It was the third year of the Extreme Cold Apocalypse. I barely kept the indoor temperature above freezing, thanks to my stash of anthracite coal. My mother-in-law, Eleanor, who had fled to my house, dumped all the coal down the drain while I was asleep. I woke up freezing and confronted her. She just pointed indignantly at the “lucky crystal” she’d brought. “The spiritual advisor said all these dark, gloomy things in the house were blocking our luck and prosperity. They had to go.” To “attract good fortune” in this apocalypse, she even tore off the insulation panels I’d used to seal the windows. “Good luck has to come in through the windows! You sealed them all off, do you want us all to starve to death?” Ethan, my husband, wrapped in my warmest down jacket, stood by, nodding and praising his mother for doing the right thing. He had stuck all my remaining hand warmers onto his rare collectible action figures, terrified the plastic might become brittle and crack. “These are limited editions. Our future depends on them appreciating in value. What’s a little chill for you?”

At three in the morning, I woke up, shivering. An icy cold seeped through my heavy sleeping bag, biting into my bones. The digital thermometer on the wall showed a chilling red number: -5°C. Just half an hour ago, when I fell asleep, it had been +8°C. The only heat source, the coal stove in the living room, was out. I grabbed my jacket and rushed out of the bedroom. In the living room, Eleanor was using my last iron shovel, laboriously prying open the sewer cover, dumping shovelful after shovelful of black coal into it. The ton of anthracite coal I’d piled in the corner, enough for the three of us to survive the winter, was already more than half gone. The sewage mixed with coal dust gave off a nauseating stench. “Stop!” I yelled, my voice hoarse from the cold and fury. Eleanor jumped, and the shovel clanged to the ground. Instead of looking guilty, she straightened up, pointed at me, and snapped, “You jinx! What are you doing up in the middle of the night? Trying to scare me to death?” I looked at the coal, now turned into sludge in the sewer, and my vision blurred with rage. “That’s our coal! Our only way to survive the cold! What are you doing?” “Of course I know!” Eleanor put her hands on her hips, indignant, and pointed to a brand new golden idol of prosperity she had enshrined in the center of the table. “The mystic said there were too many dark things in the house blocking our luck! Look how gloomy this place is. How is the God of Prosperity supposed to come in?” That golden idol was the only “luggage” she and Ethan had brought when they fled to my house yesterday. The bedroom door opened, and Ethan, my husband, walked out, wrapped in my thickest goose down jacket. He yawned sleepily, saw what was happening, and didn’t stop Eleanor. Instead, he frowned at me. “Sarah, why are you yelling at Mom? She’s only trying to help us.” I let out a dry, humorless laugh, pointing at the half-empty coal pile. “Trying to help us? She threw away all the coal! We’ll freeze to death tonight, the three of us. Is that ‘helping’ us?” Ethan waved his hand impatiently. “It’s just a little coal, isn’t it? Go find some more. Mom brought the idol so we can turn our lives around. What do you know?” As he spoke, he carefully walked to the glass display cabinet by the wall, pulled out a few hand warmers from his jacket, and meticulously stuck them to the bases of his precious action figures. “These are all limited editions. With the temperature outside, the plastic can easily get brittle. What if they crack?” He didn’t even look up. “If these appreciate in value, our whole family will rely on them to make a fortune. You’re just a woman, what’s a little chill to you?” I looked at his self-righteous face, then at Eleanor, who wore a ‘I’m thinking of you’ expression. A shiver ran down my spine, though not from the cold. Just then, Eleanor started a new action. She walked to the window and began ripping off the multi-layer thermal reflective film I had painstakingly installed three years ago, a task that had taken incredible effort. “This has to go too!” she said, tearing it. “Windows are where good luck enters! You sealed them off completely! How’s the God of Prosperity supposed to come in? Do you want us all to freeze to death?” “Screech—” A harsh tearing sound echoed, and a large gap appeared in the thermal film. Instantly, a white stream of icy air surged in through the opening, and the indoor thermometer plummeted. -6°C… -8°C… -10°C… Ethan shivered, pulling my down jacket tighter. But he still nodded. “Mom’s right. This really should come off.”

I didn’t argue with them anymore. I silently watched the numbers on the thermometer drop from -10°C all the way to -15°C. Eleanor and Ethan finally started to feel the cold. “Oh no, why… why is it so cold?” Eleanor rubbed her arms, her teeth chattering. Ethan was also shaking with cold. He looked at me, his voice demanding, “Sarah, don’t you have other things to warm us up? Get them out now! Do you want to freeze us to death?” Three years ago, when the Extreme Cold Apocalypse hit, they, mother and son, immediately took all my savings and fled into an official climate-controlled human base. They abandoned me in this house, which I had personally renovated, leaving me to fend for myself. For three years, they thought I had died in some forgotten corner, never once checking on me. But then, three days ago, they appeared at my door, looking haggard and defeated, claiming the base had kicked them out. I looked at their thin clothes and faces, purple with cold, and actually felt a moment of weakness, relenting and letting them in. Now it seemed this was the most foolish mistake I had made in three years. I ignored Ethan’s shouts and turned to my tool shed, dragging out a disassembled solid wood table. I had originally planned to use it to reinforce the fences once spring arrived. I took out an axe and silently chopped the table legs and tabletop into pieces suitable for the stove. “Thump!” “Thump!” “Thump!” Dull thudding sounds of chopping wood echoed in the silent, cold room. Eleanor and Ethan watched me, their eyes filled with confusion and disdain. “Sarah, what are you doing? Burning furniture? Are you crazy? That’s terrible luck!” “You’ve managed to survive this long, so your conditions can’t be bad. Are you just trying to provoke us?” Eleanor shrieked. “Exactly! You must be hiding good stuff; don’t think we don’t know!” Ethan chimed in. “Quick, get out the good coal! This rotten wood creates so much smoke, it’s suffocating! What if it damages my action figures? Can you even afford to replace them?” I said nothing, just mechanically chopped the wood. Soon, the stove was re-lit. Orange flames surged, bringing a long-awaited warmth. But the thick smoke from burning wood quickly spread, filling the entire house with a choking smell. The thermometer numbers slowly climbed back to -8°C, but didn’t rise further. The heat value of burning wood was far inferior to anthracite coal. Eleanor and Ethan coughed repeatedly, tears streaming from their eyes. “Cough, cough, cough… Sarah! I order you! Put this fire out immediately! Get out your good stuff!” Ethan yelled at me, covering his mouth and nose. “Yes! Hurry! If it ruins my God of Prosperity, can you bear the responsibility?” Eleanor echoed. I stopped chopping wood and slowly lifted my head, my gaze sweeping over their faces, red from lack of oxygen. Then, I walked to the corner and picked up a 20-liter spare gasoline can. I unscrewed the cap, and the heavy smell of gasoline instantly overpowered the smoke from the wood. Eleanor and Ethan’s faces changed. “You… what are you going to do?” Ethan’s voice held a trace of fear. I didn’t answer. I just carried the gasoline can, step by step, to his glass display cabinet. His “limited edition” action figures inside the cabinet looked cold and rigid in the dim firelight. “Don’t… don’t touch my action figures!” Ethan’s body tensed. I tilted the gasoline can slightly. “Splash—” Amber liquid poured onto the top of the glass cabinet, slowly seeping through the cracks.

“Ahhh—! My action figures!” Ethan let out a desperate shriek, lunging at me like a madman to snatch the gasoline can from my hand. I sidestepped, easily avoiding him. His emaciated body couldn’t even touch a single one of my fingers. “Sarah! You lunatic! If you touch my action figures, I’ll kill you!” His eyes were bloodshot, his face contorted in a grimace. Eleanor was also dumbfounded, pointing at me, her lips trembling, unable to utter a word. I watched Ethan coldly, placed the gasoline can on the ground, and then pulled a lighter from my pocket. “Click.” A small, orange flame danced at my fingertips. “Both of you, go get all the coal from the sewer. Not a single piece missing,” I said, my voice calm. Ethan’s body froze. Eleanor’s eyes widened in disbelief. “You want us to dig in the sewer? That’s disgusting! No way!” “Exactly! Sarah, don’t go too far!” Ethan snarled, though his voice lacked conviction. “Do you think I’m afraid of you? Go ahead and light it! These action figures are worth a house! If you dare to burn them, I’ll make sure you spend the rest of your life in jail!” He was talking about pre-apocalypse prices. In this era, a house was worth less than a single compressed food bar. I didn’t bother with more words. I simply moved the lighter forward gently. The flame instantly licked at the gasoline-soaked glass cabinet. “Whoosh—” Blue flames roared to life, engulfing the entire cabinet in an instant. Choking black smoke billowed upwards, and the stench of burning plastic was nauseating. Ethan’s pupils contracted violently in the firelight. “No—!” He let out a desperate wail, collapsing to the ground, watching in despair as his “limited editions” twisted and melted in the fierce flames, turning into puddles of black liquid. Eleanor also collapsed to the ground in terror, a foul odor emanating from her pants. She had actually peed herself. I watched it all until the entire cabinet was reduced to a charred skeleton, then extinguished the flames with a fire extinguisher. The room was a mess. The temperature began to drop again. I turned around, looked at the dazed mother and son, and repeated my words. “Go, retrieve the coal.” This time, no one argued. Ethan looked like his soul had been sucked out, his eyes vacant. Eleanor, in extreme fear, trembled uncontrollably. I walked up to her and shoved the cold iron shovel into her hand. “Go.” Eleanor flinched, almost dropping the shovel again. She looked up at me, her eyes full of fear and pleading. They had personally destroyed our shared path to survival; they would have to personally retrieve it. Under my stare, Eleanor tremblingly picked up the shovel and a bucket, and with a zombie-like Ethan, walked towards the foul-smelling sewer. The cold, viscous sewage quickly soaked their pant legs. Eleanor retched, but seeing me standing not far away, she gritted her teeth and plunged the shovel into the sludge. The task of retrieving the coal was harder than expected. The sewer contained not only coal dust but also three years’ worth of various household waste and excrement. Every shovelful Eleanor and Ethan pulled out was like digging up a putrid piece of evidence from hell. Eleanor threw up several times, eventually even spitting up bile. Ethan remained silent throughout, mechanically repeating the digging and dumping motions. Suddenly, Ethan tripped over something in the sewer and let out a terrified scream. “Ah! Something! Something’s biting me!”

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Getting our family portrait taken at the end of every summer was an unbreakable tradition in our household. This year was no exception. We stood in the familiar, cramped studio of Gary’s Lens & Light on Main Street, posing against a mottled gray backdrop. The shutter clicked, the bright flash momentarily blinding me. Gary pulled his head out from behind the camera, flashing a wide, satisfied grin and giving us a thumbs-up. “Absolute perfection,” Gary declared, his voice booming in the small room. “What a beautiful family of three!” His words had barely landed before a sharp frown carved its way onto my face. “Did you miscount, Gary?” I interrupted, a flicker of irritation lacing my tone. “My sister, me, and my parents. We are clearly a family of four.” The moment the words left my mouth, the air in the room seemed to solidify. Gary’s practiced smile froze, turning brittle. Beside me, my parents slowly turned their heads. The way they looked at me—eyes wide, expressions utterly blank—made the hair on my arms stand up. It was a deeply unsettling, hollow kind of stare. “Sweetheart, what on earth are you talking about?” my mother said. Her voice carried a faint, almost imperceptible tremor. “You have always been our only child. What sister?” They practically dragged me out of the studio and into the car, but my mind was already racing, heavy with a suffocating dread. The second we got home, I sprinted to the hallway closet, tearing through boxes until I found the heavy leather-bound albums holding our past family portraits. I was going to find the proof. I was going to show them Haley’s face. But as I flipped open the thick pages, a wave of pure, glacial terror rushed from the soles of my feet to the crown of my head. The blood in my veins felt like ice. Between my fourth and eleventh birthdays, there were eight family portraits. My fingers trembled as I touched the plastic sleeve of the first one. There were ten people in the photo. I turned to the second page. The number of people had dropped to nine. … I shoved the pages over, my breath coming in shallow gasps, until I reached the eighth photo—last year’s portrait. There were four people. For seven years, counting my sister who vanished today, seven children had disappeared from our family photos. Who were they? And where, dear God, did they all go? 1 “You’re lying to me!” I stormed into the living room, hurling the heavy album onto the coffee table with a resounding smack. My father looked up from his armchair, the TV remote hovering midway to the side table. My mother poked her head out from the kitchen, wiping flour onto her floral apron. “Lying about what, Kate?” she asked softly. “The portraits! Haley is right here! Look at all these people! Why are you telling me I’m an only child?” My parents exchanged a long, heavy look. My mother’s eyes instantly welled with tears. “Kate, honey… your condition is flaring up again.” “I don’t have a condition!” I slammed my finger against the glossy paper. “This is Haley! She’s right here in the braids! She’s two years older than me, she has a tiny freckle above her left eyebrow, and she has to drink warm milk every single morning, she—” “That is enough.” My father stood up. His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a weight that brokered no argument. He reached over and calmly slid the album out from under my hands. “You are an only child, Kate. You always have been.” “No!” I snatched the album back, frantically flipping it open to shove Haley’s face into his line of sight. My hand froze mid-air. There were only three people in the photograph. My father, my mother, and me. I flipped the pages like a maniac. The second photo—three people. The third photo—three people. Every single page, just a perfectly neat, smiling family of three. “Kate…” My mother walked over and crouched in front of me, her voice trembling with what sounded like genuine heartbreak. “Listen to me, baby. When you were little, you had a terrible fever. A hundred and five degrees. It lasted for three days.” She reached out, gently touching my knee. “The doctors told us there might be lingering effects. You’ve always blurred the lines between your dreams and reality. Remember in third grade? You swore you had a classmate named Daisy, but the teacher told us she didn’t exist…” No. I don’t believe it. I shoved her hands away, spun around, and bolted out the front door. Mrs. Gable next door. She had watched us grow up. She would remember Haley. I hammered on her wooden door a dozen times before the deadbolt finally clicked. Mrs. Gable stood there in her reading glasses, looking utterly bewildered by the sight of me panting on her porch. “Oh my stars, Kate, what’s wrong? You’re sweating through your shirt, child.” She smiled warmly, her eyes crinkling. “Come inside, let me get you a piece of candy.” I lunged forward, grabbing her wrinkled, fragile hands. My voice shook violently. “Mrs. Gable, please, tell me the truth. I have an older sister, don’t I? Haley! She’s three years older, she wears her hair in a ponytail, and she always wears a red butterfly barrette!” I was begging now, tears spilling hot down my cheeks. “She disappeared today! And my parents are saying she never existed!” Mrs. Gable stared at me. For a few agonizing seconds, she just looked at me. Then, her gaze deepened into something inscrutable. “What on earth are you babbling about, sweetheart?” Slowly, deliberately, she pulled her hands out of my grasp. “Kate, you’ve been an only child since the day they brought you home. I’ve watched you grow up. What sister?” My knees gave out. I collapsed onto the porch planks. How was this possible? Just last week, Mrs. Gable had complimented Haley on the sweater she was knitting. She gave both of us candy. Just then, a heavy, warm hand clamped down on my shoulder from behind. “Mrs. Gable, I am so sorry for the disturbance this late,” my father said. I hadn’t even heard him cross the lawn. He offered her an apologetic, weary smile. “She’s been under a lot of pressure with school lately. A bit of a nervous breakdown. She’s been talking nonsense all evening.” Mrs. Gable waved him off, her face practically melting with pity. “Get that sweet girl inside and let her rest. Poor thing. Don’t push her too hard.” I was half-carried, half-dragged back into the house. Later, my mother brought a steaming mug of chamomile tea into my bedroom, gently stroking my hair. “Drink this, Kate. Be a good girl. Just sleep. Everything will make sense after you sleep.” When the mug was empty, I lay in the dark, my mind replaying the shifting images in the photo album. Was I actually losing my mind? Was Haley—and the seven other missing children—just a phantom created by a broken, fever-fried brain? I curled into a tight ball, my hands mindlessly searching under my pillow, desperate to anchor myself to something real. Suddenly, my fingertips brushed against something cold and hard of plastic. I pulled it out into the dim moonlight filtering through the blinds. It was a tortoiseshell butterfly barrette. The tears came instantly, hot and fast, choking me. It was Haley’s favorite clip. Her best friend, Brooke, had given it to her for Christmas. I gripped the barrette so tightly the plastic dug into my palm. I wasn’t crazy. My sister was real. But why was everyone lying to me? Wait. Brooke. She went to our high school. There was no way Brooke would forget her. 2 The next morning, I forced myself to eat a bowl of cereal like everything was normal. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and headed out. The moment I hit the school grounds, I bypassed my locker and sprinted toward the junior hallway to find Brooke. She and Haley had been inseparable since kindergarten. If anyone remembered my sister, it was her. “Brooke!” I called out, breathless. “Hey, Kate! What are you doing in the upperclassmen wing?” Brooke grinned, affectionately ruffling my hair. I didn’t smile back. I reached into my pocket, pulled out the butterfly barrette, and held it flat on my palm. “Do you remember this? It’s Haley’s. She wears it every day.” Brooke glanced down at the clip, and then she laughed. “Kate, you don’t have a sister. That’s yours.” She looked at me like I was making a weird joke. “I gave that to you for your birthday last year, remember? You said the butterfly shape was your favorite. You wouldn’t take it off for a month.” My hands started to shake. “You didn’t give this to me. It’s my sister’s! You and Haley shared a desk in kindergarten! How can you not remember?” Brooke tilted her head. There was no hesitation in her eyes, no flicker of a lie. Just pure, unadulterated confusion. “Kate, we grew up together. You’re like a little sister to me. But I don’t remember you ever having a real sister.” Her smile faded into concern. “You’ve always been an only child. Are you okay?” She reached out to touch my forehead. “Are you sick? Let me take you to the nurse.” I gripped the barrette and backed away, stumbling over my own feet. When she reached for my arm, I turned and bolted. I flew down the stairs, running until my lungs burned, and collapsed into my desk in the sophomore homeroom. My head was a hive of buzzing static. Maybe they were right. Maybe there never was a Haley. Maybe the barrette had always been mine. Maybe my mind had fabricated this entire person to cope with my own loneliness. Maybe I really did need to see a psychiatrist. I have no idea how I survived the rest of the school day. When I got home, the house was empty. My parents were still at work. I locked myself in the bathroom, turning the faucet to cold, and violently splashed water on my face, praying for clarity. The girl staring back at me in the mirror was pale, her eyes hollow and unfocused. I looked insane. I slid down the bathroom wall, wrapping my arms around my knees as the dam finally broke. I wept until my ribs ached. I was sick. I was deeply, fundamentally broken. And then, through my blurred vision, I saw it. On the edge of the wooden doorframe, about five feet off the ground. Two faint, jagged lines carved deep into the wood, one slightly higher than the other, maybe two inches apart. Next to the higher notch, clumsily carved into the paint, was the letter H. Next to the lower notch was an M. It was from when we were kids. Haley and I used to stand back-to-back against the doorframe, using one of Dad’s spare razor blades to secretly mark our heights, measuring who was growing faster. The blood roared back into my ears. My scalp prickled with a sudden, electric heat. You can alter digital photos. You can fake text messages. But you cannot fake physical scars carved into the very bones of a house. I scrambled up and ran my fingers over the rough, splintered wood. My knuckles turned white. I was not crazy. Haley existed. She stood right here, pressing her back against this wood, going up on her tiptoes just to be a little taller than me. Someone was erasing her. My parents, Mrs. Gable, Brooke… every single one of them was in on it. I stood up, wiping my wet face with the back of my sleeve. They could force the town to play along, but they couldn’t force the actual law. I needed to go to the police. 3 “I need to report a missing person!” I threw myself against the high counter of the local precinct, my words tumbling out in a frantic rush. “My sister is gone! And my parents and everyone else are pretending she never existed!” The duty officer, a heavyset, middle-aged man with a permanent scowl, looked down at me. “Whoa, slow down, kid. Take a breath. What’s your name? What’s your sister’s name? When was she last seen?” I spilled everything. The photos, the denials, the barrette, the doorframe. The officer listened, his expression tightening. He turned to his computer and typed in my information. “You’re Kate. Father is Richard, mother is Susan, right?” He squinted at the monitor, clicking his mouse. “Yes! Please, search for Haley! Look her up! She’s really gone!” I pleaded, leaning over the counter. The officer was silent for a long moment. Then, he grabbed the edges of his monitor and swiveled it to face me. His face was stone-cold. “Look for yourself, kid.” Right there on the screen, the official state registry glowed blue and white: Head of Household: Richard. Spouse: Susan. Dependents: Kate (Only Child). He opened another tab, searching the county school records, scrolling down page after page. “There is no record of a Haley in this entire county. Not a birth certificate, not a school file. Nothing.” “No… no, that’s impossible…” I stumbled backward, the air knocked out of my lungs. Seeing my distress, the officer immediately picked up the desk phone and called my parents. They arrived fifteen minutes later. My mother burst through the precinct doors and threw her arms around me. Her eyes were bloodshot, her voice cracking with raw emotion. “Kate, you ran off again. Do you know how terrified I was? I was losing my mind looking for you!” My father stood behind her, taking off his glasses to wipe the lenses. He looked exhausted. He turned to the officer. “I am so sorry, Officer. When she was young, she had a terrible fever. It didn’t break for three days. Ever since then, she gets these… episodes. She hallucinates people. We’ve taken her to doctors, they call it hysteria. She’s on medication.” The officer sighed and gave me a pitying look. “Look, kid, stop working yourself up. Look how fast your folks rushed down here. They love you.” The ride home was suffocatingly quiet. I sat in the back of our old station wagon. My dad drove in silence, the streetlights rhythmically casting shadows over his face. My mother sat in the passenger seat, turning around every two minutes to check on me with worried, mournful eyes. As we drove down Main Street, my dad pulled over. Mom hopped out and bought a candy apple from a corner vendor. “Here,” she said, handing it to me through the window. “Your favorite.” I took a bite. The sugary, crimson shell cracked, and the tart juice flooded my mouth. Without warning, a tear slipped down my cheek. The police database was connected to the state. It was the ultimate, undeniable truth. Maybe they were right. Maybe I really was sick. There was no sister. I was an only child. I had these wonderful parents, and I was torturing them with my broken brain. I wiped my face aggressively. I’m done, I promised myself. Starting today, I will never mention Haley again. But just as the car rolled past the dark, narrow alleyway at the end of Main Street, a faint, chilling sound drifted through the open window. It was the sound of children singing a jump-rope rhyme: One, two, wash them clean, walk them down the street unseen. Three, four, stand in line, follow the stranger, you’ll be fine. Five, six, close your eyes, don’t look up into the skies. Seven, eight, on the wall, in the studio, we hang them all. A hazy, fragmented memory flashed in my mind: a group of children, holding hands, singing in the dark. … From that day on, I became the perfect daughter. I didn’t speak Haley’s name. The oppressive tension in the house visibly evaporated. My mother started humming while cooking dinner again. My father would read the morning paper and chuckle, reading snippets out loud to me. It was as if, as long as I kept the ghost buried, life was picture-perfect. During breakfast on Saturday, my dad suddenly tapped his forehead. “Ah, the portraits from last week should be ready. Kate, do you mind swinging by Main Street this afternoon to pick them up? I’ve got overtime today.” “Sure,” I said, keeping my eyes on my oatmeal. At three o’clock, I pushed open the glass door of Gary’s Lens & Light. The bell chimed into an empty room. “Hello?” No answer. I called out again, stepping up to the front counter. Several brown envelopes were scattered across the glass display case. I sifted through them until I found the one marked with my father’s name. I pulled the photo out. It was the three of us. Me in the middle, my parents flanking me, against that mottled backdrop. Just the three of us. I stared at it until the faces blurred, then shoved it back into the envelope. As I turned to leave, something caught the corner of my eye. Tucked beneath the counter, in a small, shadowy compartment, the edge of a stack of photo negatives was sticking out. There were strange, microscopic scratches on them. Frowning, I picked the negatives up and held them to the light. They weren’t random scratches. They were deliberate, tiny grooves dug fiercely into the film with a fingernail. The scratches were of varying lengths. Irregular, but patterned. I froze, the breath dying in my throat. 4 It was Morse code. When Haley and I went through a detective novel phase, we memorized Morse code to pass secret notes that our parents couldn’t read. It was a language only the two of us shared. My hands shook so violently the negatives rattled against each other. I squinted at the tiny marks. Dash… dot… dash… I… WAS… SOLD… Dot… dot… dash… RUN… I WAS SOLD! RUN!

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My wife and I had been living in different cities for an entire year. I was wandering through an upscale mall on a mundane Tuesday afternoon when I quite literally bumped into a guy from her corporate office. He beamed, clapping me on the shoulder, and offered his warmest congratulations. “Man, another girl! A daughter! You must be over the moon,” he laughed. His words hit me like a physical blow. The mall’s ambient noise faded into a high-pitched ringing, and my feet felt glued to the polished tile. He didn’t notice the blood draining from my face. He just kept talking, oblivious, mentioning how he wouldn’t miss the baby’s sip-and-see party this weekend for the world. As he spoke, he casually waved a thick, cream-colored invitation with gold-foil edging. “Beautiful design, by the way,” he added. I forced my facial muscles into something resembling a smile. With trembling fingers, I reached out and took the heavy cardstock from him. There, under Mother, was my wife’s name: Alisa. My stomach plummeted into an endless dark void. And under Father, printed in elegant cursive, was a name I had never seen before: Kieran. I memorized the address of the country club printed at the bottom, handed the invitation back, and choked out a hollow, “See you this weekend.” When Saturday arrived, I pulled up to the sprawling estate of the country club. The banquet hall was alive with the hum of a lavish party. Standing near the entrance, greeting guests, was a tall, handsome man cradling a newborn baby girl. He caught my eye and offered a warm, easy smile. Assuming I was one of his partner’s colleagues, he chuckled. “Alisa’s firm really hires them sharp, huh? Grab a drink, make yourself at home.” … A violent storm was raging in my chest, threatening to tear me apart from the inside. I forced myself to look at the infant nestled against his chest. She was pale and delicate. Around the eyes, there was an unmistakable echo of Alisa. “Where is Alisa?” I asked, my voice flat, devoid of the hurricane inside me. She wasn’t in the room. But out of the corner of my eye, I spotted several older faces I recognized—relatives from Alisa’s side of the family. I had only met her extended family once, at our wedding seven years ago, but I have a mind like a steel trap. I remembered those distinct, weathered faces. I couldn’t fathom the sheer audacity of it. She was openly parading her illegitimate child in front of her extended family. “Alisa just ran to pick up my in-laws,” Kieran said easily. “She’ll be back any minute.” Another jagged piece of my reality shattered. The pain was immediate, sharp, and suffocating. Just two days ago, my mother-in-law and father-in-law had told me they booked a two-week senior cruise to Alaska. I had been worried their retirement fund wouldn’t stretch far enough to let them actually enjoy the excursions, so I had transferred them an extra thousand dollars, telling them it was their “vacation fund.” For years, their health had been failing—constant doctor visits, endless prescriptions—and they rarely traveled. When they said they wanted a change of scenery, I supported them completely. For the last seven years, I had treated them like my own flesh and blood. To my face, and supposedly behind my back, they constantly praised me. Such a devoted son-in-law, they’d say. A rare find. Now I realized they were treating me like the same gullible fool Alisa took me for. Kieran, entirely blind to the devastation in my eyes, led me over to a cluster of Alisa’s coworkers. The moment we approached, a middle-aged woman sighed wistfully. “I’m so jealous of Alisa. Not only is her husband gorgeous, but this baby is an absolute angel.” The group chimed in, a chorus of validation. “Kieran, you really made the right bet. When you quit your job to be a stay-at-home dad, I was a little worried for you!” “It’s been, what, six years? And you and Alisa are just as obsessed with each other as day one. Now you have this beautiful little proof of it. So happy for you.” My hands curled into fists at my sides, my fingernails digging crescents into my palms. I had been married to Alisa for seven years. She had been having an affair with Kieran for over six. The most pathetic part? Through those long, winding seven years, I had suspected absolutely nothing. Even this morning, she had sent me her usual text: a string of heart emojis and a voice note saying, Morning honey, miss you so much. For seven years, I believed we had the perfect, modern marriage. She never lost her temper with me. She told me her take-home pay was around $3,000 a month, and she kept only a small allowance for her coffees and lunches, transferring the rest to our joint account. Every year, she insisted on putting her “annual bonus” into treasury bonds and mutual funds for our family’s future. I had built up quite a nest egg for us, or so I thought. A year ago, she sat me down and pitched a relocation. A corporate assignment in Chicago, she said, that would bump her salary significantly. It’s for our son’s future, she had argued softly, holding my hands. College, his first house, his wedding. It all costs money. Let me do this for us. After agonizing over the distance, I agreed. Looking back now, I realized Alisa was like the night sky—vast, dark, and impossible to truly see through. “Alisa is a powerhouse,” another coworker was gushing. “Top sales rep every year. Her base salary alone is crazy, and she’s pulling in commissions hand over fist.” “Makes a killing and still treats her husband like a king. Women like that are one in a million.” Another gut punch. The salary she had been transferring to our joint account? That was just her base pay. All her massive commission checks had been funding this alternate life. Kieran beamed, practically glowing with domestic bliss. “We’re just really lucky.” “Time flies,” an older colleague mused. “Six years since we were all at your wedding, and now look at you guys.” They even had a wedding. A big, lavish, public wedding. When Alisa and I got married, we had a quiet, modest ceremony in her small hometown. She didn’t invite a single person from her firm. I stood frozen in the crowd, a ghost at a feast, absorbing the secret history of my own wife. A younger guy in a sharp suit leaned toward Kieran. “Man, you’ve got her trained well. Teach me your ways. How do you keep a woman that successful so devoted?” I felt a dark curiosity bloom inside me. I glanced at Kieran, my face an emotionless mask. He looked perfectly unburdened, untouched by the gritty, exhausting realities of real life. “It’s just who Alisa is. I’m blessed,” Kieran said smoothly. “But it’s about mutual trust. If you’re really worried about a woman straying, you manage the finances. Alisa gives me her entire paycheck. She keeps maybe a hundred bucks a week for incidentals. Her big bonuses? They all go straight into our investment portfolios and real estate. You know what they say—where a woman puts her money, her heart follows.” My shattered heart was ground into dust. Her bonuses went to Kieran’s investments? Then what the hell were the “bonds” she had been buying for me? A wave of pure, unadulterated rage clawed at my throat. They kept laughing and chatting, completely oblivious to the fact that I was standing among them like a block of ice—silent, jagged, and ready to sink the ship. Kieran’s phone buzzed. He smiled down at the screen. “It’s Alisa.” Without a second thought, he turned to me and gently passed the baby into my arms. “Do you mind? Just for a second.” I stiffened. The baby, as light and soft as a bundle of cotton, settled quietly against my chest. She blinked up at me with bright, clear eyes, completely serene. I stared down at her, a chaotic storm of emotions warring inside me. Even though I was standing on the absolute edge of a mental breakdown, looking at this fragile, innocent little thing… I forced the darkness down. I took a breath. Kieran stood right next to me, the phone pressed to his ear. Alisa’s voice drifted clearly through the speaker. “Hey babe, you’ve been running around all morning. Please tell me you’re resting.” “I just picked up Mom and Dad. Traffic is a nightmare, so don’t stress if we’re a few minutes late.” Kieran’s voice was dripping with affection. “I’m fine, honey. Take your time, drive safe. I love you.” He hung up, and the coworkers practically swooned. “You guys are sickeningly cute. She texts you every hour at the office!” “All these years and the honeymoon phase never ended.” “She watches over you like a hawk. Kieran, you found the unicorn. Every woman on earth could cheat, and Alisa still wouldn’t!” I had thought Alisa was so attentive. She called me every single day. She texted me every morning. Sure, the calls were brief—usually less than a minute—but I never doubted her. I was balancing a demanding job, raising our son, managing the household… my time was packed. She was a busy executive. Short calls made sense. I never realized she was saving the intricate, intimate details of her day to share with another man. Holding the baby, I found a quiet chair near the edge of the room and sat down. As I adjusted the infant’s blanket, a flash of gold caught my eye. Clasped around the baby’s tiny wrist was a custom-made gold charm bracelet. The charm was a delicate, intricately carved dove. My breath caught in my throat. I recognized it instantly. Seven years ago, right after we found out Alisa was pregnant with twins—a boy and a girl—my mother went to a legacy jeweler in the city. She had them custom-cast a matching set of gold medallions. A sparrow for the boy, a dove for the girl. My mother then took them on a Catholic pilgrimage to Italy, having them blessed by a cardinal at the Vatican for protection. But life is cruel. There were complications during the delivery. We only saved our son. I had been entirely destroyed by the loss, hollowed out by a grief I couldn’t fix. The sparrow medallion went around my son’s wrist, where he wore it every day as he grew. The dove medallion went into the velvet-lined safe in my bedroom. Whenever the grief of the daughter I never got to meet threatened to drown me, I would sit on the floor of my closet, clutching that gold dove, and weep until I couldn’t breathe. My hands shook. I ran my thumb over the raised wings of the dove, then gently flipped it over. Engraved clearly on the back was one word: Joy. It was the name I had chosen. I had spent months poring over baby books, trying to find the perfect name for the daughter who never made it. Joy. Because I wanted her life to be full of it. “Her name is Joy,” Kieran said, walking over with a smile and taking the seat next to me. “Alisa chose it. She even gave her her own maiden name. I didn’t mind.” He pointed to the bracelet. “Alisa had that custom made, too. You have no idea how much she’s always wanted a daughter.” The cracks in my heart splintered into a million microscopic shards. I kept my voice dead level. “She really takes care of you.” Kieran laughed, settling into an easy, conversational rhythm. “You must be new at the firm, right? I know most of the veterans.” “People come and go,” I murmured, staring straight ahead. “Alisa said there’s been a lot of turnover.” I offered a noncommittal hum. “The benefits at her company are great, but man, the travel used to be brutal,” Kieran sighed. “Thankfully, she hasn’t had to travel at all this past year. But before that? She was on the road two weeks out of every month. It was tough, but we survived.” A bitter, cynical smile touched the corners of my mouth. “Yeah. Survived.” Before Alisa took her “relocation” assignment this past year, she used to travel for “work” for about fifteen days every single month. I had felt so terrible for her, living out of suitcases, exhausted by airports. Because I wanted her to rest when she was home, I took on everything. I did all the cooking, all the cleaning, the school runs. When her parents got sick, I was the one sleeping in the vinyl chairs at the hospital. I managed their homecare. I never asked her to lift a finger. Even as our physical intimacy dwindled to almost nothing over the years, I never complained. I thought she was just burning out. She wasn’t on business trips. She was playing house in another zip code. Kieran made no move to take the baby back. He was busy waving at arriving guests from his seat. He looked down at the infant in my arms and raised an eyebrow in surprise. “Wow, she really likes you. Usually, when I hand her to my buddies, she screams the house down. You’ve been holding her for ten minutes and not a peep. It’s like magic.” “Probably just muscle memory,” I said quietly. “I have a kid of my own.” “Oh, awesome! Do you mind holding her just a little longer? I need to go greet my college buddies over by the bar.” I gave a single, curt nod. He trotted off, completely at ease. I sat alone, holding his child, staring at the massive banner draped across the back wall. Welcome to the World, Joy! With love from her proud parents, Alisa and Kieran. It felt like someone had injected crushed glass into my veins. My son never had a christening or a welcome party. When he was born, we were so consumed by the devastation of losing his twin sister that Alisa begged me not to throw a party. My parents had pushed back, saying our son deserved to be celebrated, but Alisa was adamant. She said she was too heartbroken over the daughter we lost to celebrate anything. And yet here she was, throwing a lavish, joy-filled banquet for her new daughter. I was the only one still mourning the ghost in the safe. My phone vibrated in my pocket. Mother-in-law. Without hesitating, I answered. “Evan, did you not see my text?” Her tone was as demanding and entitled as ever. “No,” I replied, my voice colder than dry ice. “Are you at the grocery store? It sounds loud,” she snapped. “Read your messages. I can’t hear you anyway. Just text me back.” She hung up. I opened the text thread. Twenty minutes ago, she had written: Evan, a distant cousin just had a baby. We need to send a gift. I don’t have enough in my checking account right now, so wire me $2,000. It’s family obligation, we can’t look cheap. The blood rushed to my head so fast I felt dizzy. My knuckles turned white against the phone. These people were not only playing me for a fool, they were actively trying to get me to fund the gift for my wife’s bastard child! A dark, humorless laugh escaped my throat. I didn’t reply. A minute later, another text popped up. Evan, hurry up. We can’t embarrass the family. I left her on read. I would wait for her to walk through those double doors. A third text arrived. I always thought you were a respectable, generous man. I guess I was wrong. Never mind. If you won’t do it, I’ll figure it out myself. A sneer twisted my lips. I treat you like my own son. You’re the best son-in-law in the world. We are so blessed to have you in the family. It had all been a punchline. And I was the joke. Kieran wandered back over, pressing his phone to his ear. I could hear Alisa’s voice vividly through the receiver. “Honey! Mom just surprised us with another piece of gold jewelry for the baby.” “She didn’t have to do that,” Kieran laughed softly. “Joy has enough jewelry to open a store.” Alisa’s voice took on a serious, reverent tone. “No, this one is different. It’s a gold sparrow. Mom had it blessed at a cathedral years ago. It’s highly protective, not just regular jewelry.” My vision tunneled. The roaring in my ears returned. Two days ago, my son had packed his bags for a summer camp. Right before he got on the bus, my mother-in-law told him to take off his gold sparrow medallion so he wouldn’t lose it in the lake. My son, trusting his grandmother, handed it over to her for safekeeping. She had stolen my son’s protective charm—the very symbol of his survival—to gift to Alisa’s illegitimate child. Kieran smiled warmly into the phone. “Tell Mom thank you. That’s incredibly thoughtful.” I heard my mother-in-law’s voice in the background, muffled but clear. “Don’t mention it! It’s what a grandmother is supposed to do. We’re pulling up now. Thanks for handling the crowd, sweetie.” Kieran hung up and reached out to take the baby from me, but then another group of guests waved at him from the entrance. He got distracted and hurried over to them. I remained seated, the child resting heavily in my arms. She was so unnervingly quiet. I stared down at her soft features, a bitter, hollow smile touching my lips. I whispered to her, “Your welcome party is going to be something people talk about for the rest of their lives.” Finally, a commotion at the front doors signaled the arrival. Through the parting crowd, I saw Alisa and her parents making their grand entrance. I stood up, holding the child, and began walking methodically toward the small stage at the front of the room. As I stepped onto the platform, I heard Alisa call out over the chatter, “Babe, where’s our little girl?” I picked up the microphone from the podium. When I spoke, my voice was an arctic wind that froze the entire room instantly. “Hey, honey. Your little bastard is right here in my arms.”

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After living with the broke, impossibly gorgeous campus crush in a cramped shoebox apartment for three months, I wanted out. He was suffocatingly clingy, and behind closed doors, his dominance was relentless. Desperate, I begged my best friend to help me execute an utterly unhinged exit strategy. She marched right up to him, a bank card in hand. “There’s five grand on this,” she told him flatly. “Leave her alone. She’s just a trust-fund kid playing poor for kicks. You are entirely out of her league.” He didn’t say a word. He just quietly took the card. The next morning, the universe played a massive, cruel joke on me. He was leaning casually against a pristine black Maybach, looking utterly in his element. With deadpan sincerity, he looked at me and asked, “So, you were faking it too? Does this mean I’m finally in your league?” I froze, my brain short-circuiting. He was faking being poor? But I was actually broke! … 1 I dodged his kiss. “Can we skip tonight?” Holden arched an eyebrow, his long, elegant fingers already hooking the hem of my slip dress. “Why? Bad timing?” He smiled, a wicked, knowing curve of his lips. He knew exactly where I was in my cycle. Back when my periods were agonizingly irregular, he’d spent weeks babying me, bringing home fancy, nutrient-dense organic broths every single day. I’d asked him back then, “Where are you getting the money for this?” He had paused mid-sip of his water, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he instinctively licked his lips. “One of the girls at the warehouse has the same issue. I just asked her to make an extra batch. She didn’t charge me.” I was curled up under a mountain of blankets at the time, my cramps blinding, my head thick with brain fog. Holden had scooped me up out of the covers, spoon-feeding me the warm broth. “Just eat a little, baby. It’ll make you feel better.” It was his favorite line. Even now. His cheek rested against my thigh. His lips were damp. “Just let me, baby. You’ll feel better.” His knuckles were sharp, his fingers leaving faint, possessive marks against my pale skin. I gasped. He let out a low laugh. “And you said you didn’t want to?” The truth was, my defenses had already crumbled into dust. The bed was a cheap, secondhand nightmare. It squeaked and groaned with every movement. The rhythmic, obnoxious noise finally broke Holden’s concentration. He swore under his breath—a rare occurrence. “I’m throwing out every piece of furniture in this place tomorrow.” My head was spinning, my arms locked tightly around his neck. “With what money?” I breathed. Holden lowered his eyes. “I hit my performance metrics this month. The bonus isn’t bad.” That sobered me up a fraction. “How much?” He blinked, caught off guard. Then he kissed me again, silencing me. “Don’t talk about money in bed. It’s tacky.” I cursed him in my head. I didn’t know what was wrong with him. He was broke, yet he acted like he was slumming it by choice. I really needed to break up with him. 2 I looked around the room. It was a decaying apartment on the edge of the city limits. The paint was peeling, and one corner of the ceiling had a suspicious water stain that looked vaguely like black mold. The internet likes to romanticize this. They call it the “starving lovers” aesthetic—two people with no money and too much chemistry, making it work in a shoebox. I hated it. I checked both boxes. I only went after Holden in the first place because he was breathtakingly beautiful. I still remember the first time we met. We were juniors in college. He was the new hire at the convenience store where I worked the graveyard shift. I already knew who he was. He was the guy—the one every girl on campus openly fantasized about. He walked in wearing a plain white tee, faded Levi’s, black-rimmed glasses, and a pair of scuffed-up sneakers. Even swallowed up by our ugly, neon-blue polyester uniform, he looked like a runway model on his day off. We didn’t talk much that first shift. He messed up the inventory count multiple times. The store manager, a permanently enraged man, dragged him outside. Through the glass storefront, I watched them. Holden was tall; the manager was short. Holden naturally had to look down at him, which probably only made things worse. A customer came to the register. As I scanned their items, my eyes flicked back to the window. Holden was getting ripped apart. He kept rubbing his face, sniffing occasionally. The manager was jabbing a finger at Holden’s uniform, then pointing aggressively at his face. It was humiliating to watch. When I first started, that same manager had chewed me out until I cried in the stockroom. Looking at Holden, my chest tightened with an unexpected pang of empathy. Once the manager finally stormed off, Holden walked back inside. His eyes were rimmed with red. He was swiping a hand roughly over his neck and face. I gave him a look of pure, unadulterated pity. He caught it. His voice was deadpan, completely devoid of emotion. “I’m fine. This polyester is just making me break out in hives.” “It’s okay to cry,” I said, sliding a packet of tissues across the counter. His face flushed crimson. A single, traitorous tear spilled over his lashes. Holden arched a brow and snatched the tissues. “Thanks.” He paused. “But I wasn’t crying.” Stubborn idiot. “Right, sure. You weren’t crying. Better?” “You don’t believe me? I was literally just—” His defense was cut off by the bell above the door. Another customer. 3 Eventually, we became friends. And I quickly realized he was even poorer than I thought. Once, when my favorite celebrity got exposed in a massive scandal, I called my best friend, Bex, sobbing. “I’m so mad I’m not even going to use my DoorDash multiplier code tonight!” Bex laughed. “Whoa, throwing away free money? You really are going through it.” But Holden, who was sitting next to me, just looked confused. “What’s a multiplier code?” “Huh?” I stared at him. Was he doing a bit? “It’s an app promo. It multiplies your discount if you order within a certain time.” “Oh.” For a second, I wondered if he was some rich kid doing a poverty immersion experiment. I harbored a deep, burning resentment for the wealthy. So I tested him. “Do you not order delivery?” He licked his lips. “No.” “Then what do you eat?” “The dining hall. I have a subsidized meal plan. It’s cheap.” Ah. He’s poor. My anti-capitalist heart relaxed. Another time, a guy came into the store and clearly liked what he saw. When he handed Holden his snacks, he traced a slow, deliberate circle over the back of Holden’s hand. “You’re cute,” the guy purred. Holden smiled politely, withdrew his hand, and muttered through gritted teeth, “Not a chance in hell.” He was so broke he couldn’t even afford to buy a clue. But Holden was a walking contradiction. He had the bank account of a peasant, but the sensibilities of a prince. I invited him to split a two-dollar discount pizza combo once. He declined, claiming the last time he ate cheap takeout, his stomach didn’t recover for days. When he worked his second job at the warehouse, he showed up wearing gloves and a mask. “Why?” I asked. “Germaphobe.” Yet the few pairs of shoes he owned were either filthy or yellowing with age. I made fun of them. He told me they were “vintage distressed.” Once, his college roommate dropped by the store while Holden was doubled over, laughing at a terrible joke I’d just made. The roommate shook his head with profound solemnity. “Man, I haven’t seen His Highness smile like that in a long time.” I laughed until my sides hurt. 4 But I really, truly had to break up with him. It wasn’t just the clinginess. It was the fact that we could barely make rent, yet he had zero concept of saving. When summer hit and he decided my rattling box fan was too loud, he bypassed my protests and had a brand-new AC unit installed. I tolerated the financial illiteracy because, well, look at his face. But his physical appetite was insatiable. It was like an addiction. That might have been part of his “prince” syndrome, too. He was used to getting exactly what he wanted. A few times, he absolutely refused to stop. I’d hit him, I’d scratch his beautiful, broad back until it was covered in red half-moons. It only seemed to turn him on more. Finally, I’d break down and cry in sheer frustration, and only then would he let me go. After that, I set a hard limit. Three times a day. Max. So, he just started making each time last twice as long. “Why did you stop?” I sobbed once, completely unspooled. Holden, who was usually so gentle and refined outside the bedroom, was an absolute menace inside it. “Beg me, baby. Tell me I’m yours…” He’d hold me hostage, forcing me to whisper humiliating, desperate things into his ear before he’d finally give me what I wanted. And whatever miracle ointment he bought for those scratches? It worked like magic. By the next morning, his skin would be flawless. No redness, no swelling. It only enabled his bad behavior. I had reached my breaking point. I vented to Bex over coffee. “I literally have to dump him. Please, you have to help me figure out a way out of this.” “We’re adults, Josie,” she said, stirring her latte. “Just tell him it’s over.” “I tried that!” “And?” “I tried to break up with him once, and he cried so hard I thought he was going to warp my hardwood floors!” There was another time we got into a fight. We were giving each other the silent treatment. In a fit of rage, I texted him that we were done. Back then, whenever we fought, my go-to move was a metaphorical slap to the face: I threatened to dump him. Holden had his pride. He texted back a cold, Fine. Less than an hour later, my phone lit up. Where are you? Out finding a rebound, I replied. Are you trying to kill me? I literally do it for free. …You’re acting unhinged. He went quiet. A minute passed. Honestly, I think we can still make this work. The circus is in town. Tell the clown to step down so you can take his place. If you just take me back, I’ll do anything you want. Then we’re going celibate. Absolutely not. … Anything besides that. You can hit me. You can tie me up. I’ll even buy you the whip. Stop rewarding yourself, weirdo. I had dozens of screenshots just like that. When I showed them to Bex, she nearly choked on her coffee laughing. “This is premium content for my TikTok,” she wheezed. Then, her eyes lit up. “Wait. I’ve got it. What if we pretend you’re actually rich? Like, stupid wealthy. Tell him you were just playing poor to see how the other half lives.” She leaned in. “Guys have massive egos. If you humiliate his pride and make him feel inferior, he won’t crawl back.” “Bex,” I said, awe in my voice. “You’re a genius.” 5 The next day. Bex and I showed up to see Holden wearing rented designer power suits. I stayed completely silent. Bex took the lead, fully committing to the bit. “Ms. Lin, your father the CEO insists you stop playing these games. It’s time to return to the board and assume your duties.” I felt so intensely guilty I couldn’t even look Holden in the eye. Bex stepped protectively in front of me. She pulled out a prepaid debit card loaded with five thousand dollars and shoved it toward him. “The PIN is her birthday. Our heiress was just having a little fun. You are completely out of her league.” Holden’s face darkened. The air around him dropped ten degrees. “So this whole time… you were just pretending to be poor? Playing me?” Why do you look so genuinely heartbroken? I screamed internally. “Yes,” I forced myself to say. “Sorry. The socio-economic gap between us is just too vast. It’s over.” Holden’s eyes reddened. “So… if I could prove I was in your league, we wouldn’t have to break up?” I sighed, trying to look suitably tragic. “Perhaps.” Holden let out a harsh, bitter laugh. “Don’t count a guy out just because he’s down on his luck.” I patted his shoulder. He was still so naive. Ten years from now, he’d realize he was just middle-aged and still down on his luck. I turned to walk away. But Holden’s hand shot out, his fingers wrapping around my wrist like a vice. “Wait.” I knew it. He wasn’t going to let it go that easily. Then, a sharp rip echoed in the air. Holden had just torn the tag right off the collar of my blazer.

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I was standing with my wife on her family’s sprawling estate, watching the contractors pour the final layer of concrete for the new ancestral mausoleum, when my stomach dropped. Sammy was gone. I was spinning in circles, my heart hammering against my ribs, scanning the manicured lawns. That was when Ken—my wife’s childhood friend, a twenty-eight-year-old man who claimed to have a “highly sensitive, child-like soul”—strolled over. He was popping a bubblegum bubble, a sly, sickening smirk playing on his lips. He casually mentioned that he’d told my five-year-old son to play hide-and-seek inside the crypt’s foundation. Just until the concrete sets, he laughed. Then he can hide forever. I scrambled to the edge of the pit, dropping to my knees. Staring into a narrow gap in the thick, wet cement, my breath caught in my throat. A tiny, pale finger was sticking out of the gray sludge. My vision went entirely red. I screamed at my wife to call 911, my voice tearing my vocal cords. I told her Ken was a dead man, that he was going to pay for this with his life. But Jill only hesitated for two seconds. Two seconds, before she stepped squarely in front of Ken, shielding him with her body. She told me Ken was young. That his anxiety couldn’t handle prison, that it would ruin his life. She looked at the wet concrete and whispered that if Sammy was already gone, it was an honor for him to be entombed with her ancestors. She told me to stop making a scene. A violent tremor wrecked my body. Before I could process the sheer depravity of her words, I raised my hand and slapped her hard across the face. Right at that second, my phone vibrated in my pocket. I answered it with trembling, cement-stained fingers. Through the speaker, my son’s sweet, unmistakable voice chirped. He told me Uncle David had taken him to the spring carnival in town, that they were eating funnel cake, and not to worry. I froze. The phone nearly slipped from my grip. If my son was at the carnival, safe and sound… then whose child was sealed inside the concrete? 1 The mausoleum foundation was sealed tight, an impenetrable tomb of wet, heavy gray. And beneath it, a child had just been suffocated to death. I stood before the crypt, violently shaking. A few feet away, the murderer, Ken, was cowering behind my wife, loudly chewing his peppermint gum as if he were waiting in line at a grocery store. Jill’s eyes were rimmed with red. She glanced at the cement, then quickly looked away, unable to hold the stare. “Paul, look, I’m devastated about Sammy too,” she said, her voice dropping into that soothing, corporate tone she used in boardrooms. “I promise, we will give him the most beautiful, lavish funeral. But Ken… you know how fragile his mind is. He has the emotional age of a toddler. You hit me, you yelled at him. Can we please just let this go?” The sheer, unadulterated audacity of her words made my ears ring with a deafening pitch. A twenty-eight-year-old man. A married man. And she was treating him like a fragile infant. Summoning every ounce of rage pooling in my gut, I stepped forward and struck her across the face a second time. “Listen to me, Jill,” I snarled, my voice unrecognizable. “My son is a child. The kid Ken just suffocated in that concrete is a child! Not him!” Seeing me step toward them, Ken hiked up the legs of his designer chinos and jogged forward, throwing his arms out wide to protect her. “Don’t you hit Jill!” he whined. But when he met my eyes—feral, bloodshot, and murderous—his shoulders instantly caved. He shrank back, his lip trembling. “If the mean man won’t forgive Ken… then…” He dramatically slapped his hands over his mouth. “Then Ken will just stop breathing too! He’ll suffocate himself!” He shook his head, making muffled, fake sobbing noises through his fingers. “Stop it, please!” Jill panicked. She wrapped her arms around him, pulling his head to her chest. “Your heart condition, Ken. You can’t get worked up! What if you go into tachycardia?” I watched them, utterly paralyzed by the grotesque absurdity of the scene. There was a dead child in the ground. And my wife was worried about this giant, overgrown man-child having a panic attack. My hands balled into fists. I took a slow, deliberate step toward them. “Ken is an adult. He knew exactly what he was doing when he lured a child who didn’t understand the danger into a construction pit. That is murder.” My voice was a low, fatal scrape. “He’s going to prison for the rest of his life. There is no escaping this.” All the color drained from Ken’s face. He clutched fistfuls of Jill’s cashmere sweater. “Jill, protect me! I don’t want to go to jail!” Tears streamed down his cheeks. “If I die, I can’t play my video games! I won’t get to eat barbecue anymore!” “Shh, shh, I know, sweetie,” Jill cooed, stroking his hair, her eyes blazing at me with defensive fury. The intimacy between them, the sickening codependency, made bile rise in my throat. I lunged forward, grabbing Ken by the collar of his polo shirt, dragging him toward the crypt. “Tell me!” I roared. “Who is the kid you tricked into the concrete? Who is it?!” “Paul, you’re terrifying him!” Jill shrieked. She slammed her hands into my chest, shoving me with all her strength. My boots slipped on the wet mud. I fell backward, the back of my head cracking hard against a marble headstone. A dull, sickening throb radiated through my skull. Ken peeked out from behind Jill’s shoulder, blinking his large, innocent eyes. “It’s Paul’s little boy in there. I’m a good boy, I always tell the truth. I don’t lie.” Truth? My son was miles away, winning stuffed animals at a ring toss. Whose child had Ken just murdered? I touched my forehead. My fingers came away wet with blood. Seeing the crimson stain, a flicker of guilt finally crossed Jill’s eyes. “Paul, honey,” she softened her voice, taking a tentative step toward me. “I know the shock of losing Sammy is destroying you. I know. But it’s done. Can’t we just keep this quiet? Make this a private family matter?” She offered a small, pleading smile. “You’ve always wanted to go to the Maldives. Once the holiday weekend is over, I’ll book us the best overwater villa. The ocean air will help. Give it a few days, and the grief will pass.” I stared at her. My jaw went slack. A private matter? A human being had just been buried alive. The dam inside me finally broke. Even if the boy in the cement wasn’t my flesh and blood, I was going to tear the world apart to get him justice. I took a deep, ragged breath, standing up tall. I looked down at the woman I had married. “I am done playing this sick, twisted game with you, Jill. We are at the end of the line, and only two things are going to happen.” I wiped the blood from my brow. “One, I am finding out exactly who is in that grave. Two, I am filing for divorce.” 2 “Divorce?!” Jill let out a sharp, mocking laugh, looking at me like I was a beggar who had just demanded the keys to her mansion. “Paul, if you want a payout, just say so. Don’t use the D-word to extort me.” Ken’s eyes suddenly lit up with profound realization. “Oh! I get it now!” He pointed at me. “The mean man isn’t sad about the little boy. He just wants a lot of money!” Jill scoffed, the disdain in her eyes thickening. “God, and here I thought you actually loved Sammy. You’re just trying to cash in on his death. Unbelievable.” She reached into her designer bag, pulled out a checkbook, scribbled something down, and threw the check into the mud at my feet. “Two million dollars. That should cover the loss of a child, right?” Her lips curled into a cruel sneer. “I recall when your dad died, you spent seven years in court just to get a three-hundred-thousand-dollar settlement.” It felt like she had just driven a knife straight into my ribs. How dare she bring up my father. My dad had died pushing Jill out of the way of a drunk driver. The driver had deep pockets and refused to plead guilty. Back then, Jill had held my hand through every agonizing court hearing. She helped me find lawyers, track down witnesses. On the day the driver was finally sentenced, she had looked at me with tears in her eyes and said, Paul, I know you believe in justice above all else. As long as I’m here, no one will ever wrong you again. Now, to protect the pathetic man she was having an emotional—and likely physical—affair with, all her morals had evaporated. She honestly believed two million dollars could buy away the rotting corpse of a child. “Take your blood money and rot!” I screamed, picking up the check and throwing it back in her face. “You want to know what I want? I want a murderer behind bars. I want justice for the kid who died in the dark!” The blood was roaring in my ears. I lunged forward, grabbing Ken by his belt, dragging him violently toward the churning cement mixer. “You think burying people in concrete is a fun little game?” I shouted, my muscles burning. “Let’s see how much you like playing it!” Ken shrieked, his face turning an ashen gray. He scrambled backward, his expensive loafers slipping in the mud, crying hysterically. “Paul, have you lost your mind?! You could kill him!” Jill tackled me from the side, her manicured hand striking my cheek. A stinging heat blossomed across my skin, and the metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. So that was it. Ken’s life mattered. The child he murdered didn’t. By now, Jill’s extended family had gathered. Her aunts, uncles, and cousins stood in a tight circle, whispering and pointing. “Jeez, Jill,” her aunt muttered, arms crossed. “Your husband is completely unhinged. Always screaming about murder. Do you think he’s inherently violent?” Jill’s younger cousin, a sharp-tongued trust-fund kid, shook her head. “I told you, Jill. You give a man who married into the family an inch, he takes a mile. You’ve coddled him for too long. He doesn’t respect who actually runs this estate.” Jill’s face flushed with embarrassment. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my flesh, and dropped her voice to a vicious hiss. “Look, I’m sorry I hit you. Let it go. But you are making a scene in front of my entire family. Do not humiliate me like this.” A deep, bone-chilling cold settled over me. Ever since I married into this wealthy, established family, I had been the outsider. The charity case. Jill had never once defended me against their snide remarks. Her “image” was her religion. But I didn’t care about their petty suburban drama right now. There was a dead kid in the ground. I ripped my arm out of her grip and turned to the crowd of relatives. “The boy in the concrete is not my son!” I yelled, my voice echoing over the manicured lawns. “Check your kids! Which one of you is missing a child?!” Jill’s younger brother stepped up, his face twisted in offense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? If it’s not your kid, who is it?” He pulled his own son closer by the shoulder. “Every kid in the bloodline is standing right here. Your son is the one who’s dead. Are you trying to curse our children just because yours is gone?” The other relatives immediately murmured in agreement. “Exactly! It’s your kid who was dumb enough to crawl into a foundation!” I ignored their venom. I scanned the faces of the children huddled around their parents. I counted them. One by one. Then, the blood froze in my veins. Wait. Someone was missing. 3 A terrifying chill crept up the base of my neck. If the kid buried in the foundation was who I thought it was… then Ken, Jill, and the entire family empire were about to burn to the ground. I grabbed Jill’s shoulders, shaking her. “We have to break the concrete! Now! You have no idea who is in there!” Jill rubbed her temples, letting out an exhausted sigh. “Paul, your son is dead. Why are you dragging out his trauma? Just let him rest in peace.” I shoved her back, a mixture of profound disappointment and white-hot anger burning in my chest. “Jill, if you truly believed that was your flesh and blood in there, wouldn’t you want to see his face one last time?” “I…” Jill stammered, caught off guard. Her brother sensed her hesitation. He marched forward and grabbed her arm. “Jill, don’t listen to him. The guy is manic. The astrologer gave us the exact hour to seal the crypt for good fortune. You break that concrete now, you curse the entire family’s finances!” Jill stood between us, paralyzed by indecision. I stared at her, holding onto a final, microscopic shred of hope. If she broke the concrete now, if she took accountability and called the police, maybe she wouldn’t lose her soul entirely. But then, Ken tugged on the sleeve of her blouse, his lip quivering. “Jillie… dead things are scary… Ken-Ken doesn’t want to see a dead body.” Those pathetic, crocodile tears were all it took. Jill patted his hand, her face hardening. She looked at me with cold resolution. “I am not going to turn my family’s estate into a crime scene just because you’re having a mental break. And frankly, aren’t you to blame? Where were you when your son wandered off?” She stepped back, her eyes softening as she looked at Ken. “Besides. Ken is sensitive. Digging up a corpse would traumatize him.” She stood in front of him like a human shield, looking at me as if I were the monster in the story. I swallowed the rising nausea. “Fine. I’m calling my brother right now. I’ll let a police officer tell you whether my son is dead or alive.” The second I dialed David’s number, Jill lunged. She slammed into me, knocking the phone from my hand. She scrambled in the mud, grabbed the device, and pressed it to her ear. “David? Hi. No, things are chaotic here at the estate, don’t drive out. I’m bringing Paul back to the city tomorrow, I promise!” Through the receiver, I could faintly hear David’s voice. “Wait, but I have your—” Before he could say the word son, Jill hung up. She glared at me, her chest heaving. “Don’t think I don’t know exactly what you’re doing. Your brother is a cop. You want to dig up that foundation just to find “evidence” to lock Ken away.” She stepped closer, her voice a deadly whisper. “Let me make this perfectly clear. As long as I am breathing, Ken is not going to prison.” I felt entirely untethered from reality. Ken had committed an atrocity, and she honestly believed her money and influence could just erase it. I was done talking. I walked over to the contractor’s equipment truck, grabbed a heavy-duty jackhammer, and marched toward the crypt. Today, by god, I was bringing that child back into the light. “What are you doing?!” Jill screamed. She threw herself at me, wrestling the heavy machinery out of my grip. Because I was exhausted and bleeding, she managed to push me down. She pinned me to the cold earth. She turned to her cousins. “Get the rope from the shed! Tie him up!” “Jill, I don’t want to do this,” she panted as they bound my wrists with rough hemp rope, “but you are completely out of control. Put him in the old greenhouse. You can stay in there until you calm down and we can talk like adults.” Her family hauled me up by my armpits and dragged me across the lawn toward the abandoned glass greenhouse at the edge of the property. My knees scraped against the gravel, leaving a trail of blood. Night fell. The temperature dropped. I was left in the dark, without food or water, the cuts on my face throbbing with a dull, infected heat. In the corner, I saw my phone, which must have slipped from my pocket when they threw me onto the dirt floor. I dragged myself across the room, using my nose to wake the screen. I just needed to hit David’s contact. But my trembling nose tapped the Instagram icon instead. Ken’s story popped up at the top of the feed. Such a scary day for my anxiety. But Jill took me to the farmers market to buy strawberries to make me feel better! Love you! The photo showed Ken holding a rustic woven basket, smiling brightly into the camera. Jill was standing next to him, looking at him with absolute, radiant adoration. My vision blurred. A heavy darkness pressed down on my brain, and I collapsed against the dirt. A child was dead in the cold, wet dark. And his murderer was out picking strawberries. I closed my eyes, a bitter prayer echoing in my mind. I just hoped that when they finally discovered who they had buried, they wouldn’t regret the choices they made today.

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During the Memorial Day long weekend, I decided to stay in the presidential suite of one of my own hotels. I had made the reservation a month in advance, intending for this to be a quiet, undercover inspection of our flagship service standards. When I arrived at the front desk, the girl behind the counter didn’t greet me. Instead, she spent a solid three minutes looking me up and down with a gaze that felt like a physical sneer. Finally, she popped her gum and told me flatly that the presidential suite was no longer available. She suggested I leave. I slid my sunglasses down, my brow furrowing. “I booked this room a month ago,” I said, my voice measured. “Are you saying the hotel failed to hold a guaranteed reservation?” She rolled her eyes with an insolence that was almost impressive. “Look, honey, ‘no’ means ‘no.’ If you’re having trouble processing the English language, maybe find someone to translate for you while you wait outside.” The words had barely left her mouth when her face underwent a terrifying transformation. She beamed, a saccharine, practiced smile directed at a man walking up behind me. He was dripping in labels, a gold Rolex gleaming on his wrist. “Mr. Thompson! So good to see you again,” she chirped, her voice dripping with artificial honey. “I made sure to save the last presidential suite just for you.” She slid a key card across the marble counter with a wink. Once he had strutted toward the elevators, she reached into a drawer, pulled out a thick stack of cash, and threw it onto the floor at my feet. “Now the room is officially gone,” she said, her voice dropping back into a cold rasp. “That’s your compensation. Pick it up and get out.” I didn’t look at the money. Instead, I focused on the name engraved on her brass pin: Amber. I pulled out my phone and dialed the regional director. When he picked up, I didn’t bother with a greeting. “Fire the receptionist named Amber. Immediately.” … I cut the call, my face a mask of cold fury. This “undercover visit” had been eye-opening, though not in the way I’d hoped. As the CEO of the Monroe Group—a luxury empire built on the promise of radical hospitality—I was horrified. To think I had a viper like this on my payroll. Amber didn’t look worried. She actually laughed, unpinning her badge and slamming it onto the desk. “Oh, you’re having me fired? Please. Take a good look at the ID number. Go ahead, keep complaining. See if anyone actually gives a damn.” She leaned back, radiating a toxic level of confidence. I narrowed my eyes. “I had a confirmed booking. You gave my room to someone else right in front of me. That’s a massive breach of contract. Where exactly is this arrogance coming from?” She glared at me, exasperated. “I gave you the money, didn’t I? What else do you want, a parade?” She shoved my ID back toward me. As I reached for it, she let go too early. It skipped off my fingertips and landed on the floor. “Pain in the ass,” she muttered. My hand stayed suspended in mid-air for a heartbeat. My expression went deathly still. Another receptionist, a younger girl, came scurrying over. She looked at the cash scattered on the floor, then at my face, and then shot a terrified glance at Amber. “I am so sorry, ma’am,” the newcomer whispered, her forehead beaded with sweat. “Maybe… maybe I can help you find a room at the boutique hotel next door?” She knelt down, frantically picking up the bills Amber had thrown. “Why should I leave?” I asked, my voice low and dangerous. “It’s a holiday weekend. Every decent hotel in the city is booked. My room was given away as a personal favor, I was insulted to my face, and then I was showered with cash like I’m some beggar. You think a referral solves that?” Amber snorted. “Humiliated? Give it a rest, lady. You’re dying to grab that cash, I can see it. You’re just holding out for more.” She leaned over the counter, her eyes flitting over my plain linen blazer. “I checked your history. You’ve never stayed with us before. You’re just some out-of-towner trying to look like a big shot on a budget. Why would I give a suite to a nobody when I can get a massive tip from a regular?” I was momentarily speechless. So that was the game. A secret “tipping” culture where the staff auctioned off rooms to the highest bidder. “Is this the new standard for five-star service?” I managed. “Prejudice based on perceived wealth?” The younger girl, whose badge read Mia, bowed deeply. “I am so, so sorry. We will process your refund immediately. I’ve gathered the compensation money—please, just take it. Don’t be angry.” Mia caught my eye and subtly shook her head. Her lips moved silently: Don’t push her. My suspicion flared. I pushed the money away. “It’s not about the money. It’s about the attitude.” Amber smirked, as if she’d won. She reached under the counter and pulled out more stacks of cash. “Right. It’s never about the money until it’s about the money. Is this enough? How about this?” She began flicking the bills at my face. One after another, the paper snapping against my skin. I didn’t even have time to duck. The sharp edge of a hundred-dollar bill sliced across my cheek, a stinging, hot pain. I reached out and grabbed her wrist to stop her. She yanked herself back with a snarl. “I’ve seen plenty of losers try to play ‘rich’ by booking a suite they can’t afford, but you’re the first one brave enough to lecture me on my job.” Dozens of bills fluttered around me like red autumn leaves. I took a deep breath, smoothing back my hair, and felt a flicker of something beyond just anger. Logic kicked in. That money on the floor was more than her monthly salary. She didn’t care about it. She wasn’t just a receptionist; she was someone who felt untouchable. “You’re an employee,” I said. “You rely on the guests you’re currently insulting. I could call the police for assault.” Mia leaned in, her voice a frantic whisper in my ear. “Ma’am, please, just stop. She isn’t who you think she is. Even the police won’t touch her. Just take the money and go.” I stared at Amber. A receptionist with “protection”? Amber saw the confusion on my face and her lips curled into a sneer of pure triumph. “You want to know why I can do whatever I want? Because in this hotel, I’m the Queen Bee. I am the management.” I almost laughed at the absurdity. “I don’t recognize you. Who gave you that title?” “What’s all this shouting about?” A man in a sharp suit, wearing a ‘General Manager’ tag, strode toward us. “Rick!” Amber pointed at me, her voice turning into a shrill whine. “This woman is making a scene. She’s mad about her room and now she’s threatening to call the cops. She’s just a scammer trying to shake us down.” She looked at me and mouthed a silent, filthy curse. I suppressed my rage, studying this ‘Rick.’ If Amber was the Queen, then I had a feeling I’d found the King of this little rotten mountain. I needed to see how deep this went. “Manager Rick, I assume?” I said. “Your receptionist gave away a pre-paid reservation, threw money at me, and physically assaulted me. I want an explanation.” Rick didn’t offer an apology. He gave a shallow, mocking bow. “I’m sorry you feel that way. Mistakes happen with bookings.” I felt a slight thaw. “And her behavior? How will the hotel handle that?” Mia shot me a look of pure pity. Rick straightened his tie and let out a short, condescending laugh. “Actually, ma’am, this is just how we do things here. If you don’t like it, don’t come back. But while you’re here, you’ll take what we give you. She gave you compensation. It’s on the floor. If you’re too proud to pick it up, that’s your problem.” I froze. I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Furthermore,” Rick continued, stepping closer to use his height as a weapon, “you grabbed our employee’s arm and scratched her. If you don’t apologize to her right now, I’ll be the one calling the police.” Amber nodded, looking delighted. “Cousin, give yourself a raise next month.” Rick grinned. He reached out and jabbed a finger into my shoulder. “Apologize. Now.” I clenched my fists, my knuckles turning white. “She threw money in my face. I was defending myself.” “She was giving you a gift!” Amber shrieked. “The Queen gives, and you receive. That’s the way it works.” The sheer madness of it finally clicked. Nepotism. Corruption. “So, because you have a manager covering for you, you think you own the place?” I asked. Rick and Amber shared a laugh. Mia tugged at my sleeve again, her voice trembling. “Ma’am… Rick is only the manager because of her. She’s dating the Regional Director. And the Director is best friends with the CEO, Cynthia Monroe!” Amber’s chest puffed out. She looked like she was expecting me to faint. I felt a wave of cold, dark irony wash over me. She had no idea she was bullying the very person she was claiming as her shield. My “friend,” the Regional Director, had just told me on the phone he’d never heard of her. “I know the Regional Director,” I said quietly. “And he’s married.” Amber’s face went purple. She lunged across the desk and slapped me, hard. “Don’t you dare lie about him! He does whatever I say! He’s not married, you bitch!” I stumbled back, my hand flying to my stinging cheek. Rick, seeing things had gone too far, cleared his throat. “Alright, that’s enough. You don’t have to apologize anymore. Just pick up your money and get the hell out before I have security throw you onto the sidewalk.” My skin was burning. I pulled out my phone and dialed 911. “You think you can just sweep this under the rug? Think again.” A message flashed on my screen from the Director: Cynthia, I found out the issue. I appointed an acting manager named Jordan Rivers. This receptionist might be his girlfriend. I’m heading there now. “I’ve called the police,” I said aloud. Before I could say another word, Rick snatched the phone out of my hand. “Police? We paid you! You’re done!” “This isn’t about money anymore,” I snapped. “You slapped me. You stole my reservation. You’re not getting away with this.” Amber grabbed my phone from Rick and smashed it onto the marble floor. “If you call the cops, you’ll ruin Jordan’s career! You’re a liar and a scammer, and I’m going to tear that tongue out of your head!” She vaulted over the counter, acting like she owned the damn state, let alone the hotel. She tackled me to the floor, her nails digging into my scalp as she yanked my hair. “Stop it!” A sharp, authoritative voice cut through the chaos from the entrance. I looked up, gasping for air, and felt a surge of relief. But then I looked closer at the man standing there. Jordan Rivers. The name finally clicked. Jordan was the charity case I had sponsored for seven years. Years ago, I’d found him—a brilliant student who couldn’t afford tuition. I paid for his Ivy League education, his living expenses, even his study abroad program in London. On the day he graduated, he had knelt in front of me, crying, swearing he would spend his life repaying my kindness. I had no idea he had ended up working at one of my properties. Jordan’s face was dark with anger. Amber immediately dissolved into a puddle of fake tears, throwing herself into his arms. “Jordan! This woman… I forgot to hold her room and she attacked me! Look at my arm!” She showed him some faint red marks that I’m certain she’d scratched into herself seconds ago. Jordan’s eyes snapped to mine. He didn’t see his benefactor. He saw a woman on the floor, looking disheveled and “ordinary.” I had never shown him the full scale of my empire; I had always kept our meetings humble, wanting him to focus on his studies rather than my wealth. “Cynthia?” he said, his voice dripping with disdain. “What are you doing here? Trying to humiliate me at my job? You hurt my girlfriend—do you have any idea that assault is a crime?” He let out an agitated sigh. “Look, I said I’d repay the favor, but you don’t need to show up here acting like a billionaire. Booking a presidential suite? Really? How much did you spend to try and impress me?” I was stunned. The boy I’d raised was looking at me like I was a parasite. “The security cameras will show the truth,” I said, my heart turning to ice. “She’s the one who attacked me. I’m calling the police.” Jordan gripped his tie, pulling it loose. “Police will hurt the hotel’s image. Look, you’re only here because you saw I’m successful and you want to cash in on that ‘charity’ you gave me, right? Just tell me how much. How much to make us even so you’ll leave me alone?” He pulled out his phone, ready to Venmo me. Then he paused. “Actually, no. First, you apologize to Amber.” Amber smirked from the circle of his arm. “I want her on her knees.” Jordan looked down at me, his expression cold and kingly. “You heard her, Cynthia. Do it.” I let out a short, hollow laugh. It all made sense now. My hotels were thriving across the country, except for this one. It was because “King Jordan” was running a kingdom of cronyism and cruelty. “I gave you a future out of the goodness of my heart,” I said. “And this is how you repay me?” “You paid a few tuition bills,” Jordan snapped. “I didn’t even have enough pocket money to keep up with the rich kids. You think you own my life for that? Don’t be greedy.” Amber sneered. “She saw you got a job at the Monroe Group and tried to climb the ladder through you. Pathetic.” The fire in my chest finally roared to life. I dug my nails into my palms. “Fine. Let’s talk money.” “According to the hotel’s own ‘Bill of Rights’ for guests,” I said, stepping forward until I was inches from Amber, “a walk-on cancellation for a guaranteed reservation requires a full refund plus three times the room rate as compensation. Additionally, the hotel must provide a suite in a comparable five-star property, fully paid. My rate tonight was $8,000. That means you owe me exactly $40,000.” I looked her in the eye. “Is the trash you threw on the floor enough, Amber?” Rick and Mia gasped. Jordan’s face flickered with a moment of doubt. “Forty thousand?” Amber shrieked. “You’ve lost your mind!” She looked at Rick for confirmation. Rick looked at the floor, sweating. They were amateurs. They hadn’t even read the employee handbook. Jordan laughed, though it sounded forced. “How would you know the internal policies of a luxury hotel? Unless you’re a professional scammer. Cynthia, was the money you ‘donated’ to me just stolen from other victims?” He looked at me with genuine disgust. “Apologize on your knees, or I’m calling the cops to haul you away.” I laughed—a sharp, clear sound. I reached into my pocket and slammed my business card onto the marble desk. “I’m Cynthia Monroe. I wrote the damn rules. How could I not know them?” Mia picked up the card. Her jaw dropped. “She… she’s the CEO? Cynthia Monroe, the head of the Monroe Group?” Rick and Amber froze. “This was an unannounced inspection,” I began. Jordan made a clicking sound with his tongue, his face twisting into deeper hatred. He grabbed the card and ripped it into pieces. “Same name, that’s all. You think you could be the Cynthia Monroe? She’s worth billions. You barely scraped together a hundred grand for me over seven years. You’re a delusional freak.” The words died in my throat. The boy I’d cried for when he got his first ‘A’ was now looking at me with total contempt. Amber, emboldened by Jordan’s denial, lunged at me again. She shoved me back down to the floor. “Liar! You think a few grand makes you a queen? Get on your knees!” Jordan watched her hit me. He didn’t move. He actually smiled. Rick held me down by my shoulders. I felt the fury threatening to explode out of my skin, but I was outnumbered. “I am your CEO! Look at my phone! The messages are right there!” Mia scrambled to pick up the broken pieces of my phone, tears streaming down her face. But the screen was black. It wouldn’t turn on. A cold pit formed in my stomach. I had a multi-million dollar merger meeting to finalize online tonight. If I couldn’t get into my accounts… the damage would be catastrophic. Amber pulled out her own phone and started a livestream. “I’m going to expose this bitch. Not only is she a scammer, she’s a stalker trying to impersonate our CEO.” She shoved the camera in my face, then grabbed the collar of my blazer and tore it. I gasped, humiliated, as she exposed my torn camisole to the camera. People began to gather at the hotel entrance, peering in. “Look at this home-wrecker!” Amber shouted to the crowd. “Trying to seduce my boyfriend and steal hotel property!” Strangers began to point and whisper. “Disgusting,” an old woman muttered. “She looks like a common tramp. Strip her and show everyone what a liar looks like.” I fought back, but Rick’s grip was like iron. “I am not a mistress! They are assaulting me! Someone call the police!” My pleas were drowned out by the insults. Mia tried to use her phone to call for help, but Amber slapped it out of her hand. Amber laughed, showing me the screen of her livestream. The viewer count was skyrocketing. The comments were a blur of hate. Is that actually Cynthia Monroe? Getting beat up? The host says she’s a scammer who stole her boyfriend’s money. Burn her! I saw comments from people I recognized—employees at partner firms. If this is the CEO, I’m resigning tomorrow. How unprofessional. My company is pulling our contract with Monroe Group. This is a PR nightmare. The metallic taste of blood filled my mouth. I had bitten my lip in the struggle. My eyes were burning red with tears of rage. Jordan, standing with his hands in his pockets, glanced at the comments. Suddenly, his face paled. “Wait… why are people saying she looks like the real CEO?” Just then, the heavy glass doors of the lobby swung open with a bang. A man burst through the crowd, his face ashen. It was Bill, the Regional Director. He took one look at the scene—the money on the floor, my torn clothes, the marks on my face—and he looked like he was about to have a heart attack. “Stop! Every single one of you, GET BACK! What the hell have you done to Ms. Monroe?!”

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I grew up in the kind of suffocating Appalachian rust-belt town where people spoke with a heavy, unpolished drawl. Keith Crawford treated me like a ghost he was paying to haunt his own bedroom. “When you’re with me,” he would command, his voice dropping to a glacial whisper, “don’t make a sound.” He hated my voice. The moment I opened my mouth, the illusion shattered. I sounded absolutely nothing like Cecilia, the untouchable golden girl he had spent his entire life pining for. But if I actually managed to stay perfectly silent, he’d find ways to punish me for it. Often, right at the breathless precipice of things, his hands would bite into my hips. “You might be a cheap imitation of her in every other way,” he’d murmur, his breath hot against my skin, “but you definitely know how to pull a man under in bed.” Then he’d ask, “Is this your master plan? F**k me so well I can’t let you go?” I’d just roll my eyes in the dark. I was working three jobs a day. When you hustle that hard, your “technique” naturally gets pretty flawless. 1 I had two other patrons just like Keith. One was Theo Gilbert, the gentle, universally beloved A-list actor. The other was a walking taboo. He shared Keith’s last name but sat a generation above him on the family tree—Keith’s uncle. The man rumored to play the stock market like a grand piano, Gideon Crawford, the youngest guest professor of finance at Kingsley University. All three men were roughly the same age, and all three shared the same agonizing heartbreak: Cecilia DuPont, the award-winning actress who had fled to Europe, leaving a trail of shattered egos in her wake. That was the only reason a girl like me could hold down three lucrative arrangements at once. Among them, Keith was the billionaire CEO, yet somehow the most remarkably stingy. He only required my presence once a month. The compensation? Thirty thousand dollars. A drop in the bucket—barely a tenth of my total monthly income. And for that, I had to jump through hoops. I had to bathe in specific oils, burn a certain incense, and cater to a laundry list of his ridiculous, neurotic demands. If his garbage personality wasn’t bad enough, his performance in bed was… fine, at best. Honestly, if I didn’t have the phantom ache of poverty etched into my bones—if I didn’t treat every dollar like a lifeline—I wouldn’t have bothered with him. I gritted my teeth and viewed it as a character-building exercise. When it was over, I selfishly rolled myself into the Egyptian cotton duvet. Keith, however, refused to let the moment end. He yanked me back against his chest, burying his face in the crook of my neck. “What, are you still sulking about what happened this afternoon?” “Bianca is just a kid. She broke a bracelet. Is it really worth all this attitude?” His tone was dismissive, laced with that lazy, post-coital softness. “I don’t even remember when I bought you that thing. Why are you so hung up on it?” Bianca was Keith’s spoiled younger sister. When she found out her brother was keeping a blue-collar canary in his gilded cage, she made it her personal mission to make my life hell. With my back turned to Keith, I let out a massive, silent eye roll. Keep flattering yourself, buddy. That vintage Cartier emerald tennis bracelet? Gideon had bought it for me at a Sotheby’s auction for three million dollars. If that dark, controlling psychopath found out his gift had been smashed into pieces, I didn’t even want to imagine what kind of psychological torture he’d inflict on me. When the bracelet shattered, I had practically shoved the certificate of authenticity into Bianca’s perfectly contoured face. But Keith, the absolute bastard, had intercepted it. “It’s just a cheap bauble,” he had said, waving it off. “I’ll buy you another one.” Gee, thanks. As long as he was willing to write the check, I didn’t care. It saved me the retainer fee for a lawyer. Sensing my utter lack of enthusiasm, Keith’s mood darkened. “Maeve, have I been spoiling you too much lately? Is that why you’ve forgotten your place?” Me: ??? Psycho. 2 What was my place? I was a nobody. A trailer-park kid who dropped out after middle school to scrape together money so my deadbeat brother could pay off his gambling debts and get married. If I hadn’t gotten lucky and bumped into Keith while picking up extra shifts at an upscale nightclub, I probably would have been married off to the sleaziest mechanic in my hometown by now. When I agreed to be his little secret, he laid down the law. “Don’t harbor delusions about things that don’t belong to you. Be a good girl, do as you’re told, and I’ll make sure you’re comfortable.” I had nodded so fast I nearly gave myself whiplash. “Don’t worry about it! Knowing our place is a core value where I come from.” I pride myself on my professional ethics. Besides, the man only said I couldn’t fall in love with him. He never explicitly forbade me from finding other investors. Carrying a heart full of gratitude, I held onto Keith even after I secured my two premium upgrades. My master plan was simple: stockpile cash for a few years. Then, use that war chest to finally get my education. “Knowledge changes your destiny.” That phrase is practically grafted onto the DNA of every kid who grew up wearing hand-me-downs. For the past two years, I had been teaching myself the high school curriculum. Even right after getting railed, I didn’t miss a beat. I pulled out my heavy Princeton Review SAT prep book and started running drills. I was staring daggers into a multivariable calculus problem, my brain completely blank. Beside me, Keith let out a condescending scoff. “I don’t understand why a girl with your… limited capacity wastes her energy on this.” I was about to snap back, but he reached over, took my pencil, and slashed a single, elegant auxiliary line across the graph. Instantly, the entire equation unlocked in my head. “I got it!” I looked up at him, a genuine, unguarded smile breaking across my face. Keith blinked, clearly caught off guard by the brightness of it. He turned his head away and cleared his throat. “If you get stuck again, you can ask me.” He had been his prep school’s valedictorian. To him, this was elementary math. He couldn’t fathom what this foolish woman was so thrilled about. Seeing him offer an olive branch, I immediately pushed my luck. I crawled over, draped my arms around his neck, and gave him my best sultry gaze. “Does that mean I can see you more often?” I didn’t care about the romance; I just wanted a free Ivy-league tutor. Private tutors in the city charged eight hundred bucks an hour. Keith’s Adam’s apple bobbed. Whatever he imagined I meant, it made a dark flush creep up his neck. He abruptly shoved me away. “Stop using these cheap, low-class tricks on me.” Fine, be a jerk about it. If he didn’t want to help, I’d just find someone who would. 3 Speaking of my first meeting with Theo Gilbert, I actually had Keith to thank for playing matchmaker. Back when I first became his kept woman, Keith purposely paraded me around high-society galas. The goal? To make the exiled Cecilia insanely jealous. While Keith’s juvenile tactics yielded zero results with his ex, they did allow me to learn that Cecilia had left behind an entire roster of broken-hearted admirers. I smelled a business opportunity. So, at one particular charity gala, I cornered Theo Gilbert while he was standing alone by the terrace. The man was tall, lean, and breathtakingly gorgeous. He possessed this warm, magnetic aura that effortlessly drew the entire room’s gaze. He was a movie star, after all. God, he was beautiful. I marched right up to him and delivered my opening pitch: “Hey handsome. Are you in the market for a stand-in?” Yes, my Appalachian roots made me brutally direct. Theo, clearly having never been propositioned with such bizarre bluntness, froze. I doubled down on the sales pitch. “If you’re not, no worries. I’ve got a list to get through.” Cecilia had plenty of orbiters; I wasn’t going to starve. When he didn’t speak for a solid ten seconds, I pivoted to leave, ready to hunt down my next target. Suddenly, a hand clamped down on my wrist. Theo’s eyes flickered with a dark, unreadable emotion. It took him a long time to finally speak. “Yes,” he said. And just like that, I secured my second job. Compared to Keith, Theo was a dream. Generous, gentle, an absolute saint. Every single transfer was exactly $52,000. He always asked for my consent before coming over, and he treated me with borderline reverent care. In bed, he catered to my every need. If I even shifted uncomfortably, Theo would immediately stop and check on me. There was only one catch: he always tied a black silk ribbon over my eyes. Because the one feature I absolutely didn’t share with Cecilia was her eyes. Hey, the customer is always right. If a guy this generous and considerate has a blindfold kink, who am I to judge? 4 Keith only summoned me once a month. That left me with an abundance of free time, all of which I dedicated to Theo. For convenience’s sake, I started hosting Theo at Keith’s sprawling penthouse. Keith never showed up unannounced, so it was the perfect way to save on hotel fees. I was quite proud of my little logistical triumph. But if you play with fire long enough, you’re bound to get burned. One evening, I had just kissed Theo goodbye at the elevator. Not twenty minutes later, the front door clicked open, revealing a heavily intoxicated Keith. It was the very first time he had ever broken our schedule. The air in the living room still hung heavy with the sweet, damp scent of sex, and I hadn’t even bothered to cover the fresh red marks blooming across my collarbone. Thank God Keith was practically blind-drunk. He didn’t connect the dots. Instead, he just stared at the bruises on my neck, his brow furrowing in irritation as his thumb dragged over the sensitized skin. “Are the mosquitoes getting worse?” He stumbled over to the nightstand, grabbed a bottle of soothing lotion, and began rubbing it into my skin. For a fleeting second, his expression mirrored genuine concern. “You need to be more careful. Why didn’t you plug in the repellant?” The lotion was cool against my flushed skin, but Keith’s fingers were burning hot. The atmosphere suddenly shifted, growing dangerously intimate. I caught his wrist. “Mr. Crawford, are you in a bad mood?” “Is it because of Cecilia?” Reading a patron’s emotional state is the baseline requirement for this line of work. I was terrified he was going to start making a habit of dropping by unannounced. Where I come from, getting caught cheating in the very bed your sugar daddy pays for is generally considered bad form. Keith didn’t like the question. He grabbed my chin, his grip tightening. “Don’t try to play mind games with me. Remember what you are.” He squeezed harder, and a small gasp of pain slipped past my lips. A second later, he shoved me back onto the mattress. The red marks on my collarbone made his eyes darken, and he leaned down, biting right over the same spot. “Stop using her face to do these cheap, dirty things.” Keith was urgent and vicious that night. Considering I was now working a double shift, my legs were physically trembling by the time morning rolled around. Seeing the state I was in, Keith actually looked a flicker of guilt. He reached into his tailored suit jacket, pulled out a velvet box, and tossed it onto the blankets. I opened it. A massive, blinding pink diamond stared back at me. I instantly recognized it. It was the ten-million-dollar diamond Keith had won at an auction a few weeks ago—the one he intended to give Cecilia for her birthday. Looked like the gift had been rejected. No wonder he was drinking. But what did I care? It was ten million dollars. Overjoyed, I practically launched myself at him, planting a massive kiss on his cheek. “Thank you, Keith! You treat me so well!” Keith sat there, stunned, his fingers brushing the spot I had just kissed. He watched as I treated the diamond like a holy relic, carefully sliding it onto my finger. The corner of his mouth twitched upward before he forcibly yanked it back down into a scowl. “You make a fuss over nothing. So uncultured.” He didn’t buy it for me. But Cecilia didn’t want it, so the scraps fell to me. 5 After that night, Keith didn’t contact me for a long time. I honestly thought the gig was up and was already drafting plans to find a replacement for his time slot. Then, the incident with Bianca and the shattered bracelet happened. I had raised such hell about it that Keith was forced to step in and handle the mess personally. When I saw him, he seemed to be in a surprisingly good mood. His lips were permanently fixed two millimeters higher than usual. In bed that night, he was uncharacteristically gentle, whispering soft, coaxing things into my ear. But the moment a soft, contented sigh escaped my lips—just like it always did—he froze. We both stared at each other, eyes wide in the dark. Wait a minute. Has it even been ten minutes? We laid there in absolute, agonizing silence. I couldn’t tell if the look on Keith’s face was sheer humiliation or violent rage. Whatever it was, he clamped his hand over my mouth. “From now on, when we do this, you don’t make a sound,” he warned, his voice tight. “The second you open your mouth, you ruin her.” Oh. A wave of realization hit me. I was being too loud and it was ruining his concentration. Tears welling in my eyes, I nodded frantically. For the rest of the night, I bit my lip and stayed completely silent, but Keith couldn’t quite shake off the awkwardness of his early misfire. When a man is embarrassed, he tries to look very busy. Keith put in overtime that night, and he was unusually chatty. “You don’t hold a candle to her, but God, you know how to work a man in bed.” “Tell me, is this your grand strategy? F**k me so well I can’t leave you?” … By the time Keith got out of the shower, I had already fallen asleep clutching my SAT prep book. In the hazy space between sleep and waking, I felt someone carefully slide the heavy book out of my arms. I heard Keith whisper against my ear, “Maeve.” “I am never going to fall in love with you.” His words were cold and absolute, yet the way he pulled me flush against his chest was incredibly practiced and natural. I instinctively snuggled deeper into his solid chest and smacked my lips. Whatever you say, buddy. Your pecs are warm. 6 I slept in until noon the next day, long after Keith had left for the office. When I checked my phone, the very first notification was a $520,000 transfer from Theo. It was his bat-signal. I hummed a happy tune as I took my time getting ready, putting extra effort into my makeup. Honestly, out of my three patrons, Keith was the most emotionally taxing and stingy. Gideon was the most generous, but he was a terrifying, unpredictable predator. Only Theo was gentle, empathetic, and took genuine care of me. Out of the three of them, he was easily my favorite. Sure enough, by the time I glided down the stairs of the penthouse, there were four steaming dishes laid out on the dining table. All my favorites. Theo was just walking out of the kitchen, carrying a bowl of soup. The moment he set it down, I practically threw myself into his arms. Theo caught me by the waist, his strong hands stabilizing me so I wouldn’t fall. “Careful, wild thing.” His words were a scolding, but his eyes were melting with absolute adoration. I buried my face in his neck, breathing in the crisp, clean scent of cedarwood. “It smells incredible. I’m starving.” Theo effortlessly lifted me and set me down on a dining chair. “The food is ready. Let me just clean up a bit and we can eat.” He reached back to untie the little pink apron he was wearing, but I hooked my arms around his neck and pulled him down. “Theo,” I whispered. “I’m not talking about the food.”

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It started during rehearsal, when I casually pointed out that Brianna, the undisputed golden girl of our class, was half a beat behind the music. The words had barely left my mouth before her childhood-best-friend-slash-not-so-secret-admirer charged across the room and shoved me down the risers in front of the entire theater company. “What the hell is wrong with you, Gina?” he yelled, pointing a finger an inch from my nose. “The choreographer didn’t say a word. Who do you think you are, picking her apart from the back row?” Before I could answer, he whipped around to face the director. “I say we kick her out of the showcase. She’s just going to drag Brianna down and wreck our pacing.” Right on cue, Brianna turned around, her eyes instantly brimming with glossy, photogenic tears. “Maybe we should just let Gina be the lead dancer,” she told the director, her voice trembling with manufactured grace. Her loyal watchdog practically bent over laughing. “Are you kidding me? I’ve known her since we were kids. The girl trips over her own feet walking down the hallway. If she can lead a dance routine, I’ll eat dirt on a livestream!” A chorus of snickers rippled through the cast. I didn’t say a word. I just slowly picked myself up off the linoleum, dusted off my leggings, and shot him a dead-eyed stare. “Cool. Grab a spoon.” 1 The absolute flatline of my voice sucked the air out of the room. One second, the studio was echoing with laughter; the next, you could hear a pin drop. Connor’s smug grin morphed into ugly, blotchy rage. He vaulted down the wooden steps of the risers, his hand snapping out to grab my upper arm. He leaned in, his jaw ticking. “Gina, can you just drop the attitude for once?” he hissed through his teeth. “I knew you were plotting something. I was wondering why you—of all people—suddenly volunteered for the showcase when you usually don’t give a damn about this stuff. But you had it all figured out, didn’t you? You just wanted to steal Brianna’s spot.” He sneered, his voice rising for the audience. “When did you get so toxic?” Just like that, he slapped a label on my forehead, bold and permanent, right in front of everyone. The entire junior class knew that Connor and I were the ultimate cliché: the inseparable neighbors, the childhood best friends. We practically shared a sandbox. And right now, his words were the hammer driving a completely fabricated narrative straight into my chest. The looks the rest of the cast were giving me shifted from amused to suspicious. “Connor, stop it!” Brianna pushed her way to the front row, her eyes beautifully red-rimmed. She tugged gently at the hem of Connor’s hoodie, playing the role of the wounded martyr perfectly. “Even if Gina was just being petty and spoke out of turn, you shouldn’t yell at her like that. Just apologize to her, and let’s forget the whole thing happened.” She bit her lip, offering him a sad, forgiving little smile. It looked like she was trying to calm him down, but anyone paying attention could see it was gasoline on a fire. “Why the hell should I apologize to her?” Connor flared up, right on cue. “She should be apologizing to you!” He jerked my arm, nearly making me stumble, and barked an order for me to apologize to Brianna in front of the entire room. Apologize? For what? “I stated a fact,” I said, my voice dangerously quiet. I used every ounce of strength I had to rip my arm out of his grip. I let my eyes drift over to Brianna, who was still clutching her metaphorical pearls. “Brianna,” I said, the syllables crisp and cold in the quiet room. “Have you suddenly reached a level of artistic divinity where no one is allowed to give you a note? Because if you’re going to break down sobbing over someone telling you that you’re off-tempo, what are you going to do when you actually get on stage? If the audience doesn’t give you a standing ovation, are you going to throw yourself off the balcony?” “And you—” I didn’t wait to watch Brianna’s face flush a furious, humiliating crimson. I turned my attention back to Connor, whose expression had gone rigid. I didn’t know when the boy I grew up with had turned into this defensive, irrational stranger, but I hoped to God he hadn’t forgotten that I held grudges. He wanted to try and humiliate me? Fine. I’d hand it right back to him. I took a slow, deliberate breath. “I know you’re in love with her, Connor. It’s high school. A guy playing the white knight for the girl he’s obsessed with is a tale as old as time. But do me a favor and stop acting like a rabid dog barking at everything that moves. It’s not romantic. It’s pathetic.” A smirk ghosted across my mouth. I didn’t hide the venom in my voice, and the collective gasp from the theater kids was immediate. The gossip mill ignited in real-time. “Wait, Connor likes Brianna? Since when?” “Gina’s known him forever. If she’s saying it, it’s definitely true.” Dozens of eager, drama-starved eyes began ping-ponging between Brianna and Connor. Connor’s face went scarlet, then a deep, furious purple. “Gina! Shut the fuck up!” “Oh,” I said softly, tilting my head. “So you don’t like her, then.” 2 I let the silence stretch, watching Connor choke on his own rage. He was trapped. Brianna looked utterly panicked. The delicate redness around her eyes gave way to genuine alarm. She darted a look around the room, then visibly took a large step away from Connor. “Connor,” she said, her voice high and breathless. “I only see you as a classmate. Please don’t let people spread rumors like this.” Now it was Connor’s turn to panic. “Brie… I—” “Enough!” Ms. Valera, the showcase director, slammed her clipboard against a music stand. The sharp crack killed the murmurs instantly. She surveyed the room, her gaze finally landing heavy on me. “Gina,” she said, her voice strictly professional. “You said you’d be willing to try the lead spot. Fine. Get up here. Show me the sequence where you claim Brianna was off-beat. After that, the class votes. You cast your ballots, and we settle this lead dancer nonsense right now.” It was a brutally fair ultimatum. I didn’t hesitate. Under the weight of thirty whispering teenagers, I walked to the center of the floor, preparing to mirror the choreography Brianna had just butchered. As I brushed past Connor, he leaned in, dropping his voice to a venomous whisper. “I can’t wait to watch you humiliate yourself.” Humiliate myself? My eyes darkened. I ignored him, hit my starting mark, and nodded at Ms. Valera to cue the track. The bass dropped, and I moved. I didn’t have Brianna’s formal training, but my body remembered. I let the music pull me, sweeping my arms, snapping through the turns, mapping the geography of the stage entirely from memory. I mirrored the sequence flawlessly, hitting every single beat right in the pocket. When the music cut out and I froze in the final pose, I caught Connor in my periphery. His smugness had been wiped clean, replaced by blank shock. Brianna was staring at me, her hands clenched at her sides. For the first time, her eyes weren’t just annoyed; they were flooded with a stark, undeniable sense of threat. Ms. Valera’s eyes were shining. She nodded enthusiastically. “Not bad. Not bad at all! You’re a little rough around the edges, Gina, but your musicality—the way you breathe through the transitions—is incredibly grounded. Give you a few weeks of real rehearsal, and you’d be phenomenal.” She clapped her hands, turning to the risers. “Alright, no more drama. We vote now. Who leads the class performance for the Centennial Gala: Gina or Brianna? Raise your hands.” It wasn’t a shock. High school is a hierarchy, not a meritocracy. When Ms. Valera called Brianna’s name, nearly the entire room raised their hands. When my name was called, only two or three sympathetic hands went up in the back. Brianna exhaled a long, shaky breath, the tension leaving her shoulders. The triumphant gleam returned to her eye, masked quickly by a sickly-sweet, apologetic smile. “I’m so sorry, Gina,” she cooed. “It looks like the class just feels safer with me in the front. After all, the lead represents all of us. If someone messes up out there, it’s not just their own reputation on the line. But really, for an amateur, you did a great job.” A chorus of sycophants instantly chimed in to agree with her. Connor, emboldened by the vote, couldn’t resist a parting shot. “See? I told you. Who cares if you can string a few steps together? Flailing around with your amateur hour moves is just going to embarrass you.” Ms. Valera shot me an apologetic look, a silent plea not to take it to heart, telling me there would be other chances. Honestly, I wasn’t crushed. In a twisted way, Brianna wasn’t wrong. I was an amateur. I knew exactly where my limits were. I opened my mouth, ready to tell Connor exactly where he could shove his opinion, when a voice cut through the noise from the shadowy corner of the room. A voice that was clear, quiet, and impossibly sharp. “Actually, I think Gina danced it better.” Every head in the room snapped toward the sound. Even though I knew exactly who it was, even though my heart recognized the cadence of his voice before my brain did, my breath still caught when he stepped into the light. Kieran. “Kieran, what are you talking about?” Brianna’s smug smile shattered. She looked completely derailed. Kieran was notorious for keeping his head down and staying out of high school politics. He never spoke up. And he certainly never spoke up for me. “I said, Gina dances better than you,” Kieran repeated, his voice utterly devoid of emotion. He stepped out from the shadows of the lighting rig. “Her technique is raw. That means she hasn’t practiced this. She just watched you do it a few times and replicated it purely by sight. Are we really pretending that isn’t incredibly impressive?” He shifted his gaze to Brianna, pinning her in place. “You, on the other hand, have been drilling this exact eight-count for two weeks. Half a month, Brianna. Half a month, and you still can’t find the downbeat. You have absolutely no right to call anyone an amateur.” 3 It was a surgical strike. In two sentences, he systematically dismantled her golden-girl halo in front of everyone. Nobody argued. They couldn’t. Everyone knew Kieran had spent the last decade accumulating national dance titles like spare change. When he was fifteen, he’d received a rare, early-admission invitation from Juilliard—he was a legitimate, undisputed prodigy. But he treated dance like a private religion, refusing to compete for the school or monetize his talent. “Kieran, you don’t know what you’re talking about!” Brianna’s voice cracked, tears welling up again—real ones this time, born of pure humiliation. Seeing the girl he worshipped crumbling, Connor turned his fury on Kieran. He glared at him, practically vibrating with hostility. But Kieran didn’t even flinch. He just looked back at Connor with the mild, detached interest of someone observing a bug. “Just stating facts,” Kieran said smoothly. “Unless you’re questioning my professional critique, Connor?” That was the kill shot. Brianna broke. She let out a choked sob, shot me a look of pure, unadulterated venom, covered her face, and ran out of the studio. “Kieran. Gina.” Connor spat our names like curses. “You’re both unbelievable.” He shot us one last murderous glare before sprinting out into the hallway after his queen. Despite Kieran’s endorsement, Ms. Valera looked torn. Brianna had put the time in, and stripping her of the role now would be a massive blow to her ego. But at the same time, a director knows raw talent when they see it, and she didn’t want to let me slip back into the shadows. Especially not after what Kieran said. It was true—I had never practiced that choreography before today. The dilemma resolved itself the very next morning. Brianna formally resigned as the lead for the class performance. “The administration just got word that the school board and a few local arts scouts are attending the Centennial Gala,” Ms. Valera announced to the room, clapping her hands for attention. “Because of that, they’ve added a special duet slot to the program. They’re hosting an open, school-wide competition to cast it. Brianna, being on the pre-pro track, has decided to focus entirely on auditioning for the duet. So, the class lead is open.” She looked right at me, a hopeful spark in her eye. “Gina? Are you willing to step up?” I had originally provoked the situation out of pure spite, just to knock them down a peg. But now, with the spot practically handed to me on a silver platter? I wasn’t going to turn it down. When I walked into homeroom later that day, the air felt thick. The whispers followed me to my desk. Before I could even drop my backpack, Connor stormed through the classroom door, his face a thundercloud. He planted his hands on my desk, leaning over me. “What the hell did you say to the counselor and the director, Gina?” he demanded, his voice echoing off the cinderblock walls. “Why are you suddenly the lead?” “Have you completely lost your mind?” he continued, not letting me speak. “Do you just get off on stealing things from other people? Look in a mirror! So what if you can memorize a few steps? You’ll never be as trained as Brianna!” He was shouting now. The entire homeroom had gone dead silent, watching the trainwreck. “You’re going to take your little YouTube-tutorial dance moves and embarrass yourself, and you’re going to take the rest of us down with you!” “Yeah, Gina, seriously, it’s pathetic. Stop stealing other people’s spotlight!” “I thought you were supposed to be the smart one. Turns out you’re just a thief.” The Greek chorus of Brianna’s orbiters chimed in from the back row, their faces twisted in identical sneers. And right in the center of them sat Brianna herself. She was biting her lip, softly murmuring, “Guys, don’t be mean,” but her eyes betrayed her. They were bright, cold, and triumphant. “Get up,” Connor ordered. “We are going to the principal’s office right now, and you are going to tell them you’re giving the spot back to Brianna.” Before my brain could even register the threat, his hand clamped around my wrist like a vice. He yanked upward, dragging me out of my chair. “Connor, let go!” I scrambled to find my footing. “I said let go of me, do you hear me?!” His grip was bruising. He was literally dragging me down the aisle in front of thirty people. My voice cracked, a humiliating tremor of genuine pain breaking through. “Connor, it hurts!”

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After the catastrophic car accident that ended my previous life, I woke up to find myself back in the humid, electric summer following high school graduation. And I wasn’t alone. My best friend, Belle, had come back with me. In our first life, she was the “other woman”—the shadow that loomed over my marriage, the one who eventually shattered my family. This time, she swore things would be different. She looked me in the eye and promised she would never touch my life, never look at my husband again. She lived that promise with a performance that earned my trust. She chose a college on the opposite side of the country, thousands of miles away. She married young, started a family, and lived a life that seemed entirely separate from mine. Reassured, I let myself fall for Damian. Our life together felt like a hard-won victory. I thought I had finally escaped the nightmare of double betrayal—no more depression, no more losing a child, no more mental collapse. I thought the cycle was broken. Then came the holiday weekend this May. A colleague of mine caught her husband cheating and dragged me to a hotel, hysterical and desperate for a witness. I held up my phone, ready to record the evidence for her, but my movement caught a reflection in the hallway mirror. At the far end of the corridor stood Damian. The man who was supposed to be three states away on a business trip. And the woman standing before him, laughing as she toyed with his tie, was Belle—the woman who had sworn a blood oath never to ruin me again. It turned out that the tracks of destiny hadn’t shifted at all. We were still heading for the cliff. … 1 I don’t remember how I got down the stairs or how I managed to follow them to their room without being seen. My mind was a blur of static. Why was Damian here? He was supposed to be in Chicago for a week-long conference. He’d kissed me goodbye at the door, his suitcase in hand, smelling of the expensive cologne I’d bought him for his birthday. And Belle. My “sister.” The girl I’d shared a bunk with in the foster system when we had nothing but each other. She was already unbuttoning his shirt before the door even closed. The shock was a physical weight, a nausea that rose in the back of my throat. I ducked behind a corner just as Damian glanced back. “Belle, I’ve missed you so much,” his voice drifted down the hall, thick with a hunger I thought was reserved for me. “I told Janet the conference was mandatory. She didn’t suspect a thing. I have the whole week. It’ll be like a mini-honeymoon.” Belle giggled, a sound that used to represent safety to me. “Perfect. As long as she stays in the dark, I don’t care what lies you have to tell.” The door clicked shut. My feet felt like they were made of lead as I crept toward the room. The door wasn’t fully latched, leaving a sliver of an opening. I saw rose petals scattered on the carpet and the jagged remains of a discarded dress. Then came the sounds—the heavy breathing, the soft moans—stabbing into my ears like shards of glass. My hands shook so violently I had to grip the wall to stay upright. This was a carbon copy of the moment from my first life—the day I found them together in the back of a car. I reached for the handle, wanting to burst in, to scream, to burn it all down. But I stopped. I thought about the necklace Damian had given me that morning. A little something to keep me close while I’m away, he’d whispered, tucking it under my collar. Every word out of his mouth was a calculated performance. Every sacrifice Belle had made—the distance, the fake life—was just a long con to keep me complacent while they built a world behind my back. I wiped my eyes, turned around, and walked away. Downstairs, my colleague Cassie was a wreck. She’d found her husband in bed with some twenty-something, and the scene had been explosive. “Janet, how can people be so cruel?” she sobbed, her mascara running in black rivers down her cheeks. “I’ve been with him since we were seventeen. I gave him everything!” She grabbed my hand, looking for an anchor. “I’m divorcing him. I have to. God, Janet, you’re so lucky. Damian is one of the good ones. He’s so devoted to you and Sally. He works himself to the bone just to give you guys a better life. I wish I had what you have.” I forced a smile. It felt like my skin might crack. She didn’t know. Nobody knew. Damian was exactly like her husband. He just had a better script. “Without him,” I said, my voice sounding like it belonged to someone else, “I can still give myself and Sally a good life.” I wasn’t going to give him a chance to “fix” this. Not this time. 2 I went home to our small, perfectly curated apartment. Every piece of furniture, every framed photo, represented a memory I now wanted to incinerate. I remembered when we first moved in. The place was a shell, and we’d sat on the floor and cried with joy. We’d worked double shifts, skipped meals, and fought for every square inch of this home. Damian had always looked after me. He’d cook elaborate meals, insisting I eat even when I was stressed. When I gained weight from the comfort of his care, he’d hidden the scale. “Janet, you’ve been through enough,” he’d say, kissing my forehead. “I don’t want you worrying about your body. I just want you happy. I’m going to work harder, buy us a house with a studio for your painting and a big yard for Sally. Just wait.” I had believed him. I thought we were the success story. I thought Belle had her own life. I walked toward Sally’s room. She was three, sleeping soundly, her thumb tucked near her mouth. Then, I heard a voice from the bathroom. My mother-in-law, Martha, had been staying with us to help with Sally. I paused by the door, hearing the low murmur of her phone conversation. “Damian, when are you going to bring Max over to see me?” she whispered, her voice warm with a grandmother’s affection. “I love the video calls, but I want to hold my grandson.” A cold chill settled in my bones. Max. “And listen,” Martha continued, “be careful when you’re out with Belle. Make sure you check in with Janet so she doesn’t get suspicious. You know how she gets.” Then, a voice came through the speaker—Belle’s voice, sweet and cloying. “I’ll bring him soon, Martha. He loved the toys you sent! He asks about his grandma all the time.” Max was their son. Martha’s grandson. I stumbled back, my shoulder catching the edge of the hallway console. A glass vase tipped over and shattered. Belle had told me four years ago that she’d had a baby with her “husband.” That meant Damian had been living a double life since before Sally was even born. And Martha—the woman who called me the daughter she never had—had been the architect of the lie. Martha rushed out of the bathroom, her face pale. “Oh, Janet! My goodness, you’re bleeding!” I looked down. A shard of glass had sliced my wrist. The pain was distant, muffled by the roar in my head. She grabbed the first-aid kit, her wrinkled hands trembling as she cleaned the wound. “You have to be careful, honey. This could get infected. Don’t you do a lick of work for the rest of the week, you hear? Damian would be heartbroken if he saw you like this.” She looked up at me, a practiced, motherly smile on her face. “You didn’t… hear anything strange just now, did you? My phone was acting up.” I was an orphan. I’d spent my life looking for a mother, and I thought I’d found one in her. She’d always taken my side. She’d told me I was the strongest woman she knew. It was all a lie. I was just the wife who kept the household running while they played family with the “real” heir. “I just walked in,” I lied, my voice flat. “I didn’t hear a thing.” She exhaled, the tension leaving her shoulders. “Good. I was worried the neighbors’ cat was bothering Sally.” That night, I didn’t sleep. I sat in the dark and searched for the man Belle had claimed was her husband—Damon. She’d sent me photos of their “wedding” years ago. He was a musician, edgy, nothing like Damian. I found his social media. He was living in Austin with another woman. When I messaged him, he didn’t hold back. Look, I’ll be straight with you, he wrote back. Belle and I were never married. She paid me five grand to pose for those photos and sign some fake papers. It was a gig. I heard she’s been with some guy from back home for years. That’s probably your husband, isn’t it? 3 Everything clicked into place with a sickening finality. Belle had never let go. She hadn’t moved away to protect our friendship; she’d moved away to create a theater where she could have Damian without me seeing the curtain. They had orchestrated a decade-long deception just to have their cake and eat it too. I spent the dawn hours drafting a divorce agreement. My eyes were burning when Sally toddled into the room, holding my phone. “Mommy,” she whispered, pointing at a social media reel. “The cherry blossoms are so pretty. When is Daddy coming home to take us to the park?” She’d been asking for weeks. Damian had promised her a trip to the botanical gardens as soon as he “returned” from his trip. She didn’t know the blossoms were already falling, dying in the spring rain. Then, she gasped, holding the phone closer to her face. “Mommy, look! Is that Daddy? He’s wearing the hair tie I gave him!” I felt my heart stop. I looked at the screen. It was a local “Day in the Life” video posted by a travel blogger at the park. In the background, clear as day, was Damian. A little boy—Max—was perched on his shoulders. Damian was holding Belle’s hand, looking at her with a radiance I hadn’t seen in years. They looked like a commercial for the perfect American family. He wasn’t too busy for the cherry blossoms. He just had another daughter’s-worth of memories to make with someone else’s son. I gripped my hands into fists, gently taking the phone from Sally and turning it off. “Sally,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Let’s go to the park ourselves, okay? Just us girls. We can see the flowers and find some ice cream.” Her face fell. “But… are we waiting for Daddy?” She was three. Her world was a tripod—Mommy, Daddy, her. I was about to kick one of the legs out. Before I could answer, Damian’s face appeared on my phone. A video call. Sally lunged for it, hitting ‘accept.’ Damian was a master. He was sitting in a coffee shop, his laptop open, stacks of folders surrounding him. He’d even used makeup or stayed up late to create dark circles under his eyes to look exhausted. If I hadn’t seen him in that hallway yesterday, I would have reached through the screen to comfort him. “Daddy!” Sally cheered. “Are you still working?” “Almost done, peanut,” Damian said, his voice dripping with fatherly warmth. “I’m working hard so I can come home to my two favorite girls. Remember to take care of Mommy, okay? Remind her to take her vitamins—she always forgets.” He looked at me through the camera, his expression softening into that fake, devoted gaze. “Is Mommy missing me? Is she eating enough?” Sally giggled. “She was crying earlier! She misses you so much!” He smiled, a perfect, handsome lie. He’d been with his other family minutes ago, and here he was, playing the doting husband. 4 I took the phone from Sally. “Damian. When exactly are you coming back? I have something important to tell you.” He leaned in, looking excited. “A surprise? Janet, don’t tease me. I’m already dying to get back to you. I might try to catch an earlier flight.” “Just get here,” I said. “Everything is ready.” I hung up before he could say another word of “love.” Then, I called a lawyer a colleague had recommended—someone known for being a shark in custody battles. The next day, I took Sally to the park. The cherry blossoms were fading, the ground covered in a shroud of white and pink petals. Sally didn’t care; she ran through the trees, laughing. I turned my head for a split second to grab a water bottle from my bag. Then I heard the scream. I spun around to see Sally on the ground near a stone planter. A jagged scrape ran down her arm, bleeding freely. A boy stood over her, pointing and laughing. “You’re so stupid!” the boy yelled. “I barely touched you and you fell like a baby!” I froze. I knew that face. It was Max. I rushed over, scooping Sally into my arms. “It’s okay, baby. Mommy’s got you.” Sally was trembling, trying not to sob. My blood began to boil, a cold, predatory heat. Max wasn’t done. He stepped forward and poured a bottle of blue tempera paint right over Sally’s white Sunday dress. He grinned, a cruel, entitlement in his eyes that he could only have learned from his parents. “Now you’re an ugly baby! Cry more!” The rage hit its peak. I grabbed his wrist—not hard enough to hurt, but enough to stop him. “Who do you think you are? Is this how your parents taught you to treat people?” “Let go of me!” he screamed. “My daddy and mommy are right there! They’ll get you!” He looked toward a nearby bench. “I’m Max! My grandma says I’m the prince! You can’t touch me!” The realization was a punch to the gut. While I was struggling through Sally’s infancy, Martha had disappeared for a week, claiming my father-in-law had a stroke. Damian had told me to stay home, to rest. Now I knew—Martha had been gone to help Belle with him. Their “prince.” “Fine,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “Call your parents. I’d love to meet them.” “Mommy! Daddy!” Max shrieked. Belle’s voice rang out first. “Max? Honey, what happened?” Then Damian’s voice, closer now. “Max, buddy, come to—” He stopped dead. The color drained from his face so fast I thought he might faint. Belle stood behind him, her eyes widening in pure horror.

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For five agonizing years, I withered away in the dim, stale air of an illegal basement casino, serving drinks and swallowing my pride, all just to scrape together enough for a ticket out. Today, I thought I had finally made it. But as I stood there, my mother met my gaze with a smile so twisted it made my skin crawl. With a sharp snap, she broke my debit card in two. “Moving out?” she purred. “Did you actually believe we were broke, Casey? This basement… it’s the only place you’ve ever belonged.” My father stood beside her, his eyes like chips of ice. When he spoke, the words were serrated, designed to draw blood. “We go back to the estate every night, you know. We watched you struggle on the security feeds. It was a necessary performance—to make sure Bess understands she’s the only daughter who truly matters.” A violent tremor took hold of me. My throat felt like it was filled with broken glass; I couldn’t even force out a sob. From the shadows behind them, my brother, Ted, let out a sharp, derisive snort. “I even hand-picked the ‘guests’ you had to serve,” he said, his voice dripping with contempt. “I needed your reputation dragged through the gutter so you’d never have the standing to bully Bess again. Learn your place, Casey.” “Why?” I finally choked out, my voice a thready whisper. “I’m your flesh and blood. I’m your biological daughter…” “Shut it!” My mother finally looked at me, but there was no recognition in her eyes, only a deep-seated loathing. “In my heart, Bess is my only daughter. If I’d known you’d be such a burden, I never would have brought you back from that foster home in the first place.” Without another word, the three of them turned and walked out, slamming the heavy steel door behind them. I stood frozen in the damp silence, staring toward the direction of the main house. Through the tiny, high-set window, I saw the lights flicker on—a warm, amber glow that felt like a slap in the face. I retreated to my corner of the basement and reached under my thin pillow. I pulled out the bottle of sleeping pills I’d been hoarding for five years. I didn’t hesitate. I swallowed them all. They would never know that from the very first day they sold me to this place, I had never planned on leaving this sickening world alive. … I am dead. My body lies on the concrete floor, a pale, greyish husk. A thin trail of dried blood stains the corner of my mouth. My eyes are half-open, pupils blown wide and vacant. It has been three days. No one has come for me. Meanwhile, the estate next door is ablaze with light. Bursts of laughter drift through the vents, and like a moth to a flame, my spirit finds itself drifting toward the sound. They are having dinner. My parents are swirling expensive Pinot Noir in crystal stems. On the table sits a spread of lobster bisque and pan-seared scallops. Bess pushes a spoonful around her bowl before waving it away, untouched. A phantom ache of hunger gnaws at me. I realize that in the forty-eight hours before I took the pills, I hadn’t eaten a single bite. A guest had complained I was too slow with his scotch, and as punishment, I was forced to kneel in the hallway for hours—no food, no water, no standing until he gave the word. Bess pouts at my mother, her voice a practiced honey-sweet trill. “Is Casey still not back yet? It’s been three days. Maybe I should go apologize to her?” Ted drops his fork with a heavy thud. “Apologize? For what? She doesn’t have the right to be angry.” “We just played a little trick on her,” he continued, leaning back. “It’s not like she was actually suffering. I told the manager at the den to look after her, to make sure she was fed and watered. We’ve probably just spoiled her too much.” “But still…” “There is no ‘but,’ Bess,” my father interrupted, his brow furrowed as he set his glass down firmly. “You’re too kind-hearted. It was a wake-up call, a way to show her where she stands. If she wants to throw a tantrum and play truant, fine. Let her stay away forever for all I care.” My mother glanced toward the basement with a look of pure derision. “Better if she doesn’t come back. After how she treated you when she first arrived? This is just karma.” She paused, pulling out her phone. With a few taps, she sent a fifty-thousand-dollar transfer to Bess. “Go buy that Chanel bag you wanted, sweetie. Since Casey’s ‘savings’ are sitting in my account anyway, consider it a gift from her.” My ghostly eyes flew open. Fifty thousand dollars. Five years of work. That was the money I had earned through forced smiles and broken spirits. It was the money I had saved while being forced to drink until my stomach bled, every cent of which I had transferred to my parents because they told me they needed it to save our family from ruin. It wasn’t a debt. It was Bess’s fun money. My chest tightened with a sob that couldn’t escape. When they first brought me back to the city after my grandmother died, they told me the business had collapsed. I dropped out of college, desperate to help. But the moment I complained about Bess’s reckless spending, I was “sold” to the gambling den the very next day. For five years, the abuse I endured was a constant needle against my nerves. I wanted to die a thousand times, but the thought of “saving” my family kept me breathing. It was all a lie. Ted’s phone suddenly lit up. My name flashed on the screen. He smirked. “See? Here comes the plea for mercy.” He hit the speakerphone with an air of smug triumph. But the voice on the other end wasn’t mine. It was a man, cold and professional. “Hello, this is Officer Winston from the 4th Precinct. Am I speaking with a relative of Casey Whitman?” My heart—or what was left of it—clenched. I watched them, waiting for the crack in their armor. “What is this?” Ted asked, his posture stiffening. “A body was discovered this morning. We’ve identified her as Casey Whitman. We need a family member to come down and identify the remains.” The room went deathly silent. Ted froze, then bolted toward the door. But Bess’s voice stopped him in his tracks. “This has to be a scam,” she said, her voice trembling perfectly. “Casey just posted on her Instagram story ten minutes ago.” She gasped, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh my god… did I just out her? I wasn’t supposed to be following her secret account.” My mother immediately pulled up the app. Her face contorted with rage. “That little brat! She’s faking her own death to extort us? How did I raise such a monster!” The screen showed a photo of “me” in a mirror, sticking my tongue out and flashing a peace sign. The caption read: Once I scam enough cash out of the old folks with this ‘death’ stunt, it’s straight to the Maldives for me. My father clutched his chest. “She’s a goddamn animal!” I stood there, invisible and screaming. That’s not me! It was an AI-generated deepfake, a composite Bess must have made. But no one could hear me. Ted dialed my number over and over, but it went straight to voicemail. He roared into the phone, “Casey! Listen to me! This is your last chance. If you aren’t home by tomorrow morning, don’t ever bother showing your face at this house again! You’re dead to us!” The next morning, my mother went to the precinct. She didn’t go to identify a body. She went to make a scene. “My daughter isn’t dead! This is a scam and I want to report you for harassment!” she screamed, slamming her fist on the intake desk. The young officer looked bewildered. “Ma’am, we have the body. We’ve confirmed the identity. Please, just look at the photo…” My mother slapped the photo out of his hand before he could even turn it over. It landed face-down on the tile—a polaroid of my grey face, flecked with white foam. “Stop lying! We’ve seen her social media! She’s alive and well, and if you keep helping her play this sick joke, I’ll sue this entire department for defamation!” “But the DNA matches…” the officer stammered. “I don’t care about your DNA! I’m telling you, Casey Whitman is alive, and I am finished with her!” She turned on her heel, her stiletto heels clicking sharply against the floor like gunfire. I drifted behind her, my spirit trembling with a sorrow so deep it felt like I was dissolving. Mom, I’m right here. I’m dead. Why won’t you just look at me? By noon, Ted got a call from the gambling den. “Mr. Whitman, Casey hasn’t shown up for her shift in four days.” When Ted arrived at the basement, his eyes landed on the “decor” in the hallway. There were photos pinned to the wall—staged, degrading photos of me being handled by men, my clothes torn, my dignity stripped. I shrieked, trying to tear them down, trying to block his view, but my hands passed through the paper like smoke. Ted’s hands were shaking. He grabbed the manager by the throat. “How dare you do this to my sister! You’re dead!” Security guards swarmed in. Bess arrived moments later, breathless. The manager didn’t blink; he just straightened his tie and sneered. “Mr. Whitman, we didn’t ‘do’ anything. She took those photos herself. She was our top girl. She told everyone she had a… ‘condition.’ Said she needed five men a night just to feel something. It was all her, man.” I saw the corner of Bess’s mouth twitch upward for a fraction of a second before she masked it with a sob. “Ted, don’t be mad. We have to find her. Maybe she… maybe she had a reason for all this?” “A reason? What possible reason?” Ted slammed his fist into a desk. His eyes were bloodshot, rimmed with a terrifying red. “Casey… you are absolutely disgusting.” Bess hesitated, then whispered, “Actually, I noticed she was acting strange a while ago. She… she even tried to hit on my boyfriend.” Liar! I screamed. I hadn’t even met her boyfriend. But it didn’t matter. Bess was a master of the smear campaign. “Ted, why does she hate me so much? If I leave the family, will she come back? Is it my fault?” Ted pulled her into a protective embrace. “No. This has nothing to do with you. She chose to be trash. She chose the gutter.” Bess looked up at him through tear-filled eyes. “I have an idea on how to find her. If we… if we put those photos online? She’d have to come back and explain herself, right? She’d have to apologize.” Ted was silent for a long time. “Do it.” Behind them, my mother’s voice rang out. “Don’t even bother blurring the face. I want the world to see what she’s become. I want to see how much shame she can actually handle.” She reached out and covered Bess’s eyes. “Come on, honey. Let’s get you out of here. You shouldn’t have to see such filth.” I drifted in the air, hollowed out. The moment those photos hit the internet, I knew it was over. My face was clear, unblurred, broadcast to the world. The comments sections were a feeding pool. Isn’t she supposed to be a college grad? How pathetic. Once a whore, always a whore. Typical trust fund brat gone wild. Bess played the victim perfectly. “I’m so sorry, Mom. I forgot to click the blur tool. I was just so upset…” My mother gripped her phone, then pulled Bess closer. “It’s fine. She brought this on herself.” My father didn’t even look. He just turned off his screen. “We should have never brought her back.” Then, my mother’s phone buzzed. It was the funeral home. “Is this the Whitman family? We need a signature for the cremation of Casey Whitman. If you could just—” “Will you people stop it!” my mother screamed into the receiver. “Casey, how far are you going to take this ‘death’ act? Since you don’t care about your reputation, neither do we! From now on, you are nothing to us!” The voice on the other end turned ice-cold. “Ma’am, are you actually her mother? Who fakes a suicide? If you don’t believe me, I’ll have the precinct email you the full autopsy report. Now.” My mother slammed the phone down, her eyes rimmed with red. “How can she be so reckless? What did we ever do to her?” Ted spoke up, his voice uncertain. “Mom… maybe I should go to the funeral home. Just to be sure.” “You will stay right here! She’s trying to force us to crawl to her. If you go, she wins!” My father put a hand on my mother’s shoulder. “Forget about her. From this moment on, we only have one daughter. Bess.” The next day, the Whitman Group issued a formal press release disowning me. But then, Ted received an email. It was a digital copy of the death certificate. His pulse quickened. “Another fake? Casey, you’re really committed to this.” He printed it out, tore it into pieces, and drove to the funeral home anyway. “I’m looking for Casey Whitman. Tell her to get out here now!” The receptionist looked at him with a mix of pity and horror. “You’re finally here. Please, sign the release. Do you want the ashes, or are you taking the body?” Ted froze. “How much did she pay you? To forge these documents? I’ll have you arrested. I’ll have this place shut down!” The woman snapped. “I don’t know what kind of family you are, but the police brought her in. You want to see her? Fine. Go see.” She led Ted to the cold room. She walked over to a stainless steel gurney covered in a white sheet. Ted’s hand trembled as he reached for the fabric. But before he could pull it back, his phone chimed. From Bess: Ted, look what Casey just sent me! It’s a deepfake of me with another man. She’s threatening to leak it unless I leave the house! What do I do? Ted’s hand dropped from the sheet. “Don’t panic. I’m coming home.” He turned and ran, never seeing what was under the shroud. I watched him go. The “leaked” video was a file Bess had made herself. She sat in her room, deleting the creation software and smiling. “Oh, Casey,” she whispered to the empty room. “You really were just… extra baggage.” Back at the house, Bess was “hysterical.” Ted held her as she sobbed. “It’s okay. If she wants to play dirty, we’ll destroy everything she ever loved.” They tore through my old backpack. Hidden at the bottom, wrapped in a scrap of red silk, was the silver locket my grandmother had left me. It was the only thing I had left of her. I lunged forward, trying to scream, trying to push Ted away. With a look of pure coldness, Ted threw the locket onto the marble floor and crushed it under his heel. He recorded a video for me, his voice a low growl. “Casey, this is just the start. Every little trinket that old woman left you… I’m going to find them and I’m going to burn them.” The red silk lay on the floor. On it, my grandmother had embroidered a few shaky words: For my little fish. May you always find your way to the deep blue. My mother looked at it and scoffed. “So melodramatic.” She walked to the kitchen, clicked on the gas stove, and dropped the silk into the flame. It vanished in a puff of black smoke. My spirit shook with a rage so violent my vision turned red. I felt tears of blood prickling my eyes. How dare they? How dare they touch her things? I reached into the blue flame, but I felt nothing. I was a ghost, a witness to my own erasure. Bess watched the silk burn, a tiny, secret smile playing on her lips. “Thank you, Ted. For standing up for me.” My mother patted her cheek. “Let’s not talk about Casey anymore. Today is your birthday, Bess. Let’s not let her ruin your party.” The gala began that evening. Bess stood on the stage, the picture of grace. “I’m standing here tonight because I want to ask for my sister’s forgiveness,” she told the crowd. “Casey, I know you’re hurting. But our parents love you. Please, just come home. If you want me to leave, I will. I just want our family to be whole again.” My parents stood by her side, beaming. They looked into the cameras. “Casey, enough is enough. Look at your sister. Look how much more mature she is than you.” The live-stream comments were a wildfire. Bess is an angel. Casey is a brat. She grew up in some trailer park with a senile grandmother, what do you expect? The old lady is dead, right? Good. One less trashy person in the world. A scream of agony built in my throat, choking me. Suddenly, a comment flashed across the screen in bright red. Casey Whitman isn’t ‘refusing’ to come out. She’s dead. The internet erupted. Ted saw it and frowned. “What do you mean, dead?” The doors to the ballroom burst open. A squad of police officers entered, led by Officer Winston. Bess stepped forward, her face a mask of concern. “Officers? Has something happened? Has my sister committed a crime? Is she in trouble?” Ted’s face darkened. “If she broke the law, take her. We won’t bail her out this time.” He laughed, though his fingers were white-knuckled. “I guess she finally played herself into a cell.” Officer Winston didn’t look amused. He pulled a folder of photos from his bag. The photos showed me. Cold. Pale. Foaming at the mouth. Beside them was the coroner’s report. Cause of death: Acute toxicity. Overdose of sedative medication. Suicide. The officer’s voice cut through the music like a blade. “The girl you’re talking about took her own life over a week ago.”

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