. It can prove I wasn’t driving!” Gwen was silent for a very long time, until the motion-sensor lights in the hallway flickered off, plunging us into darkness. “That camera,” she whispered, her voice barely audible, “will destroy Ken’s life.” I watched her walk out to the driveway, pull the memory card from the camera, and smash it with a heavy stone. The plastic shards scattered across the wet gravel. She walked back to me, wiped my tears, and said, “I love you. But this is the only way to save him.” I was so foolish back then. I actually believed six months would pass quickly. I believed they would keep their promise and bring me home. The day I was transported to the prison, the sky was a mockery of brilliant blue. Through the barred window of the transport van, I saw Ken dressing in my concert suit, getting into a luxury car bound for the airport. Gwen stood by the passenger door, smiling as she opened it for him. I pulled myself out of the memory and looked at Rachel and Gwen. “Are you finished?” I asked quietly. “If you are, get out of here. You’re dirtying my shop.” I turned, peeled off my wet apron, and walked toward the small, cramped room at the back of the car wash. Under my cot was a dusty cardboard box. It had been delivered to me by a stranger shortly after my adoptive mother passed away. I knelt down and peeled back the yellowing tape. Inside lay a neatly folded letter, a worn leather-bound journal, and a faded receipt from an auto repair shop. I opened the letter first. Austin, I never believed you were the one who ran that poor man down. You couldn’t even bear to step on an insect when you were a child. There is no way you would leave a human being to die in the street. The letter explained that after I went to prison, Mary never stopped looking for the truth. She visited the crash site, went to the hospital, and tracked down the repair shop. She had even knelt outside the Sinclair estate, begging for a copy of my court files. The Sinclairs had told her I was being well taken care of, and warned her that if she kept causing trouble, it would ruin my chances of early parole. She didn’t understand the law. She had no money or power. All she could do was use the simplest, most painstaking methods to record every discrepancy she could find. I folded the letter carefully and pressed it against my chest, my tears finally falling onto the old scar on my wrist. Over the next two days, after my shifts ended, I followed the addresses in Mary’s journal, searching for any scrap of evidence. On the third day, chaos descended upon the car wash. A rusted van screeched to a halt outside the bay. Several people wearing medical masks jumped out. The leader, a middle-aged woman, held up a blown-up newspaper clipping showing my mugshot from seven years ago. “Look at this man! He’s a murderer!” she shrieked, her voice drawing a crowd of onlookers instantly. “He ran my husband over and fled the scene! He only served a tiny fraction of his sentence because his family is rich! My husband is dead, and my children grew up without a father, while he works here as if nothing happened!” The crowd grew, murmuring in disgust. People pulled out their phones to record me. A bucket of dirty, foul-smelling water was thrown from the crowd, soaking my shoulder. A man in a black hoodie stepped out from the onlookers. He wore a mask, but I recognized his eyes instantly. Ken. He leaned in close, his voice a malicious whisper meant only for me. “You should have stayed dead, Austin. Look at you. Do you honestly think you have a place in the Sinclair family looking like this?” I stared at his retreating back, my fingers turning numb with cold. As the harassment continued, Cassie, the owner of the car wash, rushed out from the garage. She pulled me behind her, blocking the flying debris and the camera lenses with her own body. She pulled out her phone to call the police. “If you have a grievance, take it to the police station! Anyone who throws another thing is getting arrested for assault!” The screaming woman flinched but kept shouting, “He’s a killer! He killed my husband!” I held my wet collar and looked at her. “What was your husband’s name?” I asked. The woman hesitated. “What day did the accident happen? What was he wearing? Which hospital was he taken to? Who did he speak to before he died? Do you know any of those things?” She took a step back, unable to answer. At the edge of the crowd, Rachel’s Audi pulled up. Gwen got out first. She jogged over, her nose wrinkling at the sight of my stained clothes. She reached for me, but I stepped back. Her hand remained empty in the air, a flash of embarrassment crossing her face. “Austin, just apologize and lower your head,” she pleaded. “It’s natural for the victim’s family to be angry. You shouldn’t provoke them. If this gets out, it will ruin the Sinclair family’s reputation, and yours too.” I looked at her and laughed. Seven years ago, she told me Ken’s heart was too weak for prison and asked me to understand. Seven years later, she told me the victim’s family was grieving and asked me to bow my head. There was always someone else she needed to protect. And I was always the one who was expected to sacrifice. Eleanor arrived next, supported by Rachel. Her eyes were red and swollen. “Austin, if you just come home, our PR team will handle this mess. I promise no one will ever bring up this accident again.” I looked at her. “Handle it? Like you handled the dashcam seven years ago? Like you handled the court records? Like you handled your own son?” Eleanor’s face drained of color. Rachel took a step forward, whispering a harsh warning. “Austin, don’t let your petty resentment destroy the peace our family and Ken have built.” “Rachel,” I said, my voice dead calm. “Did Ken tell you I only served six months?” Rachel froze. Gwen’s brows furrowed, a flicker of confusion crossing her eyes. “What do you mean?” I didn’t answer. I walked back into the office and retrieved a thick folder from the bottom of my locker. The wail of sirens grew louder as two police officers pushed through the crowd, asking who had called. I raised my hand. “I did. There is a mob harassing my workplace, and I suspect someone has paid this woman to instigate this riot.” The woman screamed, “Officer, he’s a murderer! He ran my husband down!” I placed the folder on the hood of a nearby car in front of the officers. On top was my official release certificate from the state penitentiary. The paper was slightly wrinkled from the damp air, but the bold black ink was unmistakable: Seven Years Served. Gwen’s eyes fell on the paper, and the color vanished from her face. Rachel stared at the document, her lips parting, but no sound came out. “Officers,” I said, looking directly at the police. “I would like to file for a formal review of the vehicular manslaughter case from seven years ago.” “I was framed.” “And I have the evidence to prove it.”

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1 After my diagnosis of Emotional Apathy Syndrome, my feelings grew dull. When Gideon favored his first love, Lorelei, I stayed calm. Even seeing him give her our tenth-anniversary diamond ring drew no tears. He rarely came home, always claiming, “Lorelei is afraid of the dark.” When I called to tell him about my condition, Lorelei answered his phone. “Gideon is in the shower,” she mocked sweetly. “Call back later.” I hung up and let him bring her as his plus-one to our anniversary gala. Before the guests, he wrapped his arm around her waist. “Marrying you was punishment for losing a bet. Lorelei is my only love. You have played Mrs. Harrington for ten years. Be satisfied.” Lorelei giggled against his chest, triumphant. I simply smiled, picked up the photo album I had compiled, and dropped it into the champagne bucket. In my mind, memories of Gideon were dissolving. Soon, I would forget him and our agonizing ten years entirely. On the ride back to the estate, I voluntarily opened the front passenger door and gestured for Lorelei to take the seat. Gideon was used to my sharp tongue, my hysterical outbursts, and the desperate way I used to fight for his attention whenever Lorelei was around. My sudden grace and indifference only seemed to irritate him. Once we pulled up to the driveway and Lorelei stepped away, I turned to him and spoke quietly. “I’m not angry, Gideon. And I’m certainly not jealous.” Lorelei lingered by the porch, her voice trembling with manufactured tears. “Gideon, did I do something wrong? Fiona seems to despise me. Maybe I should just check into a hotel.” Gideon caught her by the hand, his voice laced with cold impatience as he looked at me. “Why should you leave? This is your home now.” He strode over and grabbed my wrist, his grip tightening. “Fiona, don’t think you can play these reverse psychology games with me. My parents forced me to marry you back then. Now that Lorelei is back, you need to grow up and accept it.” My eyes remained flat, reflecting nothing. “I understand. Let her move in. I’ll pack my things and let her have the master bedroom as well.” A flicker of suspicion crossed his features. “I’ll say it one more time. Pretending to be saintly won’t work on me. If you’re upset, throw a tantrum. Cry. Scream. I can easily buy you whatever designer bags or jewelry you want to make up for it.” Lorelei stepped up, resting her hand on Gideon’s arm. “Fiona, how could I possibly take the master bedroom? That wouldn’t be right.” Gideon let out a cold snort. “Since you’re so eager to play the generous wife, Lorelei and I will sleep in the master suite tonight.” He pulled her along, leaving me standing in the cold hallway. Deep within my mind, another piece of my memory of him shattered and faded into mist. That night, I booked a moving service for the following morning and purchased a one-way ticket to Europe, scheduled for one week from today. When I walked out of the guest room the next morning, Lorelei was already sorting through a cardboard box by the stairs. It was filled with the countless gifts Gideon had given me over the years. “Fiona,” she cooed, clutching a soft velvet throw pillow to her chest. “This is so comfortable. Gideon said I could have it.” I stared at the pillow. Three years ago, Gideon and I had found it at a flea market during a rare weekend trip. He had argued with the vendor for half an hour just to get it for me, eventually laughing as he tucked it into my arms, promising he would hold me just as tightly for the rest of his life. Now, as I looked at the handmade music box and the intricate wooden carvings he had crafted for me, the emotions attached to those memories felt as though they were being systematically extracted from my brain. “If you like it, keep it,” I said, my voice empty of cadence. “It’s all just old junk anyway.” I took my car keys and turned back toward the guest room. Gideon stepped into my path, blocking the doorway. “Fiona, what is wrong with you?” he demanded. “Before this, if Lorelei so much as looked at me, you would scream and fight with me for three days. Now I bring her into our home, and you don’t even have a single question?” I looked at him, finding the confusion on his face almost amusing. “Isn’t this exactly what you always wanted, Gideon? No fighting, no drama. Isn’t this better?” He stood frozen, unable to find a reply. I closed the door, shutting out his gaze. By the next morning, the moving truck was idling outside the villa. My belongings were packed into just two small boxes resting at my feet. Gideon emerged from the master bedroom, his face dark with fury when he saw the boxes. “Fiona, have you had your fun yet? Put your things back before I lose my temper.” The boy I had loved in my youth had become an unrecognizable shadow. I bent down to tape the box shut. “Let’s get a divorce, Gideon. I’ll have my lawyer mail the papers to your office in a few days.” Lorelei gasped dramatically from the hallway, though she couldn’t quite hide the spark of delight in her eyes. Gideon’s expression turned murderous. “What did you just say?” “I said, we are getting a divorce. I’ll send you the paperwork.” “Fiona, you’re getting bold, trying to threaten me with divorce,” he sneered, stepping closer. “It was just a ring. I already told you I would compensate you. What are you still throwing a tantrum for?” I met his anger with a long, hollow silence. Eventually, his patience snapped, and he slammed the front door as he left. With the sound of that slam, the details of his face seemed to blur even further in my mind. I realized I could no longer remember what his smile looked like. “We can go,” I told the mover. As the truck rolled down the driveway, I didn’t look back. My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. It was a text from Gideon. Be at the Grand Plaza Hotel at eight tonight. It’s Lorelei’s birthday. If you still want to keep your title as Mrs. Harrington, you will show up on time. I stared at the screen for a moment, then quietly blocked his number. Gideon, from this moment on, you are nothing but a stranger. That night, I scrolled past my friends’ social media posts showing updates from the party. It was a lavish affair, far grander than any anniversary or birthday Gideon had ever given me. In one video, he was down on one knee, presenting Lorelei with a massive bouquet of white roses. My best friend called me, crying on my behalf, furious at the injustice of it all. I listened to her sob, but my own chest remained light and hollow. The next afternoon, the head housekeeper of the Harrington estate called my temporary number, her voice tight with panic. “Fiona, please come to the manor immediately! Madam Beatrice has collapsed, and she keeps calling your name!” My mind immediately conjured the warm, gentle face of Gideon’s grandmother. She was the only person in that entire family who had ever treated me with genuine kindness, always holding my hand and telling me to come to her whenever I felt wronged. “I’m on my way,” I said, grabbing my coat. When I stepped into the grand parlor of the estate, the sound of Lorelei’s giggling echoed through the room. “Grandmother, Gideon flew this rare wellness tea in from abroad especially for you. Please try some.” Gideon sat on the adjacent sofa, looking bored. When he noticed me enter, his posture stiffened slightly, and his mouth curved into a familiar sneer. “So you finally decided to show up? I thought you were far too proud to care whether Grandmother lived or died.” Grandmother Beatrice looked up, a soft smile gracing her wrinkled face when she saw me. “Fiona, dear, come sit by me. I’m perfectly fine, just a slight spell of high blood pressure. Gideon was just overreacting and insisted on bringing you back here.” Lorelei chimed in, her tone dripping with sweet poison. “Yes, Fiona. Gideon was simply worried about Grandmother. But you’ve been so busy lately, you haven’t even had time to visit her.” She was clearly painting me as the unfilial, cold-hearted wife. In the past, I would have desperately tried to explain myself, sick with the fear of Gideon’s disapproval. Now, I merely offered a polite smile. “Since you have so much free time on your hands, Lorelei, perhaps you can fulfill those duties in my place.” Lorelei’s smile faltered, and she looked toward Gideon with wide, wounded eyes. “Gideon…” Gideon set his newspaper down, his gaze drilling into me. “Fiona, did you forget to take your medication today? Lorelei was only trying to help, and this is how you treat her?” I looked him dead in the eye. “My attitude is perfectly fine.” Grandmother Beatrice looked between us, her brow furrowing. “Gideon, Fiona, have you two been fighting?” “No, Grandmother,” Gideon lied smoothly. He stood up, grabbed my wrist, and dragged me out into the private garden. “You returned the secondary credit card, blocked my number, and now you won’t even show respect at the family estate?” he hissed, his voice trembling with suppressed rage. “Do you honestly think I won’t go through with a divorce? Have you forgotten about your brother lying in that hospital bed?” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper. “Every single dollar of his medical bills comes from my family’s pocket. Without that money, he won’t survive three days.” He was entirely certain he held the leash. At the mention of my little brother, Toby, a sharp, localized pang of grief pierced through the numbness of my chest. It was a fleeting, agonizing reminder of the love I once felt. I looked up at him, and to his surprise, I let out a soft laugh. “Gideon, my brother died six months ago.” The smug triumph on his face froze, replaced by a sudden, chaotic panic. “What? Why wasn’t I told?” I stared at him, the last remnants of my affection evaporating into the autumn air. “Because you were busy watching the penguins in Antarctica with Lorelei. You don’t have to worry about my family anymore, Gideon. We are entirely even.” I took a step back. “We are done.” A rare flash of embarrassment crossed his face. “I’m… I’m sorry about your brother. I truly didn’t know.” “You only care about things that involve Lorelei,” I said. “You’ve never known anything about my life.” His jaw tightened, and his eyes darkened with a sudden, ugly suspicion. “Are you so determined to get this divorce because there is someone else?” The sheer insult of his words broke through my apathy. Before I could process the impulse, my hand swung out and delivered a sharp, resounding slap across his face. The sound cracked through the quiet garden. “I simply do not love you anymore,” I said. Gideon clutched his burning cheek, his eyes wide with utter disbelief. “That’s impossible. You loved me more than anything.” He was right. I had loved him once, with a desperation that consumed my entire youth. In the early days of our marriage, under Grandmother’s guidance, we had shared genuine happiness. He would bring home the pastries I casually mentioned wanting, and I would stay up all night cooking porridge for him whenever his stomach flared up. We had loved each other with a clumsy, earnest devotion. But every year, Lorelei would return, and every year, the scale would tip in her favor. His blatant, unapologetic preference for her slowly eroded every ounce of love I had to give. Ten years of devotion, systematically destroyed by a thousand quiet disappointments. Gideon remained standing in the garden, staring at me as if I were a stranger. “That was a long time ago,” I said, and walked away. The next afternoon, Gideon sat in his high-rise office, staring out at the San Francisco skyline. His secretary stood by his desk, speaking in a hesitant whisper. “Mr. Harrington, the real estate agent confirmed that Mrs. Harrington has officially listed her downtown apartment for sale.” Gideon’s hand clenched around his gold pen. “What else is she selling?” “All of the high-end jewelry and designer watches you gifted her over the years. She took them to a luxury consignment shop to be liquidated for cash.” Gideon snapped the pen in half, his face turning a dangerous shade of red. That evening, as I was drying my hair in my hotel room, my phone rang with an unrecognized number. I answered it, and Gideon’s furious voice boomed through the speaker. “Fiona, you are getting entirely out of hand. You dare to block my number?” I pulled the phone slightly away from my ear, keeping my voice level. “Is there something you need, Mr. Harrington?” The formal address seemed to strike him like a physical blow. The line went silent for a few seconds before he snarled, “What did you just call me? We are not divorced yet. I am still your husband!” “Not for much longer,” I said, and disconnected the call. A moment later, a text message arrived from another unknown number. Fiona, stop playing games. Gideon is already exhausted by your pathetic attempts to get his attention. Attached was a photo. In the image, Lorelei was wearing a silk nightgown, smiling sweetly at the camera as she curled into Gideon’s arm on a plush hotel bed. Gideon’s eyes were closed, seemingly asleep, though his brow was furrowed even in rest. A sudden knock sounded at my door. Thinking it was room service, I pulled the door open, only for Gideon to barge in, slamming the door behind him and pushing me back onto the bed. Before I could speak, he grabbed my hand and began violently shoving several diamond rings onto my fingers. “Fiona, what will it take to make you stop this?” he demanded, his voice cracking with a mixture of rage and desperation. He was trying to use these rings to erase the memory of the one he had given to Lorelei. When I didn’t answer, his eyes flared with anger, and he leaned down to kiss me. I gathered all my strength, wrenched my hands free, and struck him across the face again. He stumbled back, the anger in his eyes suddenly giving way to a profound, broken defeat. “My relationship with Lorelei is complicated,” he whispered, his head bowed. “I can’t just cut her out of my life completely. But she will never take your place as my wife. Why can’t you just accept that?” Before I could reply, his phone began to ring. It was Lorelei. Her tearful, whimpering voice was easily audible in the quiet room. “Gideon… where are you? My stomach hurts so badly…” Gideon looked at me, torn, before stepping toward the door. “I’ll be right there,” he murmured into the phone, and rushed out, leaving the scent of his expensive cologne lingering in the air. I quietly slipped the diamond rings off my fingers and listed them on a local resale app. The next day, the specialist at the clinic stared at my brain scans, letting out a long, heavy sigh. “If this progression continues, you will lose not only your emotional capacity but your cognitive memory as well,” the doctor warned. “While the condition isn’t fatal, it will make it incredibly difficult to live a normal life.” I offered a small smile, realizing that even the muscles in my face felt heavy and unresponsive. “That’s alright. Perhaps it’s for the best.” I took my bag of medication and walked out of the clinic. As I rounded the corner of the sterile hallway, I collided with someone. “Fiona? What are you doing here?” Gideon’s voice cut through the quiet corridor, dripping with immediate suspicion. Beside him stood Lorelei, wearing a hospital gown, looking pale and fragile. “Gideon, is Fiona sick?” Lorelei asked, bending down to reach for the pill bottle that had fallen from my hand. “It’s none of your concern,” I said, retrieving the bottle before she could touch it. Gideon’s expression darkened. “Fiona, are you tracking us now? Is there no limit to how low you’ll stoop?” I looked at him with absolute indifference. “I came here to see my doctor. I don’t have the time or the energy to follow you.” Gideon let out a harsh laugh, snatching the paper bag of medication from my hands. “You’re pretending to be ill just to get my attention. This is pathetic, Fiona. Stop dragging this out.” With a flick of his wrist, he tossed my medication into a nearby biohazard bin. “You disgust me.” As the bag hit the bottom of the bin, the last remaining memories of Gideon in my mind began to dissolve, turning into nothing but gray, lifeless smoke. I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, and walked away. A few days later, my attorney called. “Fiona, Mr. Harrington is refusing to sign the dissolution papers.” “I see,” I replied, staring at the IV drip in my arm. My memory was deteriorating much faster than the doctors had predicted. I was starting to forget simple things—where I had left my keys, what I had eaten for breakfast, the faces of casual acquaintances. As I sat in a quiet cafe downtown, staring at the cold latte in front of my hands, I realized I couldn’t remember when I had ordered it. The squeal of tires cut through my thoughts. Gideon strode into the cafe, grabbed me by the arm, and pulled me toward his car. “You’re coming with me to Grandmother’s birthday gala,” he commanded as the car sped onto the highway. “Her health is fragile. I won’t have you stressing her with talk of a divorce.” I didn’t argue. I didn’t have the energy to fight him. The Harrington manor was alight with grand decorations. Luxury cars lined the private drive, and the ballroom was packed with the city’s elite. As I walked in beside Gideon, whispering voices immediately rippled through the crowd. “Look, the wife actually showed up.” “I heard Gideon has been living with the Lorelei girl. I thought the wife would have been thrown out by now.” “It’s a complete mess.” I remained entirely untroubled by their whispers. Gideon, however, looked tense, his hand dropping to grip my waist in a performative display of unity. “Fiona, sweetheart, come here,” Grandmother Beatrice called from her seat at the head of the main table, waving me over. I walked over and handed her the gift Gideon’s assistant had prepared for me. “Happy birthday, Grandmother. I wish you many more years of health and happiness.” The elderly woman took my hand, her eyes shining with warmth. But before she could speak, a commotion at the entrance drew everyone’s attention. Lorelei stepped into the ballroom, holding a beautifully wrapped silk box. She walked directly to Grandmother Beatrice. “Happy birthday, Grandmother,” she said, her voice carrying across the quiet room. “I personally brought this rare herbal elixir from Switzerland for you. I hope it brings you strength.” Grandmother’s smile faded slightly, and she gave a polite, distant nod. “Thank you, Lorelei.” Lorelei’s jaw tightened slightly at the cold reception. She turned her gaze to me, her eyes sweeping over my simple black dress. “Fiona, you look lovely tonight. Did Gideon pick out that dress for you?” She was wearing a custom couture gown, clearly trying to highlight the stark contrast between us. “Lorelei, you aren’t fully recovered yet. Why did you come?” Gideon stepped forward, his arm immediately finding her waist, his voice filled with genuine concern. As Lorelei moved past me, her heel caught on the edge of the carpet. With a dramatic cry, she stumbled directly toward the grand champagne tower nearby. “Ah!” The delicate crystal tower began to collapse. Without a second thought, Gideon lunged forward, throwing his body over Lorelei to shield her from the falling glass. The heavy crystal glasses shattered over my head, drenching me in sticky champagne, the sharp shards slicing deep cuts into my exposed arms. “Fiona! Why did you push her?” Gideon roared, looking up from where he held Lorelei in his arms. But as his eyes fell on my bleeding arms and soaked dress, his anger faltered, replaced by a sudden flicker of guilt. He turned to the head housekeeper. “Get the medical kit! Clean her up!” The housekeeper rushed over with the kit, but I politely pushed her hands away. I turned to Grandmother Beatrice, offering a shallow bow. “Grandmother, I’m feeling slightly unwell. Please excuse me.” Grandmother looked at my bleeding arms and ruined dress, her eyes filled with deep sorrow. “Go, child. Go take care of your wounds. Have the driver take you.” “There’s no need,” I said quietly. “I’ll take a taxi.” Gideon tried to follow me as I walked toward the exit, but I reached into my bag, pulled out the thick brown envelope, and pressed it into his chest. “Goodbye, Gideon.” I walked out into the cool night air, leaving him behind. It wasn’t until I was sitting in the airport lounge, waiting for my flight to Finland, that I realized I had accidentally left my medical diagnosis files inside that brown envelope along with the divorce papers. I stared out the window at the dark tarmac. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. The engines roared to life, and the plane began its long ascent into the sky. Gideon, this is the last time we will ever exist in the same world.

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1 During graduation trip talks, my foster sister Monica and I argued. I wanted the American Southwest; she chose Iceland. Wyatt, grinning, said, “Iceland’s perfect! My new DSLR will capture Monica beautifully.” Parents nodded. “Scenery’s great. Her new down coat fits the weather.” They looked a perfect family. No one noticed the Southwest itinerary I’d spent two weeks planning, hidden under the fruit bowl. I tried to speak, but Wyatt cut in, frowning. “Southwest’s dust and sun. Monica’s too fragile for that. How’d she survive?” Mom slid a $2,000 gift card across the table. “Desert’s not going anywhere. Let Monica have this. I’ll take you next year.” I stared at the card, bitter smile on my lips, silent. Three years ago, they’d wept, promising a family Southwest trip post-graduation to make up for my 18 lost years. But I’d learned: Monica’s tears meant I yielded. My things, space, even their promises—sacrificed for her. Blood meant nothing against favoritism. Since I’d never win against their precious foster daughter, I quit their game. They could have Iceland. I’d take the long train to the desert alone. From now on, my own path. They could keep their high society and the Presley “real daughter” title. Wyatt noticed me staring silently at the gift card, and his scowl deepened. He reached over, snatched the detailed road trip itinerary from under the fruit bowl, and held it by the corner with obvious disgust. “What is this garbage? It’s just in the way, wrinkling Monica’s visa documents.” With a careless twist of his wrists, he crumpled the thick packet of paper, along with the translated documents for the DuPont merger I had stayed up all night to finish for my father, and threw them into the trash can. I stared at the crumpled paper, taking a slow, deep breath. When the Presleys first brought me back from the desert, my father had gripped my hands with tears in his eyes. Evelyn, you’ve suffered so much. When you graduate, I will rent two off-road vehicles and the whole family will take you back to the desert to see the golden cottonwoods. I had held onto that promise for three long years. I had researched every supply station, mapped out every mile, and calculated every stop. And for what? Monica only had to squeeze out a few tears and whisper, I heard the Northern Lights can bring a lifetime of good fortune. With my weak health, I don’t know if I’ll live long enough to see them again, and every single plan was instantly obliterated. “Evelyn, do not start throwing a tantrum now,” my father warned, his eyes flashing with irritation. “Our trip to Iceland is partly to meet with the executives of the DuPont Group at their private golf club. This is a matter of our family’s standing in high society. As our biological daughter, do you lack even this basic sense of the bigger picture?” Monica’s eyes immediately pooled with tears. “Dad, please don’t fight. It’s all my fault for having such poor health. If Evelyn really wants to go to the desert, I… I don’t have to go to Iceland. You should all go with Evelyn instead.” “What are you talking about?” Wyatt snapped, turning his glare back to me. “Evelyn, are you completely heartless? The Southwest is a wasteland of dust and scorching UV rays. Monica would lose a layer of skin out there! Do you have to torture her to be satisfied?” Looking at the three of them standing united against me, I felt as though a lump of lead was wedged in my throat, impossible to swallow or spit out. I took a step toward the trash can, wanting to salvage the itinerary that had cost me so many sleepless nights. But Wyatt kicked the bin away, letting out a sharp laugh. “What, still haven’t given up? What use is this stupid paper anyway, other than letting you play the victim?” I stood frozen, my fingernails digging into my palms until they bled. I closed my eyes, took a deep breath, and looked up with perfect calm. “Fine. I’ll go get my passport.” Hearing my surrender, my mother’s face finally relaxed. “That’s my sensible girl. Go get the original documents. The travel agency is waiting to finalize the booking.” I turned and walked back to my small room, which was essentially a converted maid’s quarters in the corner of the first floor. Once I handed my passport to the waiting butler, I shut the door, cutting off the sounds of their laughter as they discussed the northern lights. Sitting on my narrow single bed, I pulled out my cracked phone and opened a travel app. I entered the coordinates of the Southwest desert, setting the departure date for the exact same day they were scheduled to fly to Iceland. Since they wanted to see the northern lights, I would see the golden cottonwoods by myself. When the confirmation screen flashed, showing my purchase of a one-way ticket on a slow, regional train, a soft smile finally touched my lips. A single, one-way ticket. It was my passage to freedom. To prepare for the trip, the family drove to a high-end outdoor gear store in the city center the following morning. Monica drifted through the racks of premium winter coats, with my mother and Wyatt following close behind, carrying hats and gloves for her to try. I walked silently at the very back of the group. “Excuse me, ma’am,” a sales associate said, stepping up to me and handing me a stack of heavy coats. “Could you please carry these to the fitting room for our young lady?” The entire group went quiet. Monica bit her lip to hide a smug smile, making absolutely no effort to clarify who I was. I took the coats without a word. My mother finally seemed to realize what was happening and cleared her throat, looking slightly embarrassed. “This is actually our… our oldest daughter.” The associate apologized profusely, but I had already turned and walked toward the fitting room. Over the last three years, I had grown completely numb to being mistaken for a maid or a hired hand. When we reached the register, my father swiped his card for fifteen thousand dollars without blinking, purchasing Monica’s entire set of premium gear. Only as we were preparing to leave did my mother seem to notice my empty hands. She turned back to the clearance rack, grabbed an outdated, oversized utility jacket, and tossed it into my arms. “You can wear this. You’re used to the cold from your childhood in the countryside anyway. Even with the discount, this still cost over two hundred dollars.” Monica looked at the cheap jacket in my hands, putting on her best display of sweet generosity. “Mom, that jacket is far too thin for Iceland. Why don’t I give Evelyn the red coat I bought in Switzerland last year? It’s a bit worn, but it’s very warm.” Offering me her discarded hand-me-downs to highlight her own saintly nature was her favorite game. I stepped aside, avoiding her touch. “No, thank you. I don’t need it.” “Evelyn, what is with that attitude?” my father barked, his voice sharp with anger. “You’ve been back with us for three years, and you still haven’t lost that bitter, sensitive pride from the gutter! Monica is trying to be kind to you, and you treat her like this?” Wyatt was busy adjusting his camera, not even looking up. “Dad, don’t waste your breath on her. When we get to Iceland, I’m only taking photos of Monica anyway. Even if Evelyn freezes to death, I won’t waste a single frame on her.” When we returned home, the dining table was laden with a massive seafood feast to celebrate the approval of our visas. There were oysters, lobster tails, and a large bowl of steamed crab cakes. I stood by the table, making no move to sit down. “I had stomach surgery last month,” I said quietly, looking at my mother. “The doctor strictly warned me not to eat raw or cold seafood for at least six months.” There wasn’t a single dish on the table that I could safely eat. My mother’s hand paused, a brief flicker of guilt crossing her face, but it was quickly replaced by irritation. “We are celebrating a wonderful trip, and you have to ruin the mood with your illnesses? It was a minor surgery! A little seafood isn’t going to kill you. Stop being so delicate!” She waved over a maid. “Go heat up some of yesterday’s leftover porridge for her.” As I stared at the bowl of sour, day-old porridge, a wave of nausea hit my stomach. After dinner, Monica directed the staff to line up five massive suitcases in the center of the living room, and the family gathered around to pack them with snacks and designer winter wear. The spacious room was so crowded with their belongings that there wasn’t even a path for me to walk through. I knew then, with absolute certainty, that I had no place in this house. “Oh, my head… I feel so dizzy…” Monica murmured, pressing her hand to her forehead as she collapsed onto the plush sofa. My mother let out a sharp cry of alarm, and the entire room erupted into chaos. Wyatt rushed to hold her up, while my father barked orders at the butler to fetch the medical kit. They acted as though she were facing a terminal crisis, when in reality, she was simply experiencing a mild sugar drop from staying up late to look at travel blogs. I stood at the corner of the hallway, shivering as the cold wind drifted in from a half-open window. A sharp, familiar pain shot through my right knee. It was the chronic joint pain I had developed when I was twelve, after falling into an icy creek while gathering wild herbs in the high desert. Whenever the weather turned damp or I grew exhausted, the pain in my bones became almost unbearable. I limped back to my room and pulled open my nightstand drawer, searching for the herbal patches I had bought to manage the pain. But the drawer was completely empty. All ten boxes of the specialized patches I had purchased with my own meager savings were gone. Sweating from the pain, I limped back to the living room. My eyes swept over Monica’s open suitcase, and there, tucked into a side pocket, were the familiar brown paper boxes. I walked over, reaching out to reclaim my medication. Before my fingers could touch the box, my mother delivered a sharp, stinging slap to my hand. My skin immediately began to swell and redden. “What do you think you’re doing? Those are Monica’s heating patches for the cold weather!” she snapped, shielding the suitcase with her body. I gasped from the pain, forcing myself to explain. “Mom, those aren’t regular heat patches. They contain raw aconite and thunder god vine root. It’s a high-potency prescription herbal patch specifically formulated for severe joint pain!” “If someone without the condition uses them, they can cause severe skin ulcerations and even systemic toxicity!” “Stop making up these ridiculous stories!” Wyatt sneered, standing up to block me. “Evelyn, you really will resort to any lie just to steal from Monica, won’t you? Monica is going to a freezing place like Iceland. If she gets cold because of you, can you even afford to make it up to her?” Monica leaned back against the cushions, tears spilling down her cheeks. “Evelyn, if you’re really going to fight me over a few heating patches, I’ll give them back. I know I’m just an outsider in this family anyway…” “Monica, don’t say that! These belong to you!” my father declared, turning a furious glare on me. “Get back to your room! Get out of our sight!” Looking at their stubborn, united front, I decided to stop fighting. Even if I told them the absolute truth, they would only see it as a malicious lie. I pulled my throbbing hand back and let the pain in my knee burn. I turned and limped back to my room without another word. If Monica chose to burn her skin off with those patches, she would have no one to blame but herself. Two days later, we had to go to the agency to verify our fingerprints. When I walked out of the house with my documents, they were already sitting in the family SUV. I walked up to the window and looked inside. The butler sat in the passenger seat, and the four of them occupied the remaining rows. The spacious cargo area and the footwells were completely packed with Monica’s carry-on bags and makeup cases. There wasn’t a single inch of space left for me. “There’s no room in the car,” my father said, rolling down the window with a frown. “And your cheap canvas bag will scratch Monica’s leather suitcases.” “Then how am I supposed to get there?” I asked, my voice flat. “Figure it out yourself! Find a rental bike outside the estate, or walk to the subway station!” my father snapped impatiently. “We are on a tight schedule. Do not be late!” The window rolled up, and the driver hit the gas. The tires rolled through a muddy puddle, splashing dirty water all over my face and my cheap jacket. I stood in the driveway, wiping the mud from my eyes as I watched the vehicle disappear. The very last spark of hope I had held for this family died in that puddle. The damp wind bit through my clothes. I didn’t search for a bike, and I didn’t walk to the subway. I turned around and walked back into the empty house. My body was shaking from the cold, and my throat felt dry. I went to the kitchen, poured a glass of cold water, and swallowed two cold tablets. The bitter taste coated my tongue, but it was nothing compared to the bitterness in my heart. My phone vibrated in my pocket. It was a notification from the family group chat. Five minutes ago, they had arrived at the airport lounge. The chat was flooded with photos: Monica eating pastries, Wyatt adjusting his camera lenses, and my mother discussing the premium travel insurance she had purchased for Iceland. Not a single person asked if I had found a ride, or if I was caught in the rain. I turned off the screen and went back to my dark room. Since I wasn’t going with them, it was time for me to leave. I knelt on the floor and pried away a loose piece of the baseboard under my bed. Hidden inside was a small iron box. This was the only piece of my past I had brought from the desert: a collection of hand-written folk songs my late adoptive mother, Martha, had penned for me, and her old, worn pocket watch. It was the only thing that had kept me going through three years of isolation in this house. But when my hand reached into the dark space, my fingers met nothing but cold, empty air. The box was gone. A sharp ringing sound filled my ears, and my heart seemed to stop. I bolted out of the room, running up the stairs toward the source of some faint noise on the second floor. When I reached the top of the stairs, my legs went rigid. Wyatt was standing in the hallway, throwing a paper airplane made from a sheet of yellowed paper. I could see Martha’s neat, looping handwriting covering the wings. Monica stood in front of the full-length mirror, a heavy metal chain around her neck. Suspended from the bottom of the chain was my adoptive mother’s old pocket watch. The glass cover of the watch had been crudely pried off, the delicate hands and face ripped out to expose the bare, gold gears. She was displaying it to Wyatt as if it were a trendy “steampunk” accessory. “You have to admit, Wyatt, this old junk actually looks incredibly chic once you modify it,” Monica said with a smirk. “What are you doing?!” I screamed, my eyes turning red with fury as I lunged toward them. My mother walked out of the adjacent room holding a pair of scissors, her brow furrowing in irritation. “What is all this screaming about? Your room was full of dusty, moldy garbage that made the entire first floor smell like a gutter. I had the maids clean it out. Is there a problem with that?” “That was my mother’s legacy! You stole it! You destroyed it!” My body was shaking so violently I could barely speak. I reached for the chain around Monica’s neck. “Give it back to me!” “Evelyn, are you insane?!” Wyatt yelled, stepping in front of Monica and shoving me back with all his force. “It’s just a piece of old brass! It’s an honor that Monica even wants to wear your trash! Why are you acting like a hysterical wild animal over a piece of garbage?” Monica shrank back, putting on a display of terror as tears spilled from her eyes. “Evelyn, I’m so sorry. I didn’t know this was so important to you. I’ll give it back, please don’t hurt me…” She fumbled with the clasp, her hands shaking, and the delicate watch slipped from her fingers, clattering onto the hardwood floor. As she tried to step back, her heavy designer boot landed directly on the exposed gears. A sharp crunch echoed through the hallway. The delicate inner workings of the watch were crushed into unrecognizable fragments. My breath caught in my throat. A dull, heavy pain bloomed in my chest, so intense that no tears could fall. “You ungrateful brat!” my father roared as he strode up the stairs, having heard the noise. He pointed a finger at my face, his expression contorted with rage. “You would threaten your own sister over a piece of country trash? You have completely humiliated this family!” “Guards! Lock her in the basement storage room! No one is to let her out until she learns how to behave!” Two burly security guards stepped forward, grabbing me by the arms and dragging me down the stairs. I didn’t fight them. My hand was clenched tightly around the sharp shards of glass I had gathered from the floor, the blood dripping from my palm and staining the white hallway carpet. The heavy metal door slammed shut, plunging the basement into absolute darkness. From upstairs, the faint sound of their laughter drifted down as they discussed what outfits they would wear to see the northern lights. I leaned against the cold stone wall and slid slowly to the floor. Over the next three days, the family acted as if I didn’t exist. Only the maid came once a day, sliding a piece of stale bread and a half-filled bottle of water under the door, as if she were feeding an animal. They were using isolation and physical confinement to force me to beg for their forgiveness. But they had entirely miscalculated. On the third evening, the sound of the front door closing echoed from upstairs. Tonight was the eve of their departure for Iceland. The family had booked the most exclusive restaurant in Boston to host a grand send-off celebration for Monica. The estate was finally completely silent. I pulled a bobby pin from my hair. Using the skills I had developed during my years in the dry country, and guided by the faint light of my phone’s low-battery screen, I manipulated the mechanism of the lock. With a soft click, the heavy padlock fell open. When I walked back up to the first floor, I didn’t call the police, and I didn’t wait to confront them. I walked into the living room, gathered every single piece of clothing and jewelry the Presleys had bought for me, along with our family portraits, and threw them into the fireplace, watching them burn to ash. I pulled the SIM card from my phone, snapped it in half, and tossed the device into the deep waters of the garden pond. Finally, I picked up the worn canvas bag I had brought with me from the desert three years ago. Fourteen hours later, I was sitting near the window of a long-distance train, watching the green hills fade into the endless, sun-baked plains of the Southwest. The wheels clattered against the iron rails, a rhythmic, beautiful sound that carried me away from my prison. The Presley family could keep their biological daughter’s title. I was going home.

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1 In my third year as a maid for the ultra-wealthy Sinclair family, I suddenly gained the ability to hear thoughts. The first voice belonged to matriarch Eleanor, walking toward her husband’s medical suite with saffron consommé. I’m moving early. Pin the murder on the maid. Not a dime for that little bitch. I nearly dropped the mop, hands sweating. Then younger daughter Julie sauntered down the stairs, flashing a sweet smile. Her inner voice sneered: In my past life, this stupid maid took the fall. I’ll use her again. I froze, neck hairs prickling. Head butler Arthur brushed past, his thoughts cold: Kill these two, frame the maid, forge a DNA test, and take the Sinclair fortune. The water glass in my hand shook violently. None knew Richard Sinclair, the patriarch lying in the suite, had a steady heartbeat. His mind roared: This life, I’ll find who tried to kill me! Four reincarnated people. Three murder plots. All aimed to make me the scapegoat. Since they wanted me dead, I’d strike first. … “Ivy, you psychotic, venomous bitch! How dare you poison Mr. Sinclair’s broth!” Eleanor’s shrill voice pierced the quiet of the mansion like acrylic nails gouging a chalkboard. A gold-rimmed bone china bowl flew right past my scalp and shattered violently against the wall behind me. The thick, golden broth splattered all over my uniform. I stood completely still. My fingers gripped the handle of the mop so hard my knuckles turned white. Ten minutes ago, I had heard Eleanor’s thoughts. To get ahead of her game, I had already swapped the poisoned consommé for a bowl of plain mushroom broth. The actual poisoned soup was currently sitting quietly in my insulated thermos, waiting to be used as hard evidence. But I never expected Eleanor to skip the lab tests entirely and just sentence me on the spot! Flanked by two heavily muscled bodyguards, Eleanor aggressively backed me into a corner. “I saw you sneaking around the kitchen with my own two eyes! You touched the serving pot!” “Spit it out! What kind of lethal filth did you put in there?” I took a deep breath, forcing myself to stay calm as I met her vicious glare. “Ma’am, I did not poison anything. That was just an ordinary mushroom broth.” “If you do not believe me, you can call the doctor right now to test the puddle on the floor!” Eleanor’s heavily contoured face twisted in pure rage. Her inner voice immediately rang out, frantic and malicious. [This dumb maid actually dares to talk back? Whatever, I was the one who poisoned it anyway. Whether it was saffron or mushrooms, she is not walking out of here on her own two feet today!] Eleanor let out a cold sneer and raised her hand, slapping me hard across the face. “You still dare to make excuses? You were the only one in the kitchen. If it wasn’t you, who else could it be?” The force of the slap was brutal. Stars danced in my vision, and the heavy, metallic taste of blood instantly flooded my mouth. The surrounding staff were too terrified to even breathe, all of them keeping their heads down as they backed away. Right at that moment, light footsteps echoed from the stairs. Julie walked down wearing a pure silk slip dress. “Mom, what is going on? Why are you so angry?” She covered her mouth, pretending to be absolutely horrified. But when her gaze shifted to me, her eyes gleamed with a sick, twisted excitement. Her thoughts were colder than a viper’s. [In the last life, this stupid maid took the fall. She is just as dumb this time around.] [Since the old bat has already started the show, I might as well add some fuel to the fire and weld this crime to the maid’s back for good!] Julie hurried over to her mother, gently rubbing Eleanor’s back to calm her down. “Mom, Ivy might have sticky fingers sometimes, but she wouldn’t have the guts to kill someone, right?” “Why don’t we search her room first? Maybe there is just some big misunderstanding.” I snapped my head up, staring at Julie in disbelief. Sticky fingers? She was blatantly framing me in front of everyone! My voice cracked from panic. “Julie, why are you making things up? I have never stolen a single cent from this house!” Before I could defend myself any further, the butler, Arthur, emerged from the hallway corner like a ghost. His wrinkled face was completely stiff, his eyes terrifyingly dark. A thought flashed through his mind, plunging me into a bath of ice water. [Make a scene. The bigger the better. Once I get rid of these two women and pin it on the maid, the Sinclair family’s billion-dollar empire will be all mine.] Arthur walked up to Eleanor and offered a slight bow. His tone carried undeniable authority. “Ma’am, Julie is right. For the absolute safety of Mr. Sinclair, we must thoroughly search the maid’s quarters.” “I have already sent the security team to look. We should have results momentarily.” A loud ringing echoed in my ears. It felt like a massive boulder was crushing my chest. This was not a spur-of-the-moment accusation. They had cast an inescapable net! Four people, three venomous plots, and their target was surprisingly unanimous. They all wanted me to die as the scapegoat! My face twisted in sheer desperation as I tried to push my way out. “This is illegal! I didn’t poison anyone, and you have no right to search my private property!” “If you touch my things, I am calling the cops right now!” Eleanor looked at me as if I had just told the funniest joke in the world. She eyed me with pure disdain. “The cops? In this house, my word is the law!” “Hold this crazy bitch down!” The two bodyguards lunged forward like hungry wolves, aggressively twisting my arms behind my back. I struggled wildly. My knees slammed into the freezing marble floor so hard my bones cracked under the pressure. A few minutes later. A young maid ran out from the direction of my room, looking absolutely frantic. She held a small white plastic bottle high in the air, her voice trembling. “Ma’am! Mr. Arthur! We found this hidden under Ivy’s mattress!” “The label is entirely in Cyrillic, but it looks like some kind of highly toxic chemical!” My pupils shrank as I locked eyes with the bottle. That wasn’t mine! I didn’t even know how to read Russian! Julie covered her lips, letting out a wildly exaggerated gasp. “Oh my god. Ivy, you were actually hiding lethal poison in your room?” “My father treated you so well. How could you be so evil?” Eleanor reached her boiling point. She snatched the bottle and smashed it brutally against my forehead. “The evidence is right here! What else do you have to say for yourself now?” “I am going to beat you to death today, you murdering little slut!” Her sharp manicured nails dug deep into my flesh, the searing pain making my whole body violently shake. I forced my head up. Tears and fresh blood mixed together, blurring my vision. Through gritted teeth, I glared at their hypocritical faces. “That bottle is not mine! Someone planted it!” “You haven’t even checked it for fingerprints! You can’t just declare me guilty based on nothing!” Arthur let out a cold laugh. He walked slowly toward me, looking down at me from his high horse. “Ivy, we have witnesses and physical evidence. Are you still going to be stubborn?” “Take her down to the wine cellar. Lock her up until Mr. Sinclair wakes up to deal with her.” 2 The cellar was freezing and damp, the air thick with the pungent smell of mildew. The two bodyguards dragged me in like a dead dog and threw me heavily onto the cold concrete floor. My forehead was still steadily oozing blood, and half of my face had gone completely numb from the swelling. “You can’t lock me up like this! I am innocent!” Ignoring the agonizing pain, I scrambled up and threw myself at the heavy iron door just as it was about to swing shut. “There are cameras in the main hall! There are cameras outside the kitchen!” “Just pull the security footage! It will prove I never touched that bottle and I never poisoned the soup!” Outside the iron bars, Arthur’s footsteps paused. He turned around and offered me a spine-chilling, artificial smile through the metal grating. “Cameras?” He purposely lowered his voice, his tone dripping with mockery. “Ivy, did that hit to the head make you stupid?” “We had electrical maintenance this morning. All the cameras short-circuited and died half an hour ago.” My body stiffened. I stared into his completely lifeless eyes with pure horror. He had planned everything! A smug thought flashed through Arthur’s mind. [Idiot. I cut the power to the servers myself. Even if the cops show up, they won’t find a single thing.] [Just be a good girl and wait to die in here. Once those two women drop dead from the poison, I will send you straight to hell with them.] “You sick bastard!” I was shaking with rage. My hands gripped the iron bars so tightly my fingernails began to crack. “Arthur, karma is real! Do you really think you can play God?” He completely ignored my screaming. He simply turned to the bodyguards and issued a cold command. “Keep an eye on her. Until the Madam says so, do not even give her a drop of water.” With a loud metallic clank, the heavy lock secured the door, plunging the cellar into deathly darkness. I collapsed onto the floor in despair, gasping for air. Fear wrapped around my heart like a venomous snake, squeezing tighter and tighter. But I knew I couldn’t afford a breakdown right now. The second I gave up, I was truly dead. I fumbled around in the dark, forcing my brain to work at maximum speed. The poisoned consommé I had swapped earlier was still hidden in a secret compartment under my bed frame. That was my only wild card! If I could just get that thermos, I could prove Eleanor was the one who poisoned the soup! I don’t know how much time passed before the sharp clicking of high heels echoed outside the door. A blinding beam from a heavy-duty flashlight pierced through the metal grating. Julie stood outside in her silk slip dress, looking down at my pathetic state. “Tsk, tsk. Look at you, Ivy. What a pitiful sight.” She pinched her nose, unable to hide the sheer disgust on her face. “I actually feel a bit sorry for you. After all, you are just a maid working for minimum wage.” I cautiously backed away, glaring at her coldly. “What kind of sick game are you playing now, Julie?” She sighed and tossed a piece of stale, hardened bread through the bars. “What game? I just took pity on you and brought you a snack.” “All you have to do is confess. Just admit that you got greedy and wanted to kill my dad for a piece of the inheritance.” “I promise, when the cops get here, I will put in a good word for you so you get a lighter sentence.” She was speaking with such fake generosity. But in my ears, I could hear the most vicious, roaring thoughts echoing from the deepest, darkest corner of her mind. [Hurry up and confess, you stupid bitch! The second you sign that paper, I will have someone slit your throat in county jail!] [As soon as that old bat finishes her herbal tonic and dies from the poison, the entire Sinclair fortune will be mine!] My skin crawled. A strong wave of nausea hit my stomach. This twenty-year-old girl possessed a mind so twisted and evil it was beyond comprehension! I kicked the stale bread right back to the iron door. “Save your hypocritical acting, Julie.” I lifted my chin, meeting her gaze without an ounce of retreat. “I will die before I confess to something I didn’t do.” “Do you really think the filthy little secrets between you and your mother will stay buried forever?” Julie’s face dropped for a split second before she pointed her hostility right back at me. “You ungrateful piece of trash!” “If you want to die so badly, I will happily grant your wish!” She angrily kicked the iron door, turning to scream at the bodyguard beside her. “Tie her hands up! Let’s see how tough she acts then!” The two bodyguards unlocked the door and rushed in, violently pinning me to the ground. Thick, rough hemp rope was pulled brutally tight around my wrists, tearing my skin open. The pain was excruciating. Wearing a sinister grin, Julie stepped closer and closer in her expensive heels. She raised her foot, bringing the sharp stiletto heel down hard on the back of my hand, grinding it into the concrete. “Ah!” A blood-curdling scream ripped from my throat. Tears poured uncontrollably down my face. “Scream! Keep screaming!” Julie laughed like an absolute maniac. Her voice was laced with a twisted, sadistic pleasure. “In this house, if I say you are the killer, you are the killer!” “You are nothing but a dog meant to take the fall for me!” 3 The searing pain nearly made me pass out, but I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to let out another cry. I stared at Julie’s distorted, overly excited face, etching her cruelty into my memory. Just as she raised her foot to stomp on my other hand, a piercing, high-pitched alarm echoed from the second floor! It was the critical alert from the private medical suite! Julie froze mid-motion. “What is going on? Is the old bastard finally dead?” She scrambled toward the stairs, running so fast she lost one of her heels and didn’t even bother to pick it up. The two bodyguards exchanged nervous glances, immediately letting me go to chase after her. I lay on the freezing concrete, taking deep, jagged breaths. The back of my hand was a mangled mess of blood and torn skin. The medical alarm? Something happened to Mr. Sinclair? No, that was impossible! I distinctly remembered that the man lying in that bed had a heartbeat as steady as an athlete’s. He was playing possum! This sudden alarm had to be his doing. He was drawing the snakes out of the grass! A few minutes later, chaotic footsteps thundered on the stairs again. “Drag that venomous bitch up here!” Eleanor’s hysterical screech tore through the floorboards. Like a broken ragdoll, I was dragged all the way up the cellar stairs and tossed into the grand, luxurious living room. The massive crystal chandelier blinded me for a second. The family doctor, Dr. Harding, stood in the center of the room, sweating profusely while clutching a freshly printed medical report. “Ma’am, Mr. Sinclair’s blood work suddenly showed extreme abnormalities. He is showing signs of imminent organ failure!” “This is absolutely a reaction to heavy metal poisoning!” The moment the words left his mouth, Eleanor charged at me like a wild animal. She grabbed a fistful of my hair and slammed my head brutally against the solid marble coffee table. “You bitch! What did you feed him! Give me my husband back!” A sickening thud echoed through the room. The wound on my forehead split open again. Fresh blood ran down the bridge of my nose and into my mouth, the salty, copper taste making me want to gag. My head was spinning, but I used every ounce of strength I had left to scream. “I didn’t do it! He has been on a feeding tube for days. The doctor mixes all his nutritional fluids. I don’t even have access to them!” I tried desperately to pull away from her demonic grip, my face twisted in panic. “Why are you trying to pin this on me, Eleanor? You know exactly what you did!” Eleanor’s movements hitched. A flash of panic crossed her eyes. Her shrill inner voice screamed in her head. [Did this little tramp figure it out? Impossible! No one saw me slip the poison in!] [No, I cannot let her keep running her mouth. I have to kill her right now!] She snapped her head toward the butler, her eyes wide with madness. “Arthur! Get the confession letter! Force her hand down and make her sign it!” “If anything happens to my husband today, I will bury her entire family with him!” Arthur remained expressionless as he pulled a pre-prepared legal document from his briefcase. He walked over to me, his voice as cold as iron. “Ivy, just sign it. It will save you a lot of physical suffering.” “Admit that you poisoned him because you were jealous of the Madam’s lifestyle, and the Sinclair family will at least leave you with a whole corpse.” Looking at the densely typed confession, I actually laughed through the pain. They had already written out the entire script for me! “In your dreams!” I spat a mouthful of bloody saliva right into Arthur’s face. “You are a bunch of murderers. Do you really think you can hide the truth forever? The police will figure it out!” Arthur slowly wiped the bloody spit from his cheek. His eyes instantly turned murderous. “You ungrateful piece of trash.” He raised his heavy leather shoe and kicked me squarely in the stomach. A violent spasm folded my body in half. I curled up on the floor, unable to even scream, only dry-heaving in sheer agony. Just as Arthur prepared to stomp on my fingers to force my signature, Julie, who had been watching coldly from the sidelines, suddenly let out a blood-curdling shriek. “Ah! It hurts! My stomach hurts so much!” Her knees buckled. She crashed heavily onto the floor, clutching her stomach as she thrashed around wildly. A second later, she gagged and violently vomited a massive pool of black blood! The pristine white rug was instantly ruined. Eleanor screamed in absolute terror, dropping to the floor and pulling her daughter into her arms. “Julie! What is wrong? Don’t scare Mommy!” Julie was convulsing, her fingers clawing frantically at her own throat, her eyes bulging out of her head. Her inner thoughts were a chaotic mess of pure terror. [What is happening? I only put the poison in the old bat’s herbal tonic! Why am I being poisoned?] [Did I… Did I drink from the wrong bowl? Help! I don’t want to die!]

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1 Five minutes before the freight train crushed me against the tracks, I somehow managed to dial my boyfriend’s number. Ten years in the future. “Tristan, help me… the train is coming…” A baby’s sharp cry echoed through the receiver, layered beneath Tristan’s tightly repressed fury. “Ariel, are you done? Milly just pushed out a baby, and you decide right now is the perfect time to put on this psycho act?” “Are you seriously trying to compete with a two-hour-old infant for my attention?” “I blew my early admissions interview for Yale ten years ago to save your life. Are you trying to ruin the life I have now, too?” Blinding white light pierced the darkness at the end of the tracks, stinging my eyes. Over the phone, Tristan was still mocking me. “Milly’s weak. I need to get her transferred to a private recovery suite.” “Ariel, I dragged your pathetic life back from the Grim Reaper himself ten years ago. I didn’t save you so you could use your life to blackmail and manipulate me today. Cut the crap. You make me sick.” The line went dead. Five minutes were up. I stared at the roaring, massive steel machine hurtling toward me, and a bitter, self-deprecating laugh escaped my lips. So, the boy who once traded his bright future for my life now saw me as a stumbling block to his happily ever after. If that was the case, I would just give it back. … I died on those tracks at the age of seventeen. Five minutes before my death, I had dialed the Tristan from ten years in the future. The thick hemp rope dug viciously into my wrists. My back was pressed against the freezing steel rails, sharp gravel slicing into my flesh. The wind howled across the barren field, carrying the sickening stench of wet rust and rotting mud. The automated voice from the distant station platform echoed through the night. “Approaching train. Five minutes.” Five minutes. I had exactly five minutes before I was pulverized into a stain on the tracks. Fighting through the agony, I scraped my fingers against the dirt until my nails tore and bled, finally nudging my old phone out of my jacket pocket. I knew Tristan’s number so well I typed it blindly on the cracked screen. The call connected. But the voice that greeted me wasn’t Tristan’s bright, familiar tone. It was the loud, piercing wail of a newborn baby. My mind went completely blank. Why was there a baby with Tristan? But the primal instinct to survive overrode my confusion. I opened my mouth, but the metallic taste of blood flooded my throat, choking my words into broken syllables. “Tristan, help…” “The train… it’s coming…” The line went dead silent for two seconds. Then came Tristan’s voice, laced with an icy, biting irritation. “Ariel, are you done?” I froze. It was his voice, but it wasn’t my Tristan. My Tristan would never speak to me with such venom. The tracks beneath me began to vibrate. A faint, rhythmic trembling that traveled through the steel directly into my spine. Time was running out. Yet Tristan was on the other end, interrogating me word by word. “Milly just gave birth. Her body hasn’t even recovered. Do you really have to pull this crazy stunt right now?” “What, are you jealous of a two-hour-old baby? Is that it?” Milly? A baby? The harsh wind stung my eyes, and tears spilled down my cheeks without warning. “No…” “Tristan, I’m tied to the tracks.” “The train is coming. It’s really coming!” “Please, call the cops, call anyone…” My desperate pleading was interrupted by a weak, feminine voice in the background. It was Milly. “Tristan, who is it? The baby is crying again…” Tristan’s tone instantly softened into a gentle cadence I had never heard before. “It’s nothing. Just an unimportant call. Don’t worry about it, just rest.” Then, his voice shifted back to absolute ice as he spoke into the receiver. “Ariel, ten years ago, I skipped my finals to save you. I lost my full-ride to Yale.” “Do you think ruining my life once wasn’t enough? Are you trying to destroy the life I have now?” Ten years ago? What did he mean, ten years ago? I was seventeen. So was he. That scholarship interview was supposed to be tomorrow. And Milly? Wasn’t she just the annoying sophomore who followed Tristan around, the girl he barely spared a glance? Why… The mechanical voice from the station drifted over again. “Approaching train. Three minutes.” A quiet voice in my head whispered the truth. Tristan didn’t want me anymore. I shook my head violently, trying to throw the terrifying thought away. No. Tristan wasn’t like that. My seventeen-year-old Tristan was the boy who carried me on his back through a torrential downpour when I had a fever, running two miles to the nearest clinic. The boy who shoved his last lunch card into my hand while he chewed on dry bread. The boy who, when I was cornered by local thugs in the alley, charged in with his backpack swinging, his eyes red and his voice completely hoarse from screaming. He had said, “Ariel isn’t trash.” He had said, “She has me.” But the Tristan on the phone was colder than the steel pressed against my spine. “Ariel, I am so completely sick of you.” “Milly is exhausted. I need to get her to a private suite.” “I snatched your life back from hell ten years ago.” “I didn’t do it so you could use it to threaten me today.” “Stop the act.” “You disgust me.” My blood turned to ice. The roar of the train was deafening now. So far away, yet terrifyingly close. A blinding sphere of white light erupted from the darkness, hurtling straight at me, so bright it burned my retinas. “Tristan…” I wanted to call his name one last time, but the phone only spit out a dial tone. Beep. Beep. Beep. He hung up. “Approaching train. One minute.” I lay alone on the freezing tracks. The violent shaking of the earth vibrated through my bones, the mechanical roar drowning out everything else. I suddenly remembered sophomore year. Tristan standing beneath the old brick school building, smiling up at my window. The afternoon sun rested on his shoulders. He looked so young, so full of unstoppable promise. “Ariel, once I get that Yale acceptance, we’re moving out East together.” “They have the best schools, the brightest city lights.” “I’m going to give you a real home.” Four seconds. Three seconds. Two seconds. The monstrous roar of the train swallowed the world. In the final second, I stopped struggling and closed my eyes in absolute despair. I’m sorry, Tristan. I guess I won’t get to see that home. … I didn’t feel any pain. When I opened my eyes again, I was floating in the sterile, blindingly white hallway of a hospital. A newborn’s cry echoed from a partially open door, piercing the quiet night like fine needles pricking the heart. I looked down at my hands. They were translucent. I was dead. I had died at seventeen, crushed on those tracks. Yet my soul had somehow drifted ten years into the future. Through the crack in the door, I saw Tristan’s tall frame blocking the entrance. He was gripping his phone so hard his knuckles were white, his face dark with suppressed anger. On the hospital bed, a pale Milly held a swaddled, wrinkled newborn. “Tristan, was it Ariel?” Tristan didn’t answer, but his rigid jawline was answer enough. Milly’s eyes immediately welled with tears. “Is she still mad at me? Mad that I… had your baby?” “I know she’s your wife.” Tristan rubbed his temples aggressively, his voice thick with exhaustion. “Stop overthinking.” “She’s just having another one of her psychotic episodes.” Floating by the doorway, I listened to them and slowly realized the truth. The man I had spoken to minutes ago wasn’t my seventeen-year-old boy. It was his twenty-seven-year-old self. My final, desperate plea for life was nothing more than another “psychotic episode” to him. My nose stung violently, but I couldn’t shed a single tear. Dead girls don’t cry. Milly looked down at the baby in her arms, fat tears dropping onto the blanket. “But I heard her mention a train…” “Tristan, what if she was telling the truth?” Tristan looked up. The dark circles under his eyes were heavy, making him look like a man who hadn’t slept peacefully in years. He stayed silent for a long time. Long enough that I actually thought he might run out the door to find me. But then he let out a cold, hollow laugh, dripping with exhaustion and mockery. “Ever since that kidnapping ten years ago, she’s used death to manipulate me.” “Slitting her wrists, swallowing pills, standing on the ledge of the roof.” “I am so sick of Ariel’s cheap tricks.” “She always comes home completely fine in the end, doesn’t she?” I froze in the air. Kidnapping? Slitting my wrists? Pills? I didn’t remember doing any of that. Did I somehow survive in this timeline, only to live another ten years as a deranged lunatic? A pathetic parasite who used self-harm to beg for a man’s attention? Milly bit her lip, asking softly, “Then… shouldn’t you at least call her back to check?” Tristan looked down at his phone screen. The screen was dark. The call had ended. He stared at my name for a long, long time, his grip so tight his fingers turned pale. Finally, he shoved the phone deep into his pocket with a ruthless finality. “No.” “It’s time she grew up.” Hearing those words, it felt like an invisible hand had carved a massive, gaping hole in my chest, letting the freezing wind howl through. The digital clock on the wall outside the room clicked forward. 2:05 AM. The exact minute I died. The exact minute I was permanently erased from his life. Tristan didn’t go to sleep right away. After the nurses moved Milly and the baby to a quieter private suite, he sat alone on a bench at the far end of the hallway. The hospital was dead quiet in the middle of the night. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. He hunched forward, burying his hands in his hair. His shoulders sagged heavily, radiating the aura of a man crushed under an invisible weight. The screen of the phone in his pocket lit up once. Then twice. No new calls. He finally pulled it out, opening his contacts and scrolling down to my name. Ariel. Underneath the name, there was a tiny sub-note. Little Liar. I drifted closer, watching his rough thumb gently trace over those two words again and again. I had no idea what had happened between us over these past ten years. But this older Tristan, who claimed to hate me to my core, still hadn’t deleted my number. He still kept a nickname that sounded more helplessly frustrated than truly hateful. 2:17 AM. Twelve minutes since my death. As if he couldn’t take the suffocating silence anymore, Tristan finally hit dial. “The number you are trying to reach is currently unavailable.” The automated female voice was utterly devoid of warmth. His brow furrowed deeply. He dialed again. Same result. A third time. A fourth. A fifth. He finally let out a low, frustrated growl, slamming the phone face-down onto the empty seat beside him. “Wow, Ariel. You’re really good at this.” “You even timed your silent treatment perfectly.” I crouched in front of him, looking up into his bloodshot eyes. “I’m not giving you the silent treatment.” “Tristan, I’m dead.” Of course, he couldn’t hear me. He just leaned his head against the cold hospital wall and closed his eyes. I wanted to reach out, to smooth the deep crease between his brows just like I used to. But my fingertips passed right through his skin. Nothing but thin air. Ten years ago, he stayed up all night with me in a hospital just like this. I had a violently high fever and was delirious. Tristan sat by my bed, wiping the sweat from my forehead with a warm towel over and over again. The doctor told him to get some sleep on the cot next door. He stubbornly shook his head. “If she wakes up and doesn’t see me, she’ll be scared.” Back then, his eyes held absolutely nothing but me. And now? Now, I was a cheap trick he was sick of seeing. An old, ugly scar he refused to look at. 3:00 AM. The hallway was so quiet I could hear my own heartbeat, if I still had one. A nurse rolled a cart into Milly’s room to change her dressings. Tristan practically shot up from the bench, following the nurse inside so fast he created a gust of wind. I floated by the door, watching him. The nurse was about to pick up the baby to weigh her, but Tristan stepped in front of her. With agonizing caution, he scooped the tiny, wrinkled bundle out of the bassinet. He looked ridiculously awkward. His arms were stiff, his back rigid. He held the infant like an active bomb rather than a fragile human being. But beneath that clumsiness was an overwhelming, tender care. Milly watched him from the bed, her eyes swimming with a gentle adoration I had never seen in her before. “Tristan.” Her voice was barely a whisper. “Give her a nickname.” Tristan looked down at the tiny, featureless face bundled in the blankets. He stayed silent for a long time. Long enough that I thought he would refuse. “Hope,” he finally said. “So she stays safe. Always.” My soul shuddered violently. It felt like someone had nailed me to the floor. A memory from a distant summer afternoon flashed through my mind, back by the bleachers of the old high school track. I was swinging my legs off the metal railing, looking down at Tristan as he filled out a calculus worksheet. “Tristan, if we ever have a baby, what would you name her?” His pen didn’t stop moving. “Hope.” “Why?” He finally looked up at me. The afternoon sun caught in his eyes, making them shine impossibly bright. “Because you’re always getting into trouble.” “I want you to be safe. I want to have hope.” He never forgot the name. He just gave it to someone else. When the sky began to lighten, Tristan finally went home. I followed him like a shadow, listening to the lock click open. A stagnant smell of stale air, prescription meds, and old takeout hit my face. The living room looked like it had been ransacked. The coffee table was cluttered with colorful pill bottles. Antidepressants, sleeping pills, and heavy sedatives I couldn’t even pronounce. Shattered glass glittered dangerously on the rug. Out on the balcony, the wind chime I had personally hung up was missing its longest string. The breeze slipping through the cracked window made it clank together in a discordant, broken melody. Our framed photo still hung on the wall. In the picture, I was wearing a pristine white sundress, smiling so hard my eyes were crescent moons. Tristan stood behind me, his hands resting awkwardly on my shoulders. He was trying to smile, but he looked completely out of his element. I forced him to take that picture on my seventeenth birthday. He said taking photos was stupid. But he still played along with my stupidity. The moment Tristan walked in, he dumped his jacket on the sofa, loosened his tie, and called out to the empty apartment. “Ariel.” Silence. He stopped taking off his shoes, his expression darkening inch by inch. “Stop hiding.” “I am not in the mood for your games today.” The apartment remained dead silent. Only the broken wind chime clanked stubbornly in the background. He frowned, striding aggressively into the master bedroom. The bed was perfectly made. The sheets were tucked in tightly without a single wrinkle. It looked like no one had slept in it at all. The closet door was slightly ajar. My half of the wardrobe was completely empty. The desk was wiped clean, save for a single, baby-pink notebook. My diary. Tristan stood frozen, staring at that diary for a long, long time. His back was as rigid as stone. Eventually, he reached out and flipped the cover open. Page one. The handwriting was mine, neat but slightly rushed. March 6th. Tristan didn’t come home for dinner again. I made his favorite beef stew. I waited from 6 PM to 11 PM. The food is ice cold. Milly posted a picture online. The caption said, “Late nights at the office are the hardest!” In the corner of the photo, there was a man’s hand. He was wearing the watch I bought Tristan for his birthday. He told me they were just coworkers. I believe him. But I still cried so hard I couldn’t sleep. Page two. April 12th. The psychiatrist says my PTSD is getting worse. I hallucinate. I constantly hear the deafening roar of a freight train right next to my ear. I have nightmares about the freezing steel tracks and the kidnapper’s sick laughter. I wake up screaming in the middle of the night, drenched in cold sweat. Tristan held me today and told me he was tired. Of course he’s tired. If he hadn’t given up everything to save me, he would be at Yale right now. He would be at the very top, living the dream everyone expected of him. Page three. May 20th. Milly is pregnant. She came to the apartment crying, begging me to let them be together. She said her baby couldn’t grow up without a father. I screamed at her to get out. I called her a homewrecker. But later, when I took the trash down, I saw Tristan gently guiding her into his car, hovering over her like she was made of glass. He looked up and saw me. His eyes were full of nothing but disappointment. Did I do something wrong again? Page four. June 1st. I asked for a divorce. Tristan’s eyes went red. He asked if I was trying to drive him into an early grave. He said, “Ariel, you owe me a life.” I finally understand. To him, I’m not his wife. I’m his unpaid debt. Tristan’s hand shook violently as he turned to the next page. Page five. July 8th. I dreamed about ten years ago again. If only I hadn’t made that phone call. If I had just died on those tracks, Tristan wouldn’t have missed his interview looking for me. He would have gone to Yale. He would be standing in the brightest, highest place in the world. He would have met someone who made him smile, someone who wasn’t a broken burden. If time could rewind. I would give my life back to him. The diary ended there. The last few lines were severely blurred by large, dried water stains. Like someone had been sobbing so uncontrollably they could barely grip the pen. Standing over the desk, the color drained completely from Tristan’s face. His Adam’s apple bobbed sharply. He opened his mouth, but no sound came out. After what felt like an eternity, he let out a low, venomous curse. It was quiet and cruel, squeezed through gritted teeth. “Ariel.” “Are you really trying to use this garbage to make me feel sorry for you?” “When are you finally going to let me go?” I floated behind him, watching his broad shoulders tremble. In a voice only I could hear, I whispered. “I already let you go.” “Tristan, I’m already dead.” The clock on the wall struck exactly 7:00 AM. It had been four hours and fifty-five minutes since my actual death. A bizarre, terrifying realization dawned on me. The world of ten years ago was actively devouring all traces of my existence in this timeline. As if on cue, the edges of the diary under Tristan’s hands began to blur, turning transparent. The first line of text vanished. Then the second. Tristan’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. As if the paper had caught fire, he clawed at the pages, trying desperately to physically grab the fading ink. But the words dissolved like sand slipping through his fingers, leaving behind nothing but blank, empty paper. Panic finally hit him. A raw, visceral terror I had never seen on his face before. “Ariel!” Tristan spun around like a trapped, feral animal, tearing through the small apartment. “Come out!” “I know you’re here!” “Ariel, stop! This isn’t funny anymore!” He violently yanked open every closet door, kicked open the bathroom, and even tore through the storage bins on the balcony. Nothing. Every single object in the apartment that belonged to me was vanishing right before his eyes. My pink toothbrush by the bathroom sink faded into thin air. My fluffy bunny slippers by the front door vanished. The pink umbrella he always stole from me on rainy days was gone. Tristan stumbled backward, hitting the wall. He looked up at our framed photo. The girl in the white sundress had disappeared. Only he remained, standing awkwardly in front of a blank background, looking totally alone. “Impossible…” He muttered, his face ashen. His hands shook uncontrollably as he unlocked his phone and opened the gallery. The photo of us watching the sunrise at the beach was gone. The picture of me laughing in front of the ugly birthday cake he baked me was gone. The candid shot he secretly took when I fell asleep on his shoulder was gone. He scrolled frantically. Out of thousands of pictures, every single image containing my face had either turned blank or altered to show him entirely alone. Finally, at the very bottom, there was only a single, ten-year-old news screenshot. The headline was glaring and absolute. “Local 17-Year-Old High School Girl Killed in Kidnapping Incident.” Tristan’s phone nearly slipped from his trembling hands. He tapped the image, his eyes locking onto the date of publication. Ten years ago. July 8th. The article detailed the tragedy clearly. The victim, Ariel, age 17. Police reports confirmed her final, desperate call for help was dialed to her classmate, Tristan. The call status: Unconnected. By the time authorities arrived, they found nothing but bloody scraps of clothing and a shattered cell phone by the tracks. Tristan stared at the word “Unconnected,” his breathing turning into jagged, violent gasps. “No.” “I answered it.” “I know I answered it…” His mind was spiraling into chaos as the memory of last night’s call hit him with the force of a physical blow. My voice, trembling against the howling wind. “Tristan, help me…” “The train is coming…” What did he say to me? He told me I disgusted him. He told me to stop acting. He asked if I was trying to ruin the life he had now because ruining his past wasn’t enough. The horrifying truth finally snapped into place. My final wish, after ten years of agony, was to die on those tracks so I wouldn’t ruin his future. And now. My wish came true.

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1 On my wedding day, my groom walked out on me. He had to accompany his ex-girlfriend to fulfill the final clause of their so-called Breakup Agreement. A spontaneous, drop-everything getaway. I gripped his cuff, my knuckles turning white. “Can’t you just wait until the ceremony is over? It’s only half an hour away.” He pried my fingers off his sleeve one by one. His tone was condescending, like he was coaxing an unreasonable child. “Aubrey, this is the last time I have to fulfill a clause. I can’t break my promise.” “Once this trip is over, I will never owe her anything again.” “Wait for me to get back. I promise I will make it up to you with an even grander wedding.” With that, he pulled open his car door and sped away from the luxury hotel venue without a single backward glance. Watching the taillights disappear at the end of the road, a bitter smile tugged at my lips. Over the past five years, Carter had bailed on me no less than a hundred times. And every single time, it was to honor that ridiculous Breakup Agreement. But luckily, I had left myself an out this time. The new groom had already entered the venue. … “Why are your hands so cold?” A deep, gentle voice murmured beside my ear, carrying a faint but unmistakable trace of comfort. I snapped back to reality, pulling my gaze away from the tightly shut doors of the banquet hall. Harrison Cole stood beside me. He was dressed in an immaculately tailored, high-end black tuxedo, looking down at me with dark, steady eyes. His warm palm covered my icy fingers, giving them a reassuring squeeze. I shook my head, forcing down the last bit of residual bitterness I held for Carter. “I am fine, Harrison.” “We can start.” Following the officiant’s enthusiastic opening announcement, the heavy double doors of the grand hall slowly pushed open. The spotlight hit my white gown. With my hand resting in the crook of Harrison’s arm, I walked step by step toward the stage overflowing with fresh white roses. A ripple of shock swept through the seated guests. Especially at the head table, where Carter’s parents sat. The color drained from their faces entirely, and they practically shot up from their chairs. Carter’s mother widened her eyes, her lips trembling violently, but the sheer number of high-profile guests in the room forced her to swallow her outrage. Of course they knew the groom had been swapped. But there was absolutely nothing they could do. They could only sit there and watch me finish this play. The ceremony was heavily simplified from my original plan. There were no tearful strolls down memory lane, no dramatic vows of eternal love. There was only the officiant’s crisp, efficient script. Then came the ring exchange. Harrison pulled a simple, elegant platinum band from a velvet box. It was not the massive, multimillion-dollar diamond Carter had custom-ordered for me. He gently took my left hand and slid the ring onto my ring finger. The cool metal resting against my skin made me feel unexpectedly grounded. “Happy wedding day, Aubrey,” he murmured in a voice meant only for the two of us. I looked up, meeting his deep, tranquil gaze, and replied softly. “Happy wedding day to you too, Harrison.” I completely canceled the traditional champagne toast rounds. Using a quick excuse, I retreated to the bridal suite alone. The moment I pushed the door open, the phone in my purse started buzzing frantically. The name “Carter” flashed on the screen. The phone rang four or five times. Just as it was about to go to voicemail, I lazily tapped the answer button. The chaotic announcements of an airport terminal immediately flooded through the speaker. “Aubrey, why did it take you so long to pick up?” Carter’s voice carried its usual smooth cadence, utterly devoid of any guilt for abandoning his own bride on their wedding day. It sounded as casual as if he had just stepped out for groceries. I sat down at the vanity, quietly staring at my reflection in the mirror, taking in the intricate details of my gown. “I was on stage,” I replied flatly. “On stage?” He paused for a second before letting out a soft chuckle. His tone was dripping with helpless indulgence. “I know you are mad. Did you have the officiant run through the motions so you could put on a one-woman show to protest?” “Aubrey, you are usually much more mature than this.” “Stella had a sudden panic attack in the VIP lounge. She insisted that she needed those gluten-free macarons from that artisan bakery downtown to calm down. I had to drive halfway across the city to get them.” “You know she has moderate clinical depression. She can’t handle emotional distress.” “Besides, this is the very last clause of our Breakup Agreement. A farewell trip.” “I promised her. As soon as I walk her through this trip to Iceland, we will go our separate ways forever, and I will be entirely yours.” “Can’t you just be the bigger person and wait for me a little longer?” The words flowed out of his mouth effortlessly, full of self-righteous justification. Over the past five years, I had heard variations of this speech countless times. I had asked him more than once why he had to religiously follow that absurd agreement. He would always look at me with pitiful eyes and say that Stella was just too fragile. If he didn’t help her, she wouldn’t survive. As if Stella was a delicate porcelain doll. And I, Aubrey, was made of reinforced steel, completely indestructible. “Carter.” A weak, breathy female voice suddenly echoed through his end of the line. “The macarons are a bit dry. I want some room-temperature lemon water…” It was Stella. “Okay, sit right here and don’t move. I will go buy some,” Carter replied immediately, his voice melting into pure tenderness. When he spoke into the phone again, his tone shifted right back to a cold, businesslike brush-off. “Aubrey, Stella is calling for me. Just explain the wedding situation to my parents, tell them a corporate emergency came up.” “When I get back, I will rent out the entire Amalfi Coast and throw you the most spectacular wedding.” “Be a good girl. Don’t cause trouble.” I stared at my pale, stiff reflection in the mirror. A mocking smirk curled the corners of my lips. “Carter, you don’t need to throw another wedding.” A muffled thud came from his side, like someone had bumped into him. “What does that mean? Aubrey, are you throwing another tantrum?” “I already told you, this is the last time!” His voice flared with impatience. I didn’t raise my voice. I just interrupted him with absolute, chilling calmness. “I mean, have a wonderful trip.” With that, I hung up. I pressed my finger against the screen and permanently moved his number to my blocked list. Taking off the diamond tiara, I slowly began dismantling my elaborate bridal hairstyle. The door behind me pushed open softly. Harrison walked in holding a warm glass of honey water and set it gently on the vanity. “Still waiting for him?” I picked up the glass and took a sip. The warmth slid down my throat, driving away the chill in my chest. “No more waiting,” I said, turning to look at him. “Harrison, are you free tomorrow to finalize our marriage license paperwork?” 2 Leaving the hotel, I did not head back to the luxury estate Carter and I were supposed to move into as newlyweds. Instead, I took a cab back to the downtown apartment we had rented together for the past four years. Even though we bought the estate outright two years ago, this small apartment was the place that actually held all our memories. And now, I was going to personally wipe those memories clean. Pushing the door open, a pair of matching couple’s slippers still sat neatly in the entryway. Carter had specifically ordered them online last month, customized with our initials. I stepped right over them and walked barefoot into the living room. The finalized guest list we had poured over last night was still scattered across the coffee table. His suit jacket from yesterday’s fitting was draped casually over the arm of the sofa. Everything looked like a perfect illusion of happiness, right up until that jarring phone call shattered it all this morning. I dragged my suitcase out and began packing my life away, piece by piece. Clothes, skincare, reference books. I actually didn’t have that much stuff. It barely filled half the suitcase. Ironically, every corner of this apartment was littered with traces of Stella. I pulled open a drawer to grab my passport, but a blue velvet box accidentally tumbled out. It hit the hardwood floor with a sharp crack, the lid popping open. Inside lay a diamond-encrusted necklace. The pendant was shaped like a star. My hands froze. Carter had bought this for our three-year anniversary. At the time, he had looked at me with eyes full of guilt. “Aubrey, I bought this necklace for you. But Stella saw it, and she said it perfectly matched her name. She cried and begged to borrow it for a few days. You are always so understanding, you won’t mind, right?” Eventually, the necklace was returned, only to be casually tossed into the back of this drawer and never mentioned again. My face remained entirely blank as I kicked the necklace straight into the trash can. I went back to digging for my passport. I finally found it on the bottom shelf of the bookcase. Pulled out right alongside it was a neatly folded piece of A4 paper. The bolded black title read: Breakup Agreement. I stared coldly at the utterly ridiculous clauses printed on the page. “Clause 1: Post-breakup, the male party must accompany the female party to the movies once a month until she heals from the heartbreak.” “Clause 7: Whenever the female party falls ill, the male party must be on call 24/7 and cannot decline under any circumstances.” “Clause 19: The male party must accompany the female party on a farewell trip from her bucket list.” At the bottom of the page, Carter’s signature was bold and sharp. Next to it, he had drawn a tiny smiley face. How touching. The absolute best ex-boyfriend in the world. I crumpled the paper into a tight ball and tossed it perfectly into the trash can, right on top of that star necklace. Just as I zipped up my suitcase, the smart speaker in the living room pulsed with a green light. “Received new photos from the shared cloud.” It was a family sync setting Carter had set up to prevent his phone storage from filling up. Any photo he favorited on his phone would automatically cast to the home devices. Because my phone was tied to the same system, the digital display lit up instantly. It was a live photo album from Iceland. In the pictures, the Northern Lights were breathtakingly vibrant. Carter was wearing a heavy parka, holding Stella tightly in his arms to shield her from the snow. Stella’s cheeks were flushed pink from the cold, but she was smiling radiantly. I tapped the live photo. Stella’s playful voice rang out through the speaker. “Carter, the aurora is so beautiful! If only it could stay like this forever.” Carter’s deep, gentle voice immediately followed. “As long as you are happy, I will bring you here to see it every single year.” I stared at the screen in silence. Five seconds later, the display went dark. Just yesterday, he had sworn to me that this would be the final time he fulfilled a clause. Today, under the Northern Lights, he was promising her forever. I opened the system settings and ruthlessly kicked my account out of the family sharing group. The moment I finished, my phone rang. It was an unknown local number. I tapped the answer button. “Aubrey, it’s Stella.” Stella’s voice was weak and fragile, laced with a careful, probing hesitance. “Carter just went to heat up some milk for me. I sneaked out and used the hotel lobby phone to call you.” I didn’t say a word. I just listened to her perform. “I am so, so sorry, Aubrey. I honestly had no idea today was your wedding day.” “My depression flared up yesterday. I felt like I couldn’t breathe, like I was going to die, so I panicked and called Carter.” “He was just so worried about me. He didn’t even change his clothes before rushing to the airport.” “Please don’t be mad at him. If you have to blame someone, blame my useless, sick body.” She punctuated her speech with two weak, pathetic coughs. I held the phone to my ear. My tone was as casual as if we were discussing the weather. “Stella, if you actually felt sorry, you wouldn’t be calling me right now just to gloat.” The breathing on the other end hitched. She clearly hadn’t expected the usually tolerant and quiet Aubrey to be so bluntly vicious. “Aubrey, you misunderstood me…” Her voice immediately took on a tearful waver. “Stella? Who are you talking to?” Carter’s voice suddenly cut through the background, layered with obvious panic. A second later, the phone was snatched away. “Aubrey!” Carter’s voice instantly dropped to freezing temperatures, dripping with arrogant accusation. “Stella was nice enough to call and apologize, and you verbally abuse her? She is crying so hard she can barely breathe!” I looked down at the suitcase by my feet. “I didn’t say anything to abuse her.” “You didn’t say anything, and she is crying?” he sneered. “Aubrey, I thought you were a generous person. I never realized you were so petty you couldn’t even tolerate a sick woman!” “Stella is just too kind. She felt guilty for taking me away. Did you really have to be so vindictive?” He fired off accusations one after another, as if I had committed an unforgivable crime. I couldn’t even be bothered to defend myself. I moved to hang up. But suddenly, he softened his tone, as if he were granting me some grand, merciful favor. “Forget it, I am not going to fight with you. I need you to go to Stella’s apartment right now.” I frowned. “Why?” “No one has fed Stella’s Ragdoll cat in two days. Go over there and fill the food bowl. The passcode is my birthday.” He paused, then added as if it were the most natural request in the world. “Oh, and scoop the litter box while you are there. Stella is a neat freak, so make sure it is spotless.” “Did you hear me, Aubrey?” 3 The air in the apartment seemed to completely freeze. He wanted me to go to his ex-girlfriend’s apartment and scoop her cat’s crap. On my wedding night. A memory from a brutal winter two years ago suddenly surfaced in my mind. I had caught a severe flu. My fever spiked to 103 degrees, and I didn’t even have the strength to get out of bed. I called Carter, begging him to come home and take me to the emergency room. He had sounded incredibly annoyed on the phone. “Aubrey, Stella’s cat suddenly stopped eating. I have to take it to the vet for a full blood panel. You just have a fever. Take some Tylenol and sleep it off. Stop acting so spoiled.” That day, shivering and delirious, I had to call an ambulance for myself. And now, he actually had the audacity to bring up that damn cat. “Aubrey? Are you listening?” When I didn’t respond, that familiar impatience crept back into his voice. I took a deep breath, my tone dead flat. “Carter, do you honestly believe I was born to be the unpaid maid for you and your ex?” He froze on the other end of the line. He clearly hadn’t expected me to rebel. He went silent for two seconds before his voice spiked in volume. “What nonsense are you spewing now? I just asked you to feed a cat. Why do you have to blow everything out of proportion?” “You never used to be like this! Why are you so bitter and mean now?” “Stella is sick, and that cat is her emotional support! If something happens to it and her condition worsens, are you going to take responsibility?!” His emotional blackmail was as practiced and fluent as ever. It was so fluent it was laughable. “If the cat is so important to you, why don’t you fly back and feed it yourself?” I didn’t wait to hear another word. I hit the red button. With a quick swipe, I added the unknown local number to my blocked list. Grabbing the handle of my suitcase, I took one last look at the place I had called home for four years. I walked out, pulled the door shut, and locked it. Without a single shred of regret. Early the next morning. I got up before the sun and headed to a high-end bridal boutique downtown. I had originally booked an appointment today to pick up the custom reception gown Carter had personally designed for me. Even though I didn’t need it for a wedding anymore, I had already paid for it in full. I planned to bring it home and cut it up into cleaning rags. The moment I stepped inside, a familiar burst of laughter echoed from the lounge. “This is gorgeous! If she wears this for a photoshoot under the snowy mountains, it’s going to look absolutely killer.” It was Carter’s younger sister, Karina. She was lounging on the velvet sofa in the VIP section, holding an espresso and showing off a photo on her phone to her friend. “Obviously. My brother picked it out. He treats Stella like a literal princess.” When Karina saw me walk in, the smug smile froze on her face. But it only took a second for her to replace it with a theatrical, mocking grin. “Oh, look who it is. If it isn’t my almost-sister-in-law, Aubrey.” She put a heavy emphasis on the word “almost”. I ignored her completely and walked straight to the front desk. “Hi, I am here to pick up the custom gown for Aubrey.” The sales associate looked incredibly awkward, stammering as she flipped through the appointment ledger. Karina strutted over in her designer heels, her tone dripping with provocation. “Don’t bother looking, Aubrey. My brother had the dress overnighted to Iceland yesterday.” My hands stopped. I turned to look at her. “He took it?” “Yep.” Karina waved her phone smugly, shoving the screen right in my face. In the photo, Stella was wearing the stunning red reception dress that was meant for me. She stood against the backdrop of an Icelandic glacier, the red silk catching the wind perfectly. Carter was standing just out of frame, but his hand was visible, gently tucking a strand of windblown hair behind Stella’s ear. “Stella said she wanted to do a ‘goodbye to youth’ photoshoot,” Karina said with a sickly sweet giggle. “My brother thought that red dress would pop perfectly against the snow, so he just had it shipped over.” “You aren’t mad, are you, Aubrey?” “Stella is so sick. Just treat it like doing charity work. What is the big deal if she borrows it?” The heavily made-up friend next to her immediately chimed in. “Exactly. A woman who can’t even keep her man from running away at the altar shouldn’t be making a fuss over a piece of fabric.” “They are true soulmates. You were just the benchwarmer. Stop acting like the main character.” Their harsh, mocking voices were painfully loud in the quiet boutique. The sales associate kept her head down, too afraid to make eye contact. I looked at the familiar red dress on the phone screen, and suddenly, my chest felt completely hollow. Two months ago, Carter had stayed up for three nights straight with a sketchbook, refining that design for me. He had held my hands and said, “Aubrey, I designed this specifically for you. It’s the only one of its kind in the entire world.” Turns out, his “one of a kind” was easily transferable. I pulled my gaze away and looked at Karina. My voice was perfectly steady, without a single ripple of emotion. “Since your brother loves doing charity with other people’s property…” “Do me a favor and tell him that the remaining balance on that dress is forty thousand dollars. I expect it wired to my account by three o’clock this afternoon.” “As for the fifteen thousand dollar deposit, consider it my donation to Miss Stella’s medical bills. No need to thank me.” Karina stared at me, completely dumbfounded. She had clearly never seen me use money as a weapon before. “You… Aubrey, are you obsessed with money or something?! Does my brother not spend enough on you?!” I didn’t bother entertaining her tantrum. I turned on my heel and walked out the door. The moment I stepped onto the sidewalk, my phone buzzed with notifications from the Preston family group chat. Carter had just sent a massive digital cash gift to the chat. Followed immediately by a scenic photo. The caption read: “Wish fulfilled. Someone said the snow here looks like cotton candy.” The older relatives in the chat were completely silent, clearly too awkward to respond. Only Karina jumped in immediately to play cheerleader. “Carter! Stella looks stunning in that red dress! Some people could never pull off that kind of elegance.” I stared at the screen, my face void of expression as I tapped the top right corner. “Leave Group Chat.” Five seconds later, a barrage of private messages from Carter flooded my screen like rapid fire. “Why did you leave the family chat? Are you trying to embarrass us?” “Aubrey, what exactly is your problem these past few days?” “I just noticed you froze my secondary credit card, and you canceled our honeymoon suite in Bora Bora.” “Are you seriously using these petty tricks to force me to come home?” I looked at the endless wall of accusations on the screen, and a profound wave of exhaustion washed over me. A few taps of my finger. Delete Contact. The world was finally quiet. I looked up. The winter sun was a bit blinding. My phone buzzed one more time. It was a text from Harrison. “The house is clean, and your things have been moved in.” “What time are you coming home? I made soup.” 4 Three days later. Carter ended his trip to Iceland early. Maybe it was because I froze his card, or maybe it was because I had completely blocked him on every single platform. He finally sensed that something was genuinely wrong, and he dragged Stella on the first flight back to the city. At 2:00 PM, I was in the office finalizing my handover documents. The heavy glass doors of the open-plan office were suddenly shoved open. Carter marched in wearing a bespoke suit, striding with intense purpose. He was holding a massive bouquet of sunflowers. Those were Stella’s favorite flowers. He had probably just grabbed them out of the passenger seat on a whim. “Where is Aubrey?” he demanded sharply at the front desk. The moment he appeared, every single eye in the office darted toward my desk. Whispers broke out everywhere. After all, the CEO leaving his bride at the altar was already the biggest gossip in our social circle. I didn’t try to hide. I calmly closed the folder in my hands and looked up at him. He marched straight over and slammed the massive bouquet down on my desk. Yellow pollen scattered everywhere, dusting the surface of my official resignation form. “Aubrey, what exactly are you trying to prove?” He looked down at me, his tone heavy with exhaustion and a frustrated, parental kind of reprimand. As if I were the one throwing an irrational tantrum. “I went back to the apartment, and the passcode was changed. I went to the estate, and you didn’t leave a single piece of clothing behind.” “Blocking me, leaving the family group chat, canceling the cards.” He took a deep breath, visibly trying to force a softer, coaxing tone, just like he always used to. “I even cut the trip short and came back early. What more do you want?” “My farewell trip with Stella is over. I officially tore up the Breakup Agreement.” “From now on, I will only be good to you.” He reached across the desk, trying to grab my shoulders. “Stop making a scene. We will go reshoot our wedding photos this weekend. Pick a good date next month, and we will do the wedding all over again.” “Are you finally satisfied now?” Listening to his grand, merciful concessions, I couldn’t even summon the energy to be angry. This was Carter. He always believed he was entirely in the right. He believed that because he had fulfilled his ex-girlfriend’s “wishes” and was now lowering himself to comfort me, I should be crying tears of absolute gratitude. I stepped back, avoiding his hands completely. “Carter, you don’t need to do the wedding over again.” I pushed the sunflowers aside and picked up my resignation form. “I have already officially resigned from Apex Innovations. I am leaving the city tomorrow.” His hands froze in mid-air. The expression on his face shattered. “Resigned? Leaving?” He stared at me in disbelief, as if I had just told the most absurd joke in the world. “Are you out of your mind? Apex is something we built together! Where the hell are you going to go?” “You are throwing away your entire career just to spite me?” He lunged forward, trying to snatch the resignation form out of my hands. But the moment his hand clamped down on my wrist, his gaze locked onto my left hand. Right there, shining clearly under the office lights, was the platinum wedding band Harrison had given me. Carter’s pupils shrank violently. His face instantly darkened into a storm of fury. “What is that?” He stared dead at the ring, a microscopic sliver of panic bleeding into his voice. “Did you seriously buy some cheap piece of trash to wear just to piss me off?” “Aubrey, this little stunt is beyond childish!” I aggressively ripped my wrist out of his grip. “It’s not a cheap piece of trash. It’s my wedding ring.” I looked him dead in the eye, pronouncing every word with crystal clarity. “Carter, we are entirely, permanently over.” Instead of blowing up, he laughed. A strained, almost manic sound. “A wedding ring? With who? That random stand-in actor who didn’t even show his face at the wedding?” “Do you honestly think hiring some extra to put on a play is going to force me to apologize?” He was getting more agitated by the second. He whipped his head around, scanning my desk as if looking for evidence to expose my “bluff.” Then, his eyes landed on a half-open personal tax update form. It was standard paperwork required for HR upon resigning. There was a section titled: Marital Status & Spouse Details. Carter’s eyes locked onto that piece of paper. The color drained from his face inch by inch until he was paler than the paper itself. He snatched the form off the desk, his hands trembling so violently he couldn’t control them. The paper crumpled in his white-knuckled grip. “A copy of your… marriage certificate?”

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1 In my last life, the ventilator flatlined without a single warning sign. It was a weekend shift, just another routine surgery until the alarms shrieked. The patient’s oxygen levels plummeted. He died right there on the table. The entire hospital administration pointed their fingers squarely at me, claiming gross negligence. The dead man’s family dragged me by my collar through the pristine white halls, screaming that I was a murderer. I was paralyzed by shock. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I hadn’t even touched the machine. The biomedical engineering department ran tests for three days straight. They checked every wire, every valve, every circuit. Their conclusion was unanimous. The equipment was functioning perfectly. I was convicted and sent to prison. To pay off the astronomical civil settlement, my parents worked three grueling blue-collar jobs, day and night. They died on a construction site, their bodies simply giving out from exhaustion. When I opened my eyes again, the harsh glare of the overhead fluorescent lights made my eyes water. I was standing right outside that exact same operating room. I glanced down at the sterile gloves gripped in my trembling hands. The bloody memories of my previous life crashed into my skull. The coppery smell of the patient’s blood spraying across my face. The widow’s fingernails digging into my skin. The judge’s wooden gavel slamming down like a death sentence. The news of my parents collapsing on the cold concrete, which left me a broken shell fading away behind iron bars. Why did the ventilator just stop working? Why did it suddenly work perfectly when the engineers tested it? For the first time in my twelve-year career, a cold spike of dread pierced my chest. Cold sweat beaded on my forehead. The green light above the O.R. doors was glowing. I had exactly two hours to stop a murder. I spun on my heel and sprinted toward the nurse’s station. “Nancy, get me a replacement ventilator for O.R. 3!” The charge nurse didn’t even look up from her inventory clipboard. “Absolutely not. Pre-op is done. The equipment is sterilized. The anesthesiologist is waiting for you to scrub in.” I leaned over the counter and dropped my voice to a harsh whisper. “I have reason to believe that specific machine is compromised.” She finally lifted her head, eyeing me like I was a toddler throwing a tantrum. “Dr. Bennett, biomed did their monthly maintenance sweeps yesterday. Everything is certified. The patient is already under. You want to swap heavy machinery right now?” “I said, replace it!” My voice was shaking, my jaw clamped tight. Nancy slammed her clipboard onto the desk. “Look, Sarah. If you want to pull a stunt like this, get the Chief of Surgery to sign off. My trays are prepped. You want to delay the cut, that’s on your license.” Before I could argue, a heavy set of footsteps echoed behind me. “What’s the holdup? Why aren’t you scrubbed in?” It was Victor, our Senior Attending and the man in charge of scheduling. He marched over with an impatient scowl. “Dr. Garfield, I want a different ventilator in that room,” I said. His eyebrows pulled together into a hard knot. “Why?” “My gut tells me this one is going to fail.” He let out a dry, incredulous laugh, looking me up and down. “Your gut? You’re a senior surgeon, Sarah. You’re operating on instinct now? The family is out in the waiting room praying to whatever god will listen, anesthesia has been running for twenty minutes, and you’re talking to me about a hunch?” I held my ground, saying nothing. He took a step closer, crowding my space. “Do you not trust the biomed guys, or do you not trust me for putting you on this rotation?” The hallway was dead silent, save for the rhythmic beeping of the heart monitor leaking through the O.R. doors. “I am prioritizing patient safety,” I insisted. “Safety?” Victor scoffed. “Do you even know your patient’s chart? Sixty years old, gallstones with chronic inflammation, neglected for three years. His cardiopulmonary function is garbage. Every ten minutes you stand out here arguing, his anesthesia risk doubles. Don’t lecture me about safety.” The tension in the corridor was suffocating. Nancy was staring. Victor was waiting. The anesthesiologist inside was waiting. The family was waiting. They all thought I had lost my mind. I took a deep, shuddering breath. “Fine. I’ll go in.” I locked eyes with Victor. “But I’m not taking the lead. You are.” 2 I pushed through the heavy doors into the operating room. The patient, Arthur, was already draped and prepped on the table. The anesthesia was flowing through his veins. I couldn’t just walk away and abandon a man who was already under. But before we made the first cut, I gave Victor an ultimatum. He would be the lead surgeon. I would act as his first assistant. The surgery began. I positioned myself right next to the ventilator, my eyes glued to the dials as Victor gently incised the abdominal tissue. Everything was running smoothly. The rhythmic beep of the monitor felt like a ticking time bomb in my ears. Minutes crawled by like hours. The ventilator didn’t glitch. The numbers held steady. I let out a slow, silent breath of relief. We reached the critical phase where I needed to cauterize the blood vessels. Just as I moved in to safely complete the task, the electrocautery pen in my hand jerked violently. The standard blue spark at the tip exploded into a blinding, searing white flash, accompanied by a high-pitched, mechanical screech. “Shut it off!” I screamed, instinctively ripping the cord from the socket. But the damage was done. The Bovie had burned straight through the surrounding tissue. A geyser of dark red blood erupted, painting the sterile field. “Suction! Get me a hemostat!” I tossed the ruined pen aside, pressing my left hand hard against the arterial bleed while my right hand blindly reached for instruments. “Call vascular surgery for an emergency consult! Now!” I roared at the circulating nurse. It was a bloodbath. Arthur was ultimately stabilized just enough to be rushed to the ICU, his life hanging by a fragile thread. I stood in the corner of the empty operating room. My surgical gown was soaked in blood. Victor peeled off his latex gloves and stared at me. “Sarah. Did you feel something off right before that happened?” “Yes. The electrical current spiked out of nowhere. I pulled the plug the second I felt it.” He was quiet for a long moment. “Are you absolutely certain your hand didn’t slip?” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. How could I prove it? The hospital’s internal review board arrived twenty minutes later. Gary, the head of biomedical engineering, brought two technicians. They dragged the cautery machine, the foot pedal, and every single cable out to the nurse’s station. They tested it right in front of a dozen witnesses. Power on. Output perfectly stable. They pressed the foot pedal. Setting one, setting two, setting three. The voltage curves on the monitor were flawless, straight out of a textbook. Gary dropped the diagnostic printout onto the counter. “Dr. Bennett, the hardware is immaculate. Look at the data yourself.” “I want to see the overhead security footage,” I demanded. Gary nodded and had security pull the feed to a tablet. On the screen, there I was. Holding the pen. My foot hovering over the pedal on the floor. Everything looked normal. Until the twelve-minute mark. The exact second I stepped on the pedal, the spark flared massively, and my arm recoiled in shock. “Do you see that? The pen malfunctioned on its own!” I pointed at the frozen frame. Gary adjusted his glasses. “Sarah, the video only shows the output surging after you engaged the pedal. As for how much pressure you applied or if you hit the wrong setting with your heel, the camera can’t see through the table to your foot.” He tapped the printout. “And as you just saw, the machine functions perfectly post-op.” I stared at him, my blood running cold. “Are you implying I intentionally maimed my patient?” “No one is saying that,” Gary sighed. “But the facts are right here. The machine is fine. The patient is bleeding out in the ICU. You were holding the instrument. You are responsible.” The machine was fine. The circuits were fine. But the patient’s arteries had been fried. There was only one logical conclusion the board would reach: Operator error. Gross negligence. I was caught in the exact same trap. In my past life, it was the ventilator. In this life, it was the surgical pen. Different weapon, same impossible situation. I dug my fingernails into my palms. Whoever orchestrated this couldn’t have predicted that I would force Victor to take the lead surgeon spot. That meant only one thing. The saboteur had adapted to the situation while inside the room. My head snapped up. I mentally cycled through every single person who had been in that O.R. with me. 3 The suspension notice was pinned to the center of the staff bulletin board. I stood in front of it, listening to the toxic whispers floating down the corridor behind me. “I heard she threw a massive fit before the surgery, demanding new equipment. Totally unhinged.” “She definitely botched the cauterization and is trying to blame the gear. Twelve years on the job, what a joke.” “When people panic, they make mistakes. Almost killed a guy.” I turned around. The voices belonged to two junior residents I had personally mentored through their suturing rotations last year. They made eye contact with me, immediately shut their mouths, and scurried away. From the other end of the hall, a shrill, hysterical cry shattered the quiet. “That’s her! That’s the butcher!” Martha, Arthur’s wife, came charging toward me, flanked by a half-dozen angry relatives. She lunged, grabbing my scrub top, her fingernails biting painfully into my bicep. “Give me my husband back! He’s lying in that ICU with tubes down his throat, and they’re saying he might never wake up! This is your fault!” Her momentum nearly knocked me off my feet. “Ma’am, please, you need to calm down.” “Calm down? You basically murdered my husband on that table, and you have the nerve to tell me to calm down?” Her son, Derek, shoved his way to the front. He slapped the medical files right out of my hands. They scattered across the linoleum floor. “Listen to me, you hack. If my dad dies, I swear to God I will ruin your life!” Spit flew from his lips and hit my cheek. Before I could react, he grabbed a heavy steel trash can lid from the hallway bin and swung it directly at my head. I ducked hard. The heavy metal slammed into the drywall behind me with a deafening crash, leaving a massive dent. “Back the hell off!” A booming roar echoed down the hall. It was my dad. He was wearing his faded, dust-covered flannel. My mom was right behind him, her eyes red and swollen, her hair a frantic mess. They had clearly driven through the night the second they got the news. My dad threw himself between me and Derek, his chest puffed out. “You want to talk, we talk! You lay a hand on my daughter again, and I’ll drop you!” “Oh, assault? What about your daughter butchering my dad?” Derek sneered. “My daughter saves lives! The investigation isn’t even over. You have no right to touch her!” They stood chest to chest. My dad was a few inches shorter, but his posture was made of iron. My mom rushed over and wrapped her arms tightly around me, her whole body trembling. “Sweetheart, are you okay? Did they hurt you?” She cupped my face, hot tears spilling from her eyes and landing on my knuckles. “I’m fine, Mom.” She squeezed me tighter, burying her face in my shoulder. “I believe you, honey. If you say it wasn’t your fault, then it wasn’t. I don’t care what anyone else says.” The dam finally broke. Hot tears streamed down my face. My dad turned around, gave me a long, quiet look, and gently squeezed my shoulder. My mom pulled me into a nearby empty consult room and locked the door. She dug through the drawers, looking for alcohol wipes, cursing under her breath. “That crazy woman, look what she did to your arm. Bruising you like this. I ought to go back out there.” She talked tough, but her hands were incredibly gentle as she dabbed the iodine on the deep crescent-moon cuts from Martha’s fingernails. My phone buzzed. A notification from the surgical department group chat. [Can’t believe Sarah got suspended. She trained me. You really never know with people.] [So much for her making Chief next year. That’s totally dead.] [Honestly, I just feel bad for the patient.] My mom snatched the phone from the counter and hit the power button, turning the screen black. “Don’t read that garbage. They don’t know anything.” She pulled my head against her chest, resting her chin on my hair. “Listen to me, Sarah. If this place doesn’t want you, we’ll leave. Come back home. Your dad and I will take care of you.” I buried my face in her sweater and finally sobbed. The memories of my parents’ brutal, exhausting deaths in the previous timeline flashed violently in my mind. The image of them collapsing in the dirt, working themselves to the bone to pay for a crime I didn’t commit. I knew one thing for certain. I couldn’t back down this time.

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1 In my last life, the custom cake I ordered for my Valentine’s Day engagement gala caused a mass poisoning. Fifty-five people went into organ failure. Eight died. The crosshairs instantly locked onto me. Every toxicology report proved the cake was laced with a lethal toxin, and I had no way to defend myself. I became the internet’s favorite monster, a real-life black widow hunted by the public. I was convicted and thrown into a concrete cell. My parents drained their accounts and worked themselves to the bone trying to fund my appeals, only to drop dead from sheer exhaustion. When the news reached me behind bars, my world shattered completely. I rammed my head into the cinderblock wall, ending it all in a pool of blood. Then I opened my eyes. I was standing in the lobby, right before the engagement gala began. “Miss Sophie, the cake has just been delivered to the ballroom. Would you like to inspect it?” I gasped, my lungs burning as if I had forgotten how to breathe. The hotel manager, Mr. Brooks, stood in front of me. His posture was impeccable, his customer-service smile practiced to absolute perfection. That face. Those exact words. This exact moment. The memory was carved so deeply into my bones that I would recognize it in the dark. I had been reborn. “Where is the cake?” My voice came out as a gravelly croak, scraped from the very bottom of my throat. “In the dessert pavilion inside the main ballroom,” Mr. Brooks replied, his polite smile never faltering. “Your fiancé, Tristan, just took a look. He said it was absolutely stunning.” I glanced down at my phone screen. It was 10:47 AM. The gala officially commenced at 12:18 PM. I had exactly one and a half hours. There was no time to question the physics of time travel. Only one desperate, screaming thought hammered against the inside of my skull. I had to stop the massacre. Canceling the event was impossible. Over sixty guests from both sides of the family were already en route in their limousines and town cars. The floral arrangements were set. The gold-foiled invitations had been mailed out weeks ago. If I pulled the plug right now, no one would believe my warnings of a mass poisoning. They would chalk it up to a bridal panic attack. My parents and Tristan would physically march me through the double doors to save face. I had no choice. I had to walk straight into the minefire. I took a deep, shuddering breath. The cake was poisoned, but I wasn’t the one who spiked it. Who did? The bakery? The catering staff? Or was it someone standing right next to me? “Sophie!” Lily stood at the arched entrance of the ballroom. Her makeup was flawless, and she was practically bouncing toward me in her designer heels. She was my younger cousin. After her parents passed away, my mother took her in and raised her like a second daughter. “Soph? You look awful.” She leaned in, her meticulously plucked eyebrows knitting together. I stared at her, my jaw locked. In my previous life, Lily’s name wasn’t on the casualty list. She claimed she had stepped out to take a phone call and missed the dessert course entirely. Before I could interrogate her, a sugary, melodic voice echoed from the hallway. “There’s my gorgeous girl!” Eleanor glided toward us, holding a velvet burgundy gift box in her manicured hands. My future mother-in-law. The woman who had always treated me like royalty. In my past life, she ended up in the ICU from the poisoned cake. This time, I swore to myself I would protect her. “Eleanor,” I said, forcing my facial muscles to relax into a warm expression. “Oh, my sweet child.” Eleanor took my hand, her eyes shimmering with unshed, happy tears. “You are marrying my son today. I have prayed for this afternoon for years.” She pressed the heavy velvet box into my palms, gesturing for me to open it. I pulled the silk ribbon and popped the lid. Nestled in the white satin was a breathtaking antique emerald bracelet. The stones were massive, catching the crystal chandelier light and throwing off a brilliant, liquid green fire. “Take it,” Eleanor insisted, physically slipping the heavy platinum band over my wrist. “This means you are officially the daughter I always wanted.” Lily sighed dramatically from the sidelines, flashing a bright smile. “Eleanor spoils you so much, Soph.” Eleanor looped her arm through mine, her tone dripping with absolute adoration. “Your sister deserves nothing but the best.” A brief flare of warmth touched my chest, but it was immediately swallowed by a paralyzing chill. I had to find the source of the poison before the bodies started dropping. 2 I practically sprinted to the dessert pavilion. The cake sat on a crystal pedestal. Six tiers of vanilla sponge, fresh imported berries, and intricate sugarwork. It looked identical to the nightmare in my memory. “Where is the security camera for this section?” I snapped, turning to Mr. Brooks. “Right above us, on the ceiling. Maintenance did a full sweep just last night,” he answered with absolute confidence. “Take me to the security room. Now.” Moments later, I was standing in the dimly lit control center, surrounded by glowing monitors. The technician clicked the mouse, switching to the ballroom feed. The screen was pitch black. Static. Mr. Brooks went rigid. A thin layer of sweat immediately glossed his forehead. “Wait… I personally signed off on the maintenance log yesterday. It was working perfectly!” The technician frantically hammered at his keyboard for ten agonizing minutes, his face flushed. Finally, he looked up, wiping his brow. “The camera was manually disconnected from the power grid. Sometime around two in the morning.” Two in the morning. Someone intentionally blinded the room. The blood in my veins turned to ice water. In my past life, when the police said the camera was broken, I thought it was just horrific luck. Corroded wires. A blown fuse. Now the truth was staring me in the face. It was premeditated murder. But I didn’t have time to play detective with a broken wire. I had less than ninety minutes. The cake was the immediate threat. “Where is the delivery driver? Who plated this?” I fired the questions off like bullets, my words clipping together. Mr. Brooks was panting now, desperate to save his job. “The driver’s van has a continuous dashcam. The box never left his hands from the bakery to our loading dock.” “Kitchen logs show it went straight into the designated walk-in cooler. Nobody touched it.” “The catering staff plated it under the gaze of camera four. The footage is crystal clear.” Every single link in the chain was secure. The cake had been handled in a virtual vacuum. Yet, in my past life, it was still lethal. That left two options. First, the bakery spiked it. But the owner was a sweet old man with zero motive. The police grilled him for a month last time and totally cleared his name. He didn’t have the motive, and he didn’t have the window. That left the second, terrifying option. The cake arrived perfectly safe. The poison was introduced right here in the dessert pavilion. The killer created the blind spot at 2:00 AM specifically for this. They had all the time in the world to slip into the shadows, contaminate the food, and blend back into the crowd. I didn’t have time to hunt a ghost. But I did have time to change the variables. “Destroy the cake,” I ordered Mr. Brooks. “Send someone to a premium bakery downtown and buy a new one right off the display shelf. I don’t care what it looks like. Swipe my black card. I want it back here in twenty minutes.” Mr. Brooks physically recoiled, his mouth falling open. “Miss Sophie, we can’t possibly…” “Do it.” I grabbed his arm, leaning in. “And get a tripod. Mount a smartphone directly facing the new cake. Hit record. I want every single second filmed in 4K until the moment we cut it.” It was my duct-tape fix for the severed security camera. Mr. Brooks scrambled away, his leather oxfords squeaking against the polished marble. I checked my phone. 11:13 AM. The replacement would arrive by 11:33 at the latest. Twenty minutes. If I could just survive the next twenty minutes, the tainted cake would be incinerated, and the new one would be under constant digital surveillance. The chessboard was reset. I was going to beat them. 3 At 11:35 AM, the replacement cake arrived. The delivery boy placed the thick cardboard box on the marble counter. Right in front of my eyes, he broke the tamper-evident seal on the lid. The seal tore perfectly. “Zero-contact delivery, ma’am,” the kid said, handing me the clipboard. I nodded, signing the invoice with a shaking hand. I instructed the catering staff to slide the new cake onto the pedestal. Across the aisle, a smartphone sat perfectly balanced on a ring-light tripod, its red recording dot pulsing steadily. From this second forward, that pastry was the most heavily monitored object in the building. I turned around to head back to the welcome arch, ready to greet the guests. My phone buzzed in my clutch. It was a text from an unknown number. Did you really think swapping a cake would save you? My fingers clamped around the phone so hard my knuckles turned white. I snapped my head up, my eyes sweeping the grand corridor. Waiters were pushing brass bar carts. Housekeeping carried stacks of folded linens. Everything looked painfully normal. No one was staring at me. No one was hunched over a glowing screen. Who are you? I typed back. Silence. I waited ten agonizing seconds before typing again. The cake is gone. You missed your window. The reply came instantly. What made you so sure the poison was in the cake? I stared at the glowing pixels, a cold sweat breaking out across the back of my neck. He was right. I had blindly assumed the cake was the weapon because the toxicology reports in my past life pointed there. But I had aggressively altered the timeline. If the killer’s true target was the cake, they would be scrambling right now. Instead, they were mocking me. Unless. Unless the poison was never in the cake to begin with. The real weapon was hiding in plain sight. In a place no one would ever think to swab. I had locked down the dessert. But I left the champagne flutes exposed. The silverware. The woven napkins. Every single item resting on those pristine white tablecloths. I spun on my heel and sprinted back into the ballroom. The beverage station sat to the left of the dessert pavilion. Four massive crystal pitchers of fresh-squeezed juice and iced tea were lined up perfectly. A waiter was already tipping a pitcher, preparing to pre-fill the glassware for the tables. “Stop right there,” I commanded, forcing my voice to stay level. “Don’t pour another drop.” The waiter froze, blinking in confusion. “Miss Sophie, the guests are sitting down soon. We need the tables set.” “Change of plans. We’re doing bottled beverages only.” I looked at Mr. Brooks, who had just rushed back into the room. “Take those pitchers back to the kitchen and dump them. Bring out sealed, glass-bottle juices. Anything you have in stock, as long as the factory seal is intact.” Mr. Brooks looked like he wanted to cry, but his hospitality training took over. He snapped his fingers, and his staff whisked the pitchers away. Three minutes later, crates of premium bottled juices were rolled out. The staff began placing the unopened bottles at every seat. I stood by the beverage station, my eyes darting across the room. Seeing those metal caps perfectly intact settled my racing heart just a fraction. “What about the silverware?” I asked the head waiter. “The steak knives, the forks, the porcelain?” “Sterilized in the high-temp industrial dishwasher this morning. Brought straight out here for plating,” he answered quickly. I nodded slowly. “Keep a sample of every single thing that touches a guest’s mouth today. Plate, cup, napkin. Bag it.” The head waiter looked at me like I was insane, but he nodded. It was 12:05 PM. The heavy mahogany doors opened, and the guests began filtering in. Eleanor approached me, her silk couture dress rustling softly. She reached out and grasped my hands. “Sophie, darling, you look positively pale.” “I’m fine, Eleanor,” I lied, forcing a radiant smile. “Just pre-wedding jitters. Didn’t sleep much.” She patted the back of my hand affectionately. “Don’t you worry about a thing. Today is just a beautiful formality. We are officially family now.” Looking into her warm, maternal eyes, a sharp pang of guilt hit me. She turned away to embrace an arriving aunt. I anchored myself near the beverage station, my gaze sweeping over the seventy seated guests. The bottled juices were popped open. The factory seals clicked. The new cake sat perfectly still in the lens of the smartphone. At 12:18 PM, the live jazz band played a crescendo, and the MC took the stage. The gala had officially begun. I didn’t touch a drop of water or a crumb of bread. My eyes never stopped scanning. Guests poured their drinks. One glass. Two glasses. Three. People clinked their flutes together. Laughter echoed off the vaulted ceiling. My fiancé, Tristan, motioned for me to join him at the front to cut the cake. Nobody had collapsed. The suffocating grip on my chest finally began to loosen. 4 The MC was practically shouting into the microphone with manufactured enthusiasm. “Ladies and gentlemen, let us raise a glass to our stunning couple on this beautiful—” His voice was entirely drowned out by a blood-curdling scream. “Oh my god! Somebody help! He’s not breathing!” I spun around so fast my heel caught on the carpet. Just a few feet away from the dessert table, a little boy was convulsing violently on the marble floor. His lips were a sickening shade of blue. It was Sarah’s son. Sarah was one of the hotel waitresses, and the management had allowed her to bring her kid to sit in the back room during her shift. I sprinted toward them. The boy’s eyes were rolled back into his skull. Thick white foam bubbled past his lips. “Call an ambulance! Call 911 right now!” I screamed. Mr. Brooks looked like he was going to pass out. He fumbled his cell phone with trembling hands. Tristan rushed over, his face draining of color. “Christ. That looks like toxic shock.” “What did he put in his mouth?” I demanded, dropping to my knees. Sarah was sobbing hysterically, clutching the boy’s twitching hand. “The cake! He sneaked a lick of icing off your cake!” The entire ballroom went dead silent. Dozens of eyes snapped toward me like heat-seeking missiles. “Are you serious? The cake is poisoned?” “But she personally ordered that custom cake…” A freezing wave of dread crashed over me. It was happening exactly like my past life. But that was impossible. I swapped the cake! No one moved. They just stared at me. I could see the suspicion brewing in their eyes. The fear. The disgust. It was a perfect mirror of the nightmare that killed me. “Everyone, calm down!” Eleanor suddenly stepped into the center of the crowd, her voice echoing with commanding authority. “We don’t have the facts yet. Stop the wild accusations!” Before anyone could stop her, she marched straight to the pedestal, grabbed a silver dessert fork, scooped a massive chunk of frosting, and shoved it into her mouth. “Eleanor, stop!” I lunged forward, slapping the fork out of her hand. It clattered loudly against the floor. “I’m testing it for them,” Eleanor said, looking me dead in the eye. “You are my daughter. I trust you with my life.” Her voice was steady as a rock. Her gaze didn’t waver for a second. Hot tears pricked the corners of my eyes. She turned to face the terrified crowd. “Listen to me. Today is my son’s engagement. I stake my personal reputation on Sophie’s character. She is no murderer.” She didn’t yell, but the sheer weight of her conviction silenced the room. Sarah was cradling her son’s head, weeping bitterly. “If my baby dies…” “I take full responsibility,” Eleanor said softly, walking over to the grieving mother. “I will cover every single cent of his medical bills. I will get him the best specialists in the country.” “But you will not frame my daughter-in-law.” Her words were absolute steel. The panic in the room dialed back to a tense murmur. The paramedics burst through the doors, followed closely by a squad of uniformed police officers. A tall detective in a trench coat approached me, flipping open his notepad. “Miss Sophie? I’m Detective Reid. I need you to step aside for a few questions.” After doing a sweep of the room and getting a brief rundown, Reid locked his sharp eyes on me. “Why did you swap the original cake before the party started?” Every guest in earshot held their breath, waiting for my answer. “Because I knew someone was planning to taint the food.” I couldn’t tell him the truth. If I brought up reincarnation, I’d be handcuffed and locked in a psych ward before sundown. I needed a bulletproof excuse to buy myself time. “Someone tipped me off,” I said firmly. “Who?” “An anonymous number.” I pulled my phone from my clutch, opened the threatening text message, and handed the device to the detective. Reid read the screen. His jaw tightened. “So you replaced the food and secured the evidence.” Reid narrowed his eyes. “Then how do you explain a child currently fighting for his life in the back of an ambulance?” That question felt like a knife twisting in my gut. I had done everything right. Every single thing. “Because he wasn’t the only one who ate it.” I pointed directly at Eleanor. “My mother-in-law swallowed a huge bite right in front of everyone. She’s completely fine!” It had been nearly thirty minutes since the paramedics arrived. Eleanor was standing upright, breathing normally, without a single symptom. “Eleanor, how are you feeling?” I asked, grabbing her arm. She offered a reassuring smile. “I feel perfectly normal, sweetheart.” Reid closed his notepad with a snap. “Miss Sophie, we will look into the text message. But given the circumstances, I’m going to have to ask you to come down to the precinct.” I nodded, then turned to face the hushed ballroom. “I have two things to say before I leave.” “First, every single piece of evidence from the original setup has already been sent to an independent, third-party toxicology lab. Until those results come back, nobody touches a thing.” It was a complete bluff. There was no third-party lab. But the police didn’t know that. If they thought the chain of custody was out of their jurisdiction, it prevented any dirty cops or bribed officials from tampering with the local evidence. Right now, I didn’t trust a single soul in this room. “Second.” I took a deep, lung-expanding breath. “I know exactly who the killer is.” The ballroom erupted into gasps.

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1 I wrote an algorithm designed to calculate exactly who cares about you the most. Originally, I just wanted to test it out. I wanted to see what score my relationship with my boyfriend would get. The system handed me the results. I ranked seventh in his heart. I actually laughed. Seventh? Even his pet cat ranked fourth! I didn’t cry. I didn’t throw a tantrum. I just turned around, blocked his number, and deleted him from my life. A few days later, he was crying, begging me to come back. I just smiled. “Sorry, do I know you?” Valentine’s Day. Eleven forty-seven at night. I stared at the beta testing report that had just finished compiling on my monitor. My fingertips felt like they had been soaked in ice water. The Relational Investment Metric was my baby. I had pulled all-nighters for three months straight to build it, and it had finally gone live on our internal servers just past midnight. The Product Director was breathing down my neck for beta data, so I casually imported my own account. Eric and I had been together for two years. Since we both worked at the same tech firm, our employee accounts were linked in the company’s ecosystem. We had mutual data permissions. Thirty seconds. It only took the system thirty seconds to grind my two-year relationship into fine dust. Top 10 Emotional Investment Targets: Rank 1: Veronica. Score: 92.7. Notes: High-frequency interaction. Weekly Wednesday night drinks. High workplace dependency. Primary source of emotional validation. Rank 2: Bobby. Score: 88.4. Notes: Gaming partner. Daily voice chat average 2.5 hours. Weekend offline meetups. Rank 3: Audrey. Score: 85.1. Notes: First love. Mutual social media following. Quarterly check-ins. High frequency of specific profile searches. Rank 4: Muffin. Score: 79.3. Notes: Pet cat. Daily search frequency for premium cat food/toys averages 7 times. Accounts for 100% of pet-related financial expenditures. Rank 5… Rank 6… Rank 7: Avery. Score: 41.2. Notes: Live-in girlfriend. Rent split 50/50. Routine, superficial daily greetings. Occasional shared meals. Emotional investment critically low. Interaction quality poor. Recommendation: Evaluate long-term viability of relationship. I read the screen three times. My vision wasn’t blurred. There was no glitch. His cat. The fluffy Ragdoll cat he brought home a year ago ranked higher than me. Seventy-nine point three. Almost forty points higher than the woman he lived with. The algorithm even provided helpful context notes. Over the past three months, Eric had searched the internet for “gourmet cat food” exactly 137 times. His searches for “girlfriend gifts”, “date ideas”, or “romantic restaurants” totaled exactly three. Two of those were just him looking up venues for his department’s corporate mixer. I took a deep, shuddering breath and saved the screenshot into a hidden folder on my phone simply titled “Evidence”. I had created that folder six months ago. It held screenshots of his late-night texts with his boss, Veronica. It held the notifications of him constantly liking his ex-girlfriend Audrey’s posts. It held his GPS location data from every single Wednesday night. I never opened that folder to look at the contents a second time. But I never deleted it, either. It wasn’t because I couldn’t let go. I just wanted to see exactly where my breaking point was. Looking at the data now, I realized I had severely underestimated my own tolerance for pain, and wildly overestimated his conscience. At 1:03 AM, my phone buzzed on the desk. A text from Eric. Happy Valentine’s Day, babe. Totally swamped at the office today. Let’s celebrate properly tomorrow. I stared at the word “babe”. It felt like a physical slap to the face. How does it feel when someone who values you less than a housecat calls you babe? It feels like you’re reading a script for a play you desperately want to quit. I typed back two letters. Ok. No emojis. No exclamation points. No “Happy Valentine’s Day to you too.” I closed the messaging app and opened the career portal for Pulse Tech, our company’s biggest corporate rival. I carefully read through the job description for their Senior Algorithm Engineer position. Then, I attached my resume and hit submit. I wasn’t being cold-blooded. The algorithm I wrote with my own two hands had just given me the undeniable truth. This man wasn’t worth another second of my time. Somewhere outside my window, fireworks went off in the distance. They boomed loudly for about thirty seconds, pretending to be spectacular, before fading into absolute silence. Just like my relationship. It looked vibrant from the outside, but the gunpowder had burned out a long time ago. I clicked off the desk lamp and lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Tomorrow, I had one last performance to give. 2 At seven o’clock the next evening, Eric booked a table at a local spicy seafood place. It was a rare moment where he actually remembered I loved spicy food. For a split second, I genuinely wondered if my algorithm had a bug. But then he reached into his leather briefcase, pulled out a cheap, generic box of drugstore chocolates, and smiled. “Work has been absolutely insane. I didn’t have time to go to a real boutique.” Right then, I knew the system was flawless. The only thing with a fatal bug was the man sitting across from me. “It’s fine. It’s the thought that counts,” I smiled brightly, accepting the box and dropping it into my purse. Deep inside my purse, my phone was running a silent background script, syncing three years of his raw, unfiltered personal data. I had written the script at three in the morning. In the two years we lived together, Eric never bothered to put a password on his home laptop. His cloud backups were always set to auto-sync on our shared network. I used to think it was because he trusted me implicitly. Now I understood the truth. It wasn’t trust. It was apathy. He cared so little about me that he couldn’t even be bothered to cover his tracks. The data logs refreshed on my screen, dropping in one by one. Every single line felt like a dull knife dragging across my skin. Search History: “What kind of wine does Veronica like?” Timestamp: Last Wednesday. “Audrey recent news Instagram.” Timestamp: Two months ago. “Muffin refusing to eat dry food solutions.” Timestamp: Yesterday. “Affordable girlfriend gifts that look expensive.” Timestamp: Last Valentine’s Day. Transaction History: February 14th, Valentine’s Day. $25 generic flower delivery. Delivery note: Just leave it on the porch, don’t knock. Our Anniversary. $0. January 12th, Muffin the cat’s birthday. $200 custom luxury cat tree plus a $50 imported salmon gift box. I stared at that financial breakdown and almost burst out laughing in the middle of the restaurant. He remembered a cat’s exact birthday and went all out. My birthday? He only ever remembered when Facebook sent him a push notification on the morning of. Location Tracking: Every Wednesday night. 7:30 PM to 10:00 PM. The upscale cocktail lounge beneath our office building. With Veronica. Every Saturday afternoon. 2:00 PM to 6:00 PM. Bobby’s apartment. Playing video games. His overlapping location history with me? Commuting from the apartment to the office. Commuting from the office to the apartment. Occasional weekend takeout orders for cheap noodles and burgers. I locked my phone screen and looked up at him. He was enthusiastically scooping fish onto my plate, complaining about how the big boss had chewed him out during the afternoon product meeting. Under the warm restaurant lighting, his face looked so earnest, so exhausted. A year ago, my heart would have broken for him. But right now, all I could see was that glowing line of text from my system. Interaction quality poor. Recommendation: Evaluate long-term viability. I picked up my fork and slowly took a bite. I wasn’t going to bring up the past. I wasn’t going to start a screaming match in public. I wasn’t going to demand answers. Those were all useless emotional reactions. Fighting wouldn’t solve anything, it would only alert him that I knew. What I needed was a completely compiled data report, and an airtight exit strategy. 3 On the cab ride home, I organized all the raw data into visual comparison charts. I uploaded the file to my private encrypted server, locking it behind three layers of security. Then, I opened the draft of my resignation letter. Eric walked out of the master bathroom, drying his hair with a towel. He saw me sitting at my laptop and casually asked, “Still working?” “Yeah. Just running some diagnostics,” I replied, not even turning my head. He grunted an acknowledgment, threw himself onto the bed, and started scrolling through TikTok. Diagnostics. That was exactly what it was. Diagnosing the most efficient, surgical way to completely excise this man from my life. On the third morning, I woke up a full hour earlier than usual. Eric was still dead asleep, snoring softly into his pillow. I quietly washed my face, changed into my sleekest blazer, and pulled two freshly printed manila envelopes from my bag. I placed the first envelope squarely on his desk. Right on top of it, I dropped my set of keys to our shared apartment. I stuck a yellow Post-it note to the envelope. It only had one sentence. Your seventh place doesn’t deserve an apartment key. I wrote the algorithm, and I didn’t tweak a single parameter. Goodbye. The second envelope had a neat printed label on the front: HR Department – Employee Interpersonal Assessment. I was going to hand-deliver it the second I got to work. I swiped my badge at the office doors at exactly 8:00 AM. Rachel, the HR Director, was just unlocking her office. “Avery? You’re in early,” she noted, looking slightly surprised. I walked straight up to her and handed her the envelope. “Rachel, I need you to review this immediately. Also, here is my formal letter of resignation.” The friendly smile dropped from her face. “Wait, what’s going on?” “Nothing bad. Just looking for a change of scenery,” I smiled politely. “The report inside explains everything in detail. Take your time reading it. I’ll be back this afternoon to finalize my offboarding.” She tore the envelope open and pulled out the charts. Her eyes immediately locked onto a specific paragraph: Veronica and Eric demonstrate high-frequency, undocumented personal fraternization, creating severe conflicts of interest regarding workplace fairness and promotion evaluations. Rachel’s brow furrowed deeply. I didn’t stick around to explain. I simply turned on my heel and walked toward the elevators. At 10:00 AM, the product department had their mandatory weekly sync. I didn’t attend. Technically, I didn’t work there anymore. But I knew Eric was reading his envelope right at that exact moment. I had printed two copies of his specific data breakdown. One for the apartment, and one that I timed perfectly. I had Sam, a junior dev from my team, slip it onto Eric’s desk while he was on a coffee break. My phone buzzed. A text from Sam. Avery, Eric just opened that folder you left. All the blood drained out of his face. He looked like he saw a ghost. He literally sprinted out of the meeting room before the VP even finished talking. I didn’t reply. Twenty minutes later, my phone violently vibrated seventeen times in a row. Seventeen missed calls from Eric. They all went straight to a dead tone. I had already blocked his number, his socials, and his work email. Then came a text from Ben, a senior developer who sat next to Eric. Avery, Eric is freaking out asking where your keys are. He rushed back to the apartment and realized you locked him out.

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