I was sitting in the bathroom stall when I heard the new hire, just outside at the sink, loudly telling his family the good news. He’d officially been made permanent. Base salary: one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. I went silent. I’d been at this company for six years. Year one: sixty thousand dollars a year. No raise. Year two: sixty thousand dollars. A five percent raise at the end of the year. Three thousand dollars. Years three, four, and five: sixty-three thousand dollars. No change. Year six: HR just finished my review today. Next year’s raise would be five percent. Sixty-six thousand one hundred and fifty dollars. I currently manage the liaison work for five key projects. Because I was swamped, they hired three new people to report to me. The newest one, just confirmed as permanent, makes one hundred and twenty thousand dollars. It’s nearly double what I make after six years of grueling work. I walked out of the stall, went straight to Dahlia Stone’s office—our HR Director—and resigned. Dahlia looked genuinely shocked. “Why?” “Underpaid. Overworked. Disrespected.” 1 Dahlia Stone stared at me for a good thirty seconds. “Jenna, don’t be impulsive.” “I’m not impulsive,” I said. “I should have said this six years ago.” Since graduating, I had spent six years of my life inside the walls of this company. From a scrappy intern to the woman running point on five of our most critical accounts. The flow of business, the client relationships—they all hinged on me. They’d even hired three new assistants this year just to help me keep up. Yet, my dedication had earned me a starting salary of sixty thousand and a current salary of sixty-six thousand one hundred and fifty. The entry-level male hire, fresh out of his probationary period, was on a one hundred and twenty thousand dollar base. “Dahlia, I don’t want to debate this. Please start the exit process immediately.” Her face hardened. “Jenna, you have five major projects on your desk. Walking out now—isn’t that a little… low?” “Low?” I gave a short, bitter laugh. When I started, this company barely qualified as a legitimate office. Rich Kingsley, the employees, all ten of us, crammed into a twenty-by-twenty-foot shoebox. No AC in the summer, no heat in the winter, and endless, unpaid overtime. I took it all. Fueled by that naive, post-graduate ambition, I helped drag this near-bankrupt operation to the point where we now occupy four full floors of a high-rise. But today, I knew the truth. An intern’s starting salary was double mine. “Dahlia, do you know how much I make in a month?” “Six thousand six hundred and fifteen dollars.” “For that money, I’ve averaged three hours of overtime a day. I’ve revised proposals in the middle of the night. I’ve taken calls on the train during my holiday break to get projects finalized.” “Meanwhile, the new hire, who’s been here three months, clocks in exactly on time and is out the door the minute the clock strikes five. Last week, he messed up a scheduling conflict that brought five department heads to my office complaining.” “And even then, his base is one hundred and twenty thousand. You want to talk to me about ‘low’?” Dahlia finally dropped her gaze. After a long, painful silence, she offered a single, devastating sentence. “Who told you you’re a woman?” “Excuse me?” I stared, certain I’d misheard. Dahlia pursed her lips and sighed, a gesture of weary, female complicity. “I honestly thought you understood the landscape, Jenna.” “You’re a woman. You’re twenty-eight. You’re about to get married, which means a honeymoon, and then a maternity leave, and then a parenting leave… that’s almost a year out of the business, combined.” “The research shows, women’s focus shifts after marriage. Rich Kingsley worries you won’t be able to balance the firm and a family. You have to consider the company’s bottom line.” The words felt like a surgical knife, plunged directly into my chest. The absurdity was so profound I barely processed it. I could only ask the most obvious question. “What about you, Dahlia? You’re five years older than me. Your second kid is in kindergarten. What’s your salary?” Dahlia shrugged, a light, dismissive motion. “Eighty thousand. But Rich is my cousin.” That single statement annihilated my protest. I thought of the countless all-nighters I’d pulled for projects over the last three years. The instant noodles I’d eaten at my desk to meet deadlines. The courses and certifications I’d paid for myself to improve my skills. I’d worked this hard, sacrificed so much, only to be dismissed by Rich Kingsley with five words: You’re a woman. Because I was a woman, my tireless dedication meant less than a new, unproven man. Because I had no connections, the fact that the company would grind to a halt without me still didn’t qualify me for a market-rate salary. It all came down to a single, infuriating biological detail. I finally smiled. “Got it,” I said, standing up. Dahlia flinched. “Got what?” I didn’t answer. I just pushed the door open and walked out. I understood that this company was rotten to its core, and had been for six years. 2 I pulled open my desk drawer and retrieved the brand-new voice recorder I’d bought for meeting notes. Now, it was my only weapon. I slipped it into my jacket pocket. A cup of coffee landed on my desk. It was Spencer Wells, my boyfriend of three years, who outranked me by one level. “Dahlia said you’re quitting?” I didn’t look up. “Yep.” “Because of the salary thing?” My hand paused. I looked up at him. “You know about it?” He hesitated. “I know.” “What is your monthly salary?” I’d never asked him directly, seeing as we weren’t married yet, but now I was consumed by curiosity. Spencer’s eyes darted away. “Three hundred thousand. But I’m a Project Manager. You’re just a Project Liaison. We’re in different tiers, of course it’s different.” I held his gaze. “You were promoted to Project Manager at the beginning of this year. But your salary hasn’t changed for two years.” “I started managing the company’s key accounts the year before that. My five percent raise put me at sixty-six thousand. That’s less than a quarter of your pay.” “I know every project in this company inside and out. Every stage requires my sign-off. Without me, this whole operation would shut down before the afternoon, and not a single product would go out the door.” “Spencer, I am more important to this company than you are.” He frowned. “So what? Ability doesn’t dictate pay, Rich does. Go talk to him if you’ve got the guts.” I stood up. “You’re right. I absolutely will go talk to him.” I needed an answer for my six years of life. I walked toward the elevator immediately. Spencer looked stunned, rushing to intercept me. “Jenna, don’t do anything reckless!” I ignored him, pressing the call button. As the elevator climbed to the fifth floor, my mind was flooded with memories of my time here. In 2022, fresh out of college, I met Rich Kingsley—then thirty-seven—at a job fair. He was just starting out, short on cash, but bursting with passion. “Jenna,” he’d said, “we’re just a handful of people now, but we have a dream and we’re willing to grind. Come join us, and I promise you’ll never regret it.” I believed him. That first year, the company was housed in a cramped apartment. The summer was suffocating, the winter brutal. As the only woman on the team, Rich made a show of looking out for me. He’d slip me an extra five hundred dollars every month, calling it a “hardship stipend.” “Jenna, an Ivy League graduate like you, I’m putting you through hell,” he’d said. At the time, everyone else made four thousand, but I started at six thousand. The second year, the company stabilized. We moved into a modest office in a commercial building. I got my first real desk. Rich was thrilled on moving day, grandly announcing a five percent raise for me—three thousand dollars—by year end. That same year, Spencer joined. My subordinate. Base salary: eighty thousand dollars. The third year, I worked non-stop for two weeks, turning in sixteen different proposals. I successfully secured the Summit Group contract, earning the company a massive payout and finally putting us on the map. My reward? A cheap, mass-produced plaque, and the responsibility for all the company’s major project liaison work. Rich clapped my shoulder, his voice heavy with significance. “Jenna, I knew I was right about you. The future of this company rests on your shoulders.” That year, I was twenty-five. My salary was sixty-three thousand. In the fourth and fifth years, my project list grew, and the company took off, renting four floors of a corporate tower. I lost my office, however, because Spencer was promoted to manager and needed the space. I remember Rich, now sporting a beer gut from constant client dinners, his eyes perpetually yellowed and cloudy from drinking. Oily. “Jenna, don’t blame me. This promotion is strictly about utilizing your talent with the clients, not tying you down to a desk.” Rich puffed on his cigar, playing the concerned mentor. “Spencer came later and hasn’t closed any deals, but he’s a man. He’s better for schmoozing, and frankly, when dealing with the junior staff, a man commands more respect, right?” I was so naive then. I figured he had a point. I didn’t love sitting in an office. As long as the boss valued me, what was a Project Manager title, anyway? Now, hearing Spencer’s self-assured claim—*“We’re in different tiers”—*I felt like a complete fool. The elevator arrived at the fifth floor. I took a deep breath, walked to Rich Kingsley’s office, and knocked. 3 “Come in.” I pushed the door open. Rich was smoking. Seeing me, he immediately stubbed the cigarette in the ashtray, his voice grave. “Dahlia told me you resigned.” He poured me a glass of water himself. “I understand you’re unhappy with your pay. But you’re one of our veterans. The company invested in you for all these years. Walking out now is just bad form, isn’t it?” That word, low, again. I held the glass, looking at him. “Rich, I’ve been here for six years, I make sixty-six thousand. The intern who started three months ago makes one hundred and twenty thousand.” Rich’s face froze, then he plastered on a look of paternal concern. “Yes, the salary thing was an oversight on my part. How about this: I’ll raise you again. Five percent. What do you say?” Sixty-six thousand one hundred and fifty, plus five percent, was sixty-nine thousand four hundred and fifty-seven dollars and fifty cents. Less than seventy thousand. A fifty-thousand-dollar difference from a probationary hire. I didn’t compromise. I went straight for the heart of it. “Rich, I’ve been with you for six years. When times were toughest, we didn’t even have a water cooler, and we had to bring our own toilet paper.” “But you paid me two thousand more than the others then. Now the company is thriving. The smallest project I handle is worth five million dollars. Why are you unwilling to pay me the same as an intern?” I stared at him, waiting for the answer that would finally kill my hope. Rich cleared his throat, instinctively reaching for a cigarette. “Jenna, I didn’t want to say this, but since you’re pressing me, I’ll tell you: Because you’re a woman!” “A woman?” “Yes, a woman.” The fleshy jowls on Rich’s face began to tremble with sudden fervor. “I’ve done the research. Do you know the percentage of female leadership in the Fortune 500? Twenty-one percent! Some companies don’t have a single one. What does that tell you? You women are inherently not the same as men.” “But my performance has consistently been number one in the company,” I couldn’t help but argue. Rich scoffed. “So what? You’re about to marry Spencer, aren’t you?” I was confused. “And?” “And your value has cratered, hasn’t it?” Rich leaned forward, analyzing me like a faulty asset. “Look, once you marry Spencer, you’ll be a good wife. Once the baby comes, you’ll be a good mother. How do you balance family and career? The company hires you, and then you want vacation, maternity leave, and childcare leave. Who pays for the company’s loss?” “Plus, the internet says women’s focus declines after marriage. You’re twenty-eight, almost thirty. In a few years, you’ll be in menopause. There are plenty of young people on the market. Why should I invest in you?” My eyes had gone completely numb. I spoke calmly. “My performance is strong.” “A woman with great performance? Who knows if she had to sleep her way into those numbers,” Rich muttered. “I have high capability.” “How capable can you be? Your boyfriend, Spencer, is the one who got the manager title.” Rich sneered. “I’ve been with this company for six years, from the ground up. I have the deepest institutional knowledge.” “That’s why I didn’t fire you,” Rich said, smiling. “I even gave you a raise. Five percent. That’s generous.” I went silent, staring into the water glass. Rich patted my shoulder, a gesture that made my skin crawl. “All right, stop being angry. I’ll round it up to seventy thousand. Forget the resignation. As long as you keep working hard, the company will take care of you.” “Oh, and the signing ceremony with Summit Group is tomorrow, right? Prepare well. This is our biggest project of the year. Don’t disappoint me.” The Summit Group was a client I’d cultivated for three years. They were famous in the industry for their corporate culture of “respecting women’s career rights and opposing workplace discrimination.” It was especially notable that their newly appointed CEO, Ms. Victoria Graham, was a successful woman who had herself suffered professional prejudice. I looked up at Rich’s smug, smiling face. I stood up. “Don’t worry, Rich,” I said. “I won’t disappoint you.” Then, I turned and walked away. The small voice recorder and the miniature camera, still recording in my jacket pocket, glowed faintly red. 4 That night, I was, unsurprisingly, wide awake. I didn’t know if I could achieve justice tomorrow. I only knew that some things had to be done. And I was ready to be the one who did them. At 8:00 AM, I arrived at the office. Everything was normal. Dahlia, having heard about my conversation with Rich, walked past my desk and glanced at me with an odd, pitying look. At 10:00 AM, Spencer asked me to lunch, supposedly to celebrate that I hadn’t been fired. “It’s a good thing Rich is a good guy and decided not to hold your temper tantrum against you. If my mom knew you were jobless, she’d never let us get married.” I picked up my lunch tray and walked away, not even granting him a glance. At 3:00 PM, Rich arrived. He strode into the open-plan office, looking invigorated. “To celebrate securing the Summit Group project,” he announced grandly, “I’ve asked Dahlia to prepare a big bonus envelope for everyone!” “Rich is the man!” “Best boss ever!” Rich chuckled, waving his hand dismissively. “Dahlia, start handing them out.” The envelopes were distributed. Marcus, an assistant who’d been with the company for three years, gasped. “Five thousand dollars! Rich is so generous!” “Five thousand for me too! Great to be on Rich’s team!” Said a married, older male colleague, his eyes crinkling in a delighted smile. Vivian, at the next desk, tore open her envelope, then pouted. “Why did I only get three thousand?” “Me too. Three thousand.” The female employees, all of them, got three thousand. “Well, three thousand is better than nothing.” “But I work just as hard as the men. Why the difference?” Why the difference? I repeated the question silently, opening my own envelope. Neat, crisp bills. Five hundred dollars. “Jenna, don’t take it personally. I just gave you that big raise yesterday. Giving you too much would make the others talk,” Rich explained, smiling broadly, his eyes watching my reaction intently. I knew he was trying to ‘tame’ me. I didn’t argue or protest. I calmly put the envelope in my desk. “Thank you, Rich.” At 7:00 PM, the Summit Group motorcade arrived downstairs. Victoria Graham, the CEO, and her delegation walked into the conference room. Rich and Spencer were there, all smiles and obsequiousness, greeting the delegation warmly. At 7:30 PM, the ceremony began. Rich, as the CEO, stepped up to the podium to speak. “Thank you, Summit Group, for giving our firm this invaluable opportunity. Since our first collaboration, we have always adhered to a spirit of transparency, fairness, and professionalism. Through our joint efforts, we have achieved significant results. Moving forward, we will continue to provide professional service and quality work, hand-in-hand with Summit Group, to create greater, mutual success.” Rich delivered his prepared remarks with eloquent pride. Victoria Graham, seated in the VIP section, looked satisfied. She took the microphone. “After several years of collaboration, we have absolute faith in your firm’s capabilities. However, even more than capability, our company prioritizes whether your principles of transparency, fairness, and professionalism extend to your employee relations—especially regarding gender equality.” Rich’s face twitched. He chuckled nervously. “Of course, of course.” Before he could finish, the main screen behind the podium went black. A few seconds later, the conversation between Rich Kingsley and me, recorded in his office, echoed throughout the venue. “You women are inherently not the same as men…”

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Three years in that facility had tamed me. I was compliant. Docile. I did what I was told. When my older sister, Camille, came to pick me up, she recoiled almost instantly. “Still wearing that corpse-like expression, Ash? You will not bring that face home.” I simply nodded, then bent down, picked up a shard of broken glass near my feet, and drew it across my own face. Camille went instantly pale, staring at the fresh crimson bloom. Back at the house, my adopted brother, Noah, cornered me, his eyes sharp with menace. “Just so you know, coming back changes nothing. I can still make you disappear.” Before I could respond, he snatched a baseball bat from the corner and ruthlessly slammed it against his own forearm. “It’s okay, Ash. Whatever you need to do, big brother. I deserve it if it makes you feel better.” Jocelyn, my fiancée, walked in just in time to see Noah clutching his arm, his face twisted in pain. Her expression hardened instantly. “Apologize to Noah, Ashton. Now. Or else…” She didn’t finish the sentence. I turned, bolted to the third-floor balcony, and vaulted over the railing. I landed with a sickening crunch directly in front of my parents who were just stepping out of the elevator. “Ah!” Mom’s scream was a guttural, piercing sound of pure horror. Dad frantically pulled out his phone to call 911, his face ash-gray. Jocelyn, usually a portrait of composure, had finally lost her cool. Her pupils shrank as she froze on the spot. On the way to the ER, Noah scrambled to clear himself: “This isn’t my fault, okay? He jumped. I couldn’t stop him.” I spat up a mouthful of blood and nodded weakly in agreement. Three years in the asylum had taught me my role: I was the tragic hero of a dark, twisted story. The voices—the insistent, droning commentary in my head—told me that only through absolute obedience, followed by death, could I return to my original world. 1 I survived. My internal injuries were severe, but they managed to pull me back from the brink. Jocelyn watched me, her brow furrowed. She turned to Noah. “What the hell happened between you and Ash? I asked him for an apology. Why did he throw himself off a balcony?” Noah shrugged innocently, running a hand through his hair. “I have no idea. He just… decided to jump. It had nothing to do with me.” Camille, who had been silent, immediately stepped in front of Noah, shielding him. She glared at Jocelyn. “You’re his fiancée, and you’re siding with Ash over Noah? Don’t pretend you don’t know how sick Ashton is. He’s always been cruel, and he hates Noah! He was probably just trying to frame him.” Jocelyn started to protest, but Mom cut her off, looking displeased with Camille. “Enough, Cami! Ash is your brother too. He’s barely clinging to life after what he just did. Just keep quiet.” Dad scowled, his unspoken disapproval heavy in the air. Camille snapped. She marched over, grabbed my hand, and yanked me up in the bed. “Still acting? What did I tell you before we left the clinic? Forget everything already? You cause trouble the second you walk back in! If you really want to die, why didn’t you find a taller building? Did you count on the flowerbed to break your fall, you disgusting coward?” The voices in my head pulsed with a cold, urgent fear. Obey. Obey. I pulled the IV needle out of my hand and shoved Camille away. My gaze locked onto the half-open hospital window. “Fine,” I managed, my voice a broken rasp. “I’ll give you what you want.” My foot was already on the ledge. I thought: This is it. Freedom. But Jocelyn reacted instantly. She lunged, wrapping her arms around my torso, pulling me back with surprising strength. Sweat beaded on her forehead. The pure, unadulterated terror in her eyes was unmistakable. “Stop it, Ashton! Enough!” Mom was there next, gripping my arm so tightly her knuckles were white. “Ash, what are you doing?!” I forced a smile, a grimace that felt colder than any tears. “I’m okay, Mom. I’m fine.” The voices had warned me: my time here was running out. I had to obey their commands, or I would meet a fate worse than the death I craved. I needed a clean exit. But Camille just saw it as a calculated performance. Her face was contorted in fury. “You won’t quit, will you, Ashton? You’re afraid we’ll blame you for hurting Noah’s arm, so you’re putting on this pathetic show for us! It won’t work!” Noah, ever the collaborator, clutched his bruised arm dramatically. “It’s okay, sis. Don’t blame him. It was just one hit. I’m a man; I can handle it.” But this time, Dad hesitated. He did the unthinkable: he yelled at Camille. “Are you even his sister, Cami? He’s lying in a hospital bed! Do you think this can be faked?” Then he turned to Noah, his voice low and dangerous. “Noah, tell me the truth. What happened in the living room?” Camille and Noah stared at Dad, stunned. Noah sighed dramatically. “Dad, I swear I didn’t lie.” Jocelyn finally spoke, looking at Noah’s swollen arm. A flicker of pity or perhaps resignation crossed her eyes. “There’s a security camera in the living room. But when I came in… I did see Ash hit Noah. That part is undeniable.” Camille sneered at me, her eyes brimming with disgust. Watching them argue over me, a chilling clarity settled in. Obey. They said I hurt Noah. They needed me to pay. I waited until their focus shifted, grabbed the nearest object—a sharp, chrome fruit knife from the bedside tray—and brought it to my neck, drawing the blade across my skin with all the force I could muster. Arterial spray instantly painted the room. Camille, standing closest, was splattered with crimson. Noah’s eyes widened in horror. Mom screamed once and crumpled to the floor. Jocelyn, trembling, frantically yelled for a nurse. Chaos erupted. I closed my eyes, the deep relief of a promise kept washing over me. 2 Jocelyn was the first to return to the penthouse to check the security footage. The playback showed Noah taking the baseball bat and striking his own arm. The truth was unmistakable. “Why?” she asked him, utterly bewildered. Mom and Dad soon saw the footage, too. Mom was so furious she rushed forward and slapped Noah. “You are my son, but Ash is my son too! He’s your older brother! Why would you do that to him?” Noah hung his head, a flash of something dark and cold crossing his eyes. “Joss, Mom, I didn’t want to. I was just scared. I was afraid he’d come back and treat me like he used to.” “You know how he used to lash out, how he’d hurt people. I genuinely have… trauma from his past behavior. I felt like I had to do something before he hurt me again.” As he spoke, he started gasping, clutching his chest. A tell-tale sign of an oncoming asthma attack. The family knew his asthma was severe. Camille panicked, rushing to find his inhaler. After he stabilized, his face pale and clammy, Camille’s pity overflowed. She looked at our parents. “He’s like this, and you’re still pushing him? It’s all Ashton’s fault anyway. He did this to himself. He drove us all crazy with his cruelty, and this is what he gets!” “And you, Jocelyn,” she hissed. “Your eyes have barely left Ashton since he returned. Can you blame Noah for feeling insecure and threatened?” Jocelyn glanced at Noah on the floor. Her tone softened slightly. “My heart is with Noah, always. That hasn’t changed.” “But even if Ash isn’t my fiancé anymore, he’s still the boy I grew up with. His life matters.” Camille let out a harsh, chilling laugh. “His life matters? Mom, Dad, do you honestly think Ashton’s ‘sanity’ is cured? He’s trying to kill himself at every turn. Doesn’t that prove he’s still mentally unstable?” “He’s malicious! He saw Noah’s severe asthma; he must have done all this on purpose just to cause an attack. He is pure poison!” Noah generously waved a hand, dismissing the argument. “It’s fine, Camille. It’s my fault. If big brother Ash is happy, he can hit me, he can yell at me. I won’t fight back.” “Why should he get to hit you?” Camille snapped, her voice breaking. “You don’t owe him anything!” “He terrorized you for years. If I hadn’t stepped in to protect you, he would have destroyed you. Ten of his lives wouldn’t be enough to pay for what he’s done!” Camille spat, her gaze burning toward my hospital room. “I think his sickness is back. You need to test him again. If he’s still delusional, he could be dangerous. Who knows what he might do next? Who can guarantee Noah’s safety?” A heavy silence descended. In their minds, Camille’s words made a terrible, undeniable sense. Jocelyn thought for a moment, then walked into my room, standing over my bed. “Are you doing this to punish us for sending you away, Ashton? Is this a performance fueled by resentment?” I shook my head without a moment’s thought. “I don’t resent any of you. Everything I’ve suffered is what I deserve. Your punishment of me was unavoidable.” Jocelyn’s face darkened. She pressed on. “The doctors said you were better. Is this new compliance, this docility, just a lie? A clever trick to escape the asylum?” All eyes in the room turned to me. I started to shake my head, wanting to deny it, but the sudden pain in my skull was blinding, like an electrical current. Then, the relentless voices boomed in my mind: [BE A GOOD BOY. BE COMPLIANT. YOUR DEATH IS THE ONLY WAY OUT.] 3 I clutched my head, gritting my teeth. “I am not lying.” Noah immediately sidled up to my bedside, a spark of vicious delight in his eyes. “Let’s see about that.” He glanced at me, then motioned to his assistant, who slapped a bankruptcy filing on the table in front of me. “The company you broke your back to build is gone. It’s bankrupt. Do you have anything to say?” Everyone knew that firm was my life’s work, my half-life. But I kept my expression blank, my eyes calm and unblinking, as if the news meant nothing. He wasn’t satisfied. His eyes flickered to Jocelyn. In a calculated, predatory move, he kissed her, a long, possessive, open-mouthed kiss. He watched me as he did it, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He knew. Everyone knew. I had loved Jocelyn more than I loved myself. Under the scrutiny of my entire family, I reached into my pocket, pulled out the simple gold band—the engagement ring I’d once given Jocelyn—and handed it to him. “May you both have a lifetime of happiness.” Noah was momentarily stunned. But Jocelyn’s face shifted completely. She stared at me, her voice low and dangerously controlled. “It seems you really are cured.” I met her gaze, neither confirming nor denying. Noah lost the last shred of his composure. He called for a psychiatrist, demanding an electroshock test, then kept insisting the doctor increase the voltage. The doctor warned him, “Any higher, and he could slip into a coma.” “Keep going!” Noah screamed. The electric current sent me into uncontrollable spasms. The sheets beneath me felt suddenly wet, and the metallic scent of ammonia filled the air. Jocelyn squeezed her eyes shut, sweat pouring from her temples. Mom looked away, Dad steering her toward the door. Only Camille stood by, waiting for me to break. The doctor finally stopped the current when I went limp, unconscious. “That’s enough. No more.” Noah’s fists were clenched, but he couldn’t argue with a man who had flatlined. Mom collapsed against the wall, sobbing hysterically. But I was already gone. When I woke up, Dad was lecturing Camille and Noah. Jocelyn was sitting beside me, her hands clasped tightly around mine. The moment I opened my eyes, she released me instantly, asking in a rush, “You’re awake. How are you feeling? Any better?” I didn’t react, staring blankly at the ceiling. The memories—the real memories—were flooding back. When Noah first came to live with us, he was a small, fragile boy with severe asthma. I was fiercely protective, viewing him as my little brother. I gave him my room; I gave him whatever he wanted. Yet, he constantly developed strange, unexplained bruises. When Mom and Dad asked, he would just look at me and stay silent. The silence spoke volumes. Disappointment began to cloud my parents’ eyes. At school, he was easy prey for bullies. I stood up for him, warning every kid that if they touched him, they were messing with the Reeds. Somehow, the narrative shifted. Soon, everyone believed I was the one doing the bullying. When Camille asked, Noah maintained his silence, but his eyes, when he looked at me, were full of a false, calculated terror. The message was clear. Camille heard the rumors, and her affection for me bled into pure disgust. I was a rebellious teenager, but I wasn’t a monster. No one believed me. I started lashing out, burning myself out with pointless attempts to defend myself. I confided everything in Jocelyn, not noticing the subtle, increasingly odd look in her eyes. After I finished, she subtly slipped out of my embrace. She told me Noah had never said a bad word about me; in fact, he always spoke highly of me. I felt a cold rage. I kept trying to prove my sanity, but I was constantly burning out from the internal conflict. Jocelyn and Noah grew closer. My jealousy became a physical pain. I confronted her, again and again, demanding to know why she was abandoning me. Jocelyn simply watched me spiral, then told Mom and Dad, and Camille, that I was harassing them. Jocelyn was an orphan; she had a standing betrothal to me, and my parents had raised her. They trusted her completely. When she told them I was targeting Noah, their disgust for me intensified. Camille openly hated me. I never understood why she betrayed me. Until that night, when I walked in and found her and Noah kissing. Rage blinded me. I grabbed Noah’s collar and punched him with all my strength. He casually wiped the blood from his lip, then gave me a defiant, knowing smirk. Right in front of me, he started gasping, deliberately triggering an asthma attack. Jocelyn immediately slapped me. “Ashton Reed, you disgust me.” She didn’t spare me a second glance, rushing to call an ambulance for Noah. When Mom, Dad, and Camille arrived, they blamed me instantly. Noah lay in the hospital, looking frail and near death. When he woke, he explained my actions away: “It’s okay, big brother didn’t mean it. It’s my fault, Joss. I couldn’t control my true feelings.” Jocelyn, without hesitation, knelt before my parents. “I’m so sorry, George and Helen. I’ve fallen in love with Noah. Please, blame only me.” In that moment, a frenzy took over. I dragged the pale, weak Noah out of the bed and beat him like a madman. That’s when they had me committed. I stayed there for three years. 4 I endured three years of beatings and torment. Yet, I clung to a faint hope of survival. Then, one night, the orderlies dragged me into a black cell. They sneered as they chained me like an animal, then forced me into a pit filled with rats and snakes. I don’t remember how I survived that night. When I was near death, the voices, the commentary, finally spoke to me. They told me I was the hero of an abuse story, and I had to be absolutely obedient to leave this world. I became compliant. They chained me up and demanded I lick garbage from the floor. I did it. They beat me and kicked me. I walked toward them, letting them trample me. They eventually tired of me. Bored, they finally told my parents I was cured. My thoughts returned to the present. Mom was sobbing, her eyes full of tears. “Ash, what is it? You were never like this before.” I looked at her, confused. “The man I was before? I’ve been like this the whole time I was in the facility.” Mom sobbed harder, choking on her words. “This isn’t the facility, Ash. You’re home. You can be the way you used to be.” Home. The word was a confusing jolt. Mom embraced me, repeating that they were my family. I shook my head, firm in my conviction. “Family doesn’t hit me, doesn’t call me names, doesn’t tell me to get lost.” “Family doesn’t commit me for three years and forget I exist.” “And this isn’t my home. My home is…” I didn’t know where my home was. The voices only told me I had to die, completely obedient, to find it. I tried to recall what else they had said, but the effort brought another spike of searing pain, and I lost consciousness. The last thing I saw was the medical team rushing toward me, surrounded by their cries and screams. When I woke up, I was still here. Mom and Dad gripped my hands. Jocelyn’s coldness had softened into a strained concern. Only Camille’s eyes were still full of loathing. “He’s having a breakdown. This is just a pity display to manipulate you.” she insisted. Mom was so angry she smashed a medicine cup onto the floor. “He is your blood brother, Cami! When will you stop?” Camille pointed at herself in disbelief. “Stop? He’s fine! He didn’t die! Why are you all acting like this?” I looked at her, so full of hatred, and remembered the sister who used to defend me, who gave me her favorite candy. That sister was long gone. Sensing the tension, Noah stepped in, playing the peacemaker. “Mom, please. Camille is just worried about us. A psychiatric patient can harm people without facing legal consequences.” “Ash is covered in fresh injuries. That is the look of someone having a severe psychotic break. Let’s just ask the doctor. Let’s get a professional opinion.” A cold malice flashed in his eyes. Mom and Dad fell silent. Jocelyn looked at me, then at my numerous new self-inflicted injuries. She finally stood up to find a doctor, but Noah stopped her. “Go get the one who just treated Ash. He knows his condition best.” Jocelyn nodded without hesitation. The doctor walked in, asked a few questions, and I answered honestly and simply. She turned to my family, her voice clinical. “Mr. Reed is displaying clear signs of a severe performative personality disorder. If he is not returned to the facility, he poses a risk.” Noah smirked. Camille immediately grabbed my arm. “The doctor said it! You are not cured! You’re going to hurt someone and walk away free. You are coming back to the clinic now!” At the word clinic, a deafening roar erupted in my head. [ABSOLUTE OBEDIENCE.] I threw Camille off me and sprinted for the window. She watched my legs swing out over the air, her face draining of all color. Then, the heavy sound of a body hitting the ground.

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I am a walking disaster magnet. It’s a gift, really. I once helped an old lady cross the street and the rumor mill claimed I was trying to swindle her Social Security check. I was spotted feeding a stray cat outside my apartment, and suddenly I was the neighborhood cat burglar. My reputation was lower than a snake’s belly, so I figured, why polish a turd? I leaned into it, going full tilt as a professional bad guy. Does your family need to split up their assets, but someone’s dragging their feet? Is your elderly parent being manipulated by a greedy cousin? Hire me to come in and raise hell. I take the heat, you split the cash. My abrasive manner and sheer grit made me the local nightmare in a ten-mile radius. Then, the youngest Associate Professor at the city’s top university showed up at my door and asked me to marry him. “The doctor called it ‘Martyr Complex,’ but I call it ‘Total Doormat Syndrome,’” he sighed. “My mother gives away everything she owns. Our family savings are almost gone. I need the most unhinged, unreasonable, hell-on-wheels daughter-in-law in the state to manage her.” My eyes lit up. I rubbed my hands together with pure, unadulterated glee. “Say no more, brother. You just cured my fatigue.” 1 Gordon Hewitt’s handsome, refined face instantly crumpled. He let out a long, weary sigh. He pulled a timid, middle-aged woman out from behind him. She was gentle, soft-spoken, and gave me a faint, almost apologetic smile. “Frankie,” he said, using my chosen name, “I brought my mother, Cecilia Hewitt, so you could meet her.” He then pulled out a tattered red savings passbook and handed it to me. “Don’t laugh, but this is literally everything we have left.” I took the book, flipped it open, and my eyeballs nearly popped out of their sockets. “Fifty-seven dollars?” “I make thirty-four bucks a month working part-time at the diner!” I protested. “You’re a university professor. Your salary has to be close to three hundred. How on earth is there only fifty-seven dollars left?” Gordon and his mother both looked at me, their eyes red-rimmed and moist. “Frankie, since my father passed, I’ve been working constantly, traveling for conferences. My mom has been home alone,” Gordon explained. “Every relative, every neighbor, every well-wisher—they all show up. They borrow a little rice today, a little cash tomorrow. They say ‘borrow,’ but they never, ever pay it back.” He paused, voice thick with worry. “I’m being sent on a three-year lecture tour overseas. I need to leave immediately. If I don’t find a tough-as-nails wife to guard the fort, I won’t just come home to an empty house. I suspect my mother will have been sweet-talked into selling herself off for scrap.” I nearly fainted in disbelief. I looked at the handsome, scholarly son and his fragile mother. I sighed, tucking the passbook into my pocket. “I’ll take the job. I can guard the fort for three years. But you have to let me set the terms. I run a wild operation. I am going to make your aunts, uncles, and neighbors miserable. If I scare one of them into an early grave, you can’t get mad.” Gordon jumped to his feet, gripping my hand tightly. “As long as the house is safe and my mother is protected, you can do whatever the hell you want.” My prospective mother-in-law rushed over, tears streaming down her face. “Thank you, Frankie. Thank you for your service.” We came to an agreement, and less than a week later, we were married. On the day we signed the papers, Gordon rushed off to catch his flight. I grabbed my battered suitcase and headed for his house. I reached the front door of the Maplewood Faculty Quarters just as I heard a shrill voice yelling from inside. “Oh, Cecilia, bless your heart, but you’re from an educated family. You’re going to be stingy about two little apples?” I peeked through the crack in the door. A smug, heavyset woman—I’d later know her as Donna Mae, the biggest busybody in the complex—was forcibly prying a net bag of apples out of my new mother-in-law’s hand. My mother-in-law, Cecilia, was pleading softly. “Donna, please, leave me two. I bought them for Gordon’s new wife.” “Don’t be ridiculous! Gordon’s gone overseas! He doesn’t have a new wife,” the woman sneered, stuffing the apples into her apron. “And I heard you bought meat yesterday. Hand that over, too! My little boy, Kevin, is going through a growth spurt!” Oh, hell no. This wasn’t borrowing. This was blatant robbery in a university housing complex. I dropped my suitcase, strode into the room, and snatched the net bag of apples back. Donna Mae froze, then flew into a rage, stabbing a finger toward my face. “Who the hell are you? You stray animal! How dare you steal from me?” I calmly pulled the bright red marriage certificate from my pocket and slapped it hard onto the chipped dining table. “The name is Frankie Hewitt. I am Gordon’s just-married wife,” I announced, my voice low and dangerous. “I’m stealing from you? No. You’re extorting my mother. Give it back.” I slammed her against the wall. “You take one more piece of thread, one more sugar cube, or one more apple from this house, and I will call your boss every single morning until you’re escorted off the property. I’ll make you the neighborhood pariah. Try me.” The air in the room solidified. Cecilia’s eyes were wide, her mouth open enough to swallow an egg. Donna Mae, accustomed to rolling over soft targets like Cecilia, had never encountered a rabid dog like me. Terrified, she wrenched herself free and looked at Cecilia with panicked, accusing eyes. “Cecilia! Look at her! She’s a criminal! Are you sure she’s not lying? Did Gordon really marry this lunatic who just assaulted me? I’m going to call the police!” Cecilia, who had been hiding behind me, finally found her voice, and it was a masterpiece of defiance. “Frankie… she’s not a bad person. She is Gordon’s wife. I consented.” With that official confirmation, I didn’t waste another second. I shoved the slack-jawed Donna Mae out the door. “Get out!” I spat, giving her a look that would curdle milk. “If I ever see you try to steal from this house again, I will break both your legs.” 2 Finally, silence. My mother-in-law was still leaning against the wall, visibly trembling. I helped her sit down, then took a long, hard look around this college professor’s house. Honestly, a rat would cry walking through this place. The large living room had nothing but a broken-legged dining table and a few low stools. Half the curtains were missing, probably borrowed by a relative. “Gordon’s wife… are you hungry?” Cecilia shuffled out of the kitchen, carefully holding a bowl. It was a bowl of pale, yellow custard, with two rock-hard, burnt cornbread muffins next to it. I looked at the custard, then at Cecilia’s bone-thin frame. Was this woman Saint Mary in a past life? She was practically starving but still offering me the last bite of food. “Mom, I’m not hungry. You eat it.” I gently pushed the bowl back, then got straight to business. “Mom, Gordon asked me to find out: Who has borrowed our things?” The very-real-life Saint Cecilia’s eyes welled up again. She turned and came back with a huge stack of crumpled, stained papers. They were IOUs. Dozens of them for cash. Plus, the next-door neighbor, Ms. Thompson, had borrowed the sewing machine for her daughter’s school uniform. Mr.Wayne, who lived downstairs, had borrowed the bicycle for his commute. This wasn’t borrowing; this was running the Hewitt home like a free community supply store. “Mom, you are the personification of ‘If I don’t go to hell, who will?’” I closed the pile of notes, trying to stifle a laugh that was half-amusement, half-rage. I stood up and cracked my knuckles. “Gordon told me before he left: As of today, I run this house.” I met her eye. “First thing tomorrow morning, we’re going collecting. What they took, they’ll cough up. What they ate, they’ll pay for.” The next morning, before the sun was fully up, I dressed in my shabbiest clothes, grabbed a borrowed bullhorn, and pulled my mother-in-law to the gate of the faculty complex. It was peak commuting time. People were streaming past. I planted myself in front of the gate, picked up the bullhorn, and started screaming. “Is that you, Mr. Thompson? Five years ago, you borrowed five hundred dollars from my mother-in-law, Cecilia Hewitt, to build a new extension on your cabin. Is the cabin comfortable? When are you going to repay the money?” “Ms. Davis! Oh, that’s a gorgeous ’74 Schwinn cruiser you’re riding! Your mother borrowed our family bike three years ago, saying you needed it for a short commute. You still haven’t bought your own? Are you holding onto it to pass down to your grandkids?” “Hey, hey, Professor Zhou, don’t walk so fast! You said you desperately needed three hundred dollars last spring. My mother is practically begging for scraps! Is this how an esteemed academic behaves?” My rant turned every named person’s face black as a cast-iron skillet. My mother-in-law watched my performance, deeply impressed, but also terrified. Every time someone tried to object, she would chime in, her eyes swimming with tears: “Frankie is right.” “My daughter-in-law speaks the truth.” “Frankie is not wrong.” The commuters started pointing and whispering. “Isn’t that Professor Hewitt’s mother? She looks so distraught.” “I heard theWaynes owe them a lot. That’s disgusting.” “Five hundred dollars is a huge sum! They’re heartless.” We stood there, a synchronized tag-team of shame, blocking the gate, refusing to let anyone pass. Within two minutes, the families of the debtors started running out, hysterical. “Stop shouting! Stop shouting!” “Cecilia! What in God’s name are you doing?” “Cecilia! We can discuss this privately, can’t we?” “Gordon’s mother! Do you have to cause a scene this early? My face is ruined!” 3 My mother-in-law recoiled, about to apologize. I cut her off, waving the stack of IOUs in the air. “Save the drama! Honor is earned, not given! You owe us money, and you’re going to pay it!” “You pay today, or I’ll go to the university radio station and broadcast this tomorrow!” The debtors looked at the crowd of spectators, gritted their teeth, and rushed back inside, returning with wads of cash that they shoved into Cecilia’s hands. “Take it! Take it and go! You ruined my week!” I let them go one by one after the money was collected. Within ten minutes, we recovered the majority of the debts that had been outstanding for years. Back at home, Cecilia nervously clutched the cash. She was happy, but worried. “Gordon’s wife, are you sure this won’t hurt Gordon’s career? People talk…” I stopped what I was doing and looked her in the eye. “Mom, listen to me.” I spoke slowly and firmly. “If you don’t stand up, people will think you’re a fool, and that will hurt Gordon’s career. Who wants to study under a spineless professor who can’t even hold his own family together? If we’re strong, people will respect Gordon more, not less.” Cecilia was stunned. She nodded, deep in thought. I knew the iron was hot. It was time for the next lesson. The next day, I dragged her to the local market. For Cecilia, this was worse than a firing squad. She had never dared to haggle and would always accept the vendor’s most battered vegetables, offering a grateful smile. We approached the butcher’s stall. The big, burly butcher saw Cecilia coming and didn’t even look up. He expertly sliced a chunk of gristle and straight-up fat—the kind you feed a dog, not a family—from the underside of his block and tossed it on the scale. “Two pounds. One dollar sixty.” Cecilia bit her lip and instinctively reached for her purse. I slapped her hand down, leaning in close, my voice a low, sinister whisper. “Mom, if you buy that piece of garbage meat, I will pull out every single one of those prized orchids your late husband left you and boil them into a broth.” Cecilia instantly stiffened. Those orchids were her most cherished link to her late husband. She guarded them fiercely. Her hand trembling, she finally looked up at the butcher. The butcher slammed his cleaver on the block. “You buying or not? Get a move on! There are people waiting!” I pinched the soft flesh on her waist behind her back. She closed her eyes, and in a voice that seemed to require every ounce of her strength, she finally yelled: “I… I won’t buy this one!” The butcher blinked. Cecilia opened her eyes, saw the crowd watching, and suddenly, she found a strange, hard resolve. “This meat is bad! It’s all fat and lymph nodes! How dare you try to sell this to people?” she demanded, surprisingly loud. “I asked for a lean cut, and I paid for a lean cut! I’m going to… to report you for fraudulent trading!” I stepped up instantly, my voice booming. “Everyone look! They just started letting people open their own businesses, and already they’re trying to rip off the elderly! Selling spoiled meat to a little old lady who can’t speak up! Is this how you repay the community’s trust? If this meat makes someone sick, you’ll be liable!” The butcher panicked, cold sweat beading on his forehead. “Ma’am! Ma’am, please! It was a misunderstanding, a mistake!” He quickly tossed the bad meat into a waste bucket, then frantically cut a gorgeous, fresh piece of tenderloin, throwing in a piece of liver for good measure. “Here! Take this! The best cut! My apologies, take it!” Cecilia held the bright, red piece of tenderloin. As we walked out of the market, her hands were still shaking. I walked beside her, casually cracking sunflower seeds. “Well? Did refusing him kill you?” “Next time someone tries to hand you rotten vegetables, smear them on his face.” Cecilia looked at the meat in her hands, then turned to me, offering a stiff but genuine smile. “No… I understand.” Good, I thought. I need to get her out here to raise hell more often. The old lady has a surprisingly loud voice. We had two days of peace. Then, early one morning, the door was pounded on so hard the frame shook. “Cecilia Hewitt! Are you home? Open up!” I perked up. Well, lookie here. More work. 4 I got dressed and came out just as my mother-in-law was being cornered at the door. This was a bigger circus than I expected. My mother-in-law’s sister-in-law, Lorraine, the greedy sister of Gordon’s late father, had arrived with her entire family—seven people in total, with bags and suitcases. This time, they were after the house. Lorraine’s oldest son, Troy, was getting married. And these moochers had set their sights on the Hewitt’s three-bedroom faculty townhome. Lorraine swept into the living room, her eyes darting around like radar, immediately locking onto the sunny master bedroom. “This sunny room will be perfect for Troy’s honeymoon suite.” She plunked herself down on the sofa, acting like she owned the place. “Cecilia, Gordon is gone for three years. You’re all alone. It’s a waste for you to live in this huge place. That little storage room has good light; Gordon can partition the living room when he gets back.” My mother-in-law went pale, but thanks to my crash course, she managed to stutter out a weak protest. “Lorraine, this house was assigned to Gordon by the university…” “And? Isn’t he still family?” Lorraine’s eyes bulged, and she started spitting. “You’re the oldest sister, like a mother to him! How can you be so cruel? You’d really let your own nephew be a vagrant just to keep an empty room?” A huge, steaming pile of ‘disrespecting the dead’ was thrown at Cecilia. She instantly went silent, nervously rubbing the fabric of her apron. My cheap mother-in-law’s combat power was still a pathetic negative five. “What is all this shouting about?” Just then, Mr. Fitzwilliam, the Associate Dean from our complex, strutted in, hands clasped behind his back. “Ms. Hewitt, I must advise caution on issues of relative abuse and property hoarding. The Dean’s office specifically asked me to investigate this matter!” Lorraine exchanged a knowing glance with Fitzwilliam, then suddenly dropped to the floor and started wailing like a siren. “Sir! Please judge for us! The oldest brother’s family is bullying the younger brother’s family! I can’t live like this! My poor husband! Open your eyes! Your wife is abusing your brother’s family!” Neighbors, hearing the ruckus, started crowding the doorway, pointing and murmuring. Mr. Fitzwilliam stood by the door, radiating self-righteous authority. “Cecilia, I’m telling you, when relatives are in need, you help them. You’re well-off; you don’t need this extra room. Look how distraught you’ve made your sister-in-law!” Fitzwilliam dropped the official hammer, his eyes hard. “If this situation proves to be harassment, we will have to reconsider Professor Hewitt’s tenure track and promotion.” Cecilia’s resolve crumbled entirely. The future of her son—the one thing she lived for—was on the line. She rushed forward to grab Lorraine’s hand, pleading desperately. “I’ll give it to you! I’ll give you the room! Don’t ruin Gordon’s career!” Lorraine gave a cold, victorious smirk, then shoved Cecilia roughly to the floor. Troy, her lazy thug of a son, stepped up and prepared to kick Cecilia. “You old fool! If you’d just given it to us sooner!” As his foot came swinging down toward my mother-in-law, I suddenly erupted. I yanked Cecilia up and rushed, like a maniac, into the back room. A few seconds later, I sprinted back into the living room, holding a red, five-gallon Jerrycan of kerosene. I jumped onto the small stone coffee table in the center of the room, holding the can in one hand and a book of matches in the other. I screamed at the top of my lungs. “No one is leaving alive today!” My shout stunned everyone into silence. “Bullying a widow and her absent son is your idea of strength?” I yelled. “If you try to steal this house, I swear to God I will light this whole faculty complex on fire! I’ll go first!” I unscrewed the kerosene cap and pretended to pour it over my chest. “I want to see who dares to touch a single item that belongs to the Hewitt family today!”

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I was looking for a new electric toothbrush for my husband, Professor Damon Hawthorne, for Valentine’s Day. It was a mundane chore, but I still wanted it to feel like a gift. In the reviews section of a popular online retailer, I saw a comment with over ten thousand likes: “Must Buy! This electric toothbrush is incredibly durable, I haven’t charged it in six months!” Three days later, an update followed: “My sincere apologies for misleading everyone. It turns out my husband has been charging it the entire time. I’m so absent-minded; I only found out today when I pressed him for details, realizing how much he does.” “I never replace the toilet paper in the bathroom—I just think, ‘Wow, this roll lasts forever.’ Our streaming subscription never lapses, and I always assumed there was a glitch in the software. And that dry patch on my lips that suddenly disappeared? He was applying lip balm to me in my sleep.” “He’s a university professor. I always criticized him for not being ‘romantic,’ but now I understand: the one who loves you finds a way.” The comments section exploded in swooning adoration. Readers complained that Valentine’s Day hadn’t even arrived, and they were already choking on the sweetness. Under relentless demand, the original poster finally shared a photograph—a clear, handsome side profile. I clicked on it, a familiar, wistful smile on my face, but the smile froze instantly. The man in the photo was unmistakably my professor husband. Looking over at my mother-in-law, Mrs. Hawthorne, who had been paralyzed and bedridden for six years, and then considering Damon’s frequent, convenient stays on campus, a deep chill of dread ran through me. Sure enough, when I took our marriage certificate to the county clerk’s office to inquire, the attendant pointed to the raised seal. “Ma’am, your marriage license appears to be a forgery. Professor Damon Hawthorne’s record lists another woman as his spouse: Delaney Shaw.” My fingers loosened, and the shockingly red fake certificate clattered to the floor. A laugh, sharp and desolate, clawed its way out of my throat. Everyone in the academic community knew Damon Hawthorne and Delaney Shaw were not just Professor and student. She was his star pupil, his intellectual equal, the one who truly understood him. And me? I was, apparently, just the free, live-in caregiver. I stumbled home, the fake license clutched in my hand, the sickeningly familiar odor of urine and stale air hitting my nose. Mrs. Hawthorne, paralyzed for six years, needed to be changed again. I wiped her down, cleaned the bed, and disposed of the waste with the practiced indifference of six years. Then, I pulled up the online retailer again. I stared at that familiar, elegant side profile for a long time before slowly lifting my head. I looked around the house, meticulously clean, every item exactly where it should be. And I laughed. The laughter broke, turning into tears that streamed down my face. Six years. I had silently propped up this life, this house, for six years. Because of me, Damon could remain above the mess, far from his sick mother’s bedside, free to be the celebrated, detached Professor Hawthorne. Yet, he hadn’t had time for a wedding with me—not even a simple ceremony—while simultaneously playing the role of the perfect husband for someone else. And that “someone else” was Delaney Shaw, the very girl who had once called me “Mrs. Hawthorne” while clinging to my arm. I scoffed. I was about to reply to the thread—“She knew about me. Your bliss is built on a lie.”—when I saw the entire thread, photos and all, suddenly disappear. Moments later, a text arrived from Damon. The tone was all command. [Students are coming over for dinner tonight. Make sure Mom is clean and prepare a good meal. Especially your Braised Short Ribs—make extra, I need a takeout container for later.] Braised Short Ribs. If I recalled correctly, that was the dish Delaney had gushed over the last time she was here, saying it was her favorite. I had been foolishly flattered then, urging her to have seconds. The irony was crushing. I hadn’t even recognized my replacement when she was sitting at my dining table. Yet, six years ago, Damon and I were the perfect match. I was the hottest Teaching Assistant in the Literature Department, and he was the most principled, most revered academic—the high-tower intellectual. He had pursued me for four years. When we were together, he took care of every detail: the phone that never needed minutes, the feminine products that never ran out, the feeling of leaving the house with a perpetually full phone battery. When did it all change? It was the time he tried to share an analysis of 19th-century poetry, and I was frantically scheduling a specialist appointment for his mother. It was the time he wanted me to help him copy classical texts, and I was frowning while changing his mother’s adult diaper. It was the time he wanted a late-night snowy walk under the moonlight, and I was already asleep, clutching my cracked, working hands. “Willa, you simply don’t understand my world.” He’d said that to me once, his eyes full of disappointment. I hadn’t paid attention. I was too busy researching the most durable, cost-effective wheelchair for our nonexistent wedding. But now, I finally understood. He resented me for losing the poetry and romance of our dating days. Yet, he completely forgot that I was the one who resigned from a tenure-track position to carry the crushing weight of his life. The old clock on the wall was broken, only the hands still stubbornly ticking in place. The ceaseless, jarring sound made me feel utterly exhausted. Six years. I had given everything. I’d gone from a brilliant academic to a hollow-eyed, worn-out housewife. And he had never even considered me his wife. Fine. If this house was just a lie, I was done with it. Ignoring Damon’s text, I started packing. To be closer to Mrs. Hawthorne, I had moved out of the master bedroom and into the adjacent study years ago. The room held pitifully little that belonged to me. Mrs. Hawthorne’s supplies—diapers, medicine, bedding—were piled high. Damon’s things—calligraphy brushes, antique texts, his pristine writing desk—were perfectly ordered. All I had was a small, cheap dresser and a vanity. My clothes were dated. My few skincare products had long since expired. Looking in the mirror, I saw a thirty-year-old woman with a sallow complexion and a look of utter depletion. A stab of pain hit me. I had hollowed myself out for Damon. I felt a surge of shame, remembering the regret in my mentor’s eyes when I resigned. For the first time in six years, I dialed Professor Robert Eldridge. The line picked up immediately. “Willa, you finally decided to call this old fool.” I choked on my words, tears welling up. “Professor, I’m so sorry I wasted your faith in me, I was too ashamed to call, but now I want to—” “I told you, you have a place here whenever you want it. I’ll start the paperwork. You’ll be back on the faculty in three days.” “Thank you, Professor.” I hung up, my rough hands trembling around the phone. Tears of relief streamed down. I still had a way back. With a final flicker of compassion, I drafted a meticulous list of Mrs. Hawthorne’s necessities. As I pulled my suitcase toward the door, Damon walked in, followed by a handful of students. The moment they caught the smell of the room, they instinctively covered their mouths. “What is that odor? God, it stinks.” “Did a dumpster truck drive past with the window open?” Seeing Mrs. Hawthorne’s door slightly ajar, Damon immediately understood. His face flushed with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. He strode quickly into the study. “Willa Benson, I told you to clean up after Mom! How are we supposed to eat with this smell? Go change her. Now.” I looked up at him, my expression blank. “Why should I?” Damon, used to my silence and compliance, stopped dead. He stared at me, disbelievingly. “What did you just say?” “I said, why should I? Let’s be clear, Damon. She’s your mother, not mine.” “Willa, are you losing your mind—” I cut him off, reaching down for the fake marriage certificate and tossing it onto the floor. I pulled my suitcase, meeting his eyes head-on. “Yes, I was crazy when I thought I was happily marrying you. But today, I’m finally lucid. And as of now, I have nothing to do with you.” The old suitcase wheels ground a grating, broken sound across the floor—a brutal echo of the hopeful silence six years ago when I first moved in. Damon was no longer the beaming young man who had wrapped me in his arms, saying, “Welcome home.” Now, his eyes were filled with resentment. “Because I haven’t had time for a wedding, you’re going to pull this stunt in front of my students?” The room went completely still. I turned back, stunned. Even now, he dared to blame me? “Mrs. Hawthorne, Professor Hawthorne is truly very busy. If you want a ceremony, can’t you discuss it calmly? Why do you have to force his hand like this?” Delaney Shaw jumped in immediately, her voice dripping with protective sympathy for Damon. The other students quickly backed her up. “Exactly. A wedding is just a formality, why be so traditional?” “The Professor is teaching non-stop, he’s exhausted. She, on the other hand, chose to be a housewife, sitting around with his money, and she can’t even manage his mother.” “What can she even do without the Professor?” A wall of young women was suddenly judging me. They saw themselves as the vanguard of modern womanhood, and me as a dependent parasite, ripe for judgment. They had no idea. Every loaf of bread, every roll of paper towels, every item in this house had been paid for by my thriftiness. The fees for his mother’s specialized care were covered by my late-night freelance editing and grading work. Damon’s entire salary was spent on academic retreats with students, fine-art painting supplies, and, I now realized, on his life with Delaney. My knuckles turned white on the suitcase handle. Thinking of my wasted years, I gave a hollow, bitter laugh. “That’s right. Professor Hawthorne is famous for his clear conscience and noble elegance, yet he’s carrying on with his student, a known home-wrecker.” “Your mother’s mess, and yours, is filthy. As of today, I quit cleaning up after both of you.” I turned to leave, but several students blocked my path. “What are you saying? We spoke the truth, and now you’re going to spread slander?” “We’re here to study with the Professor. Why are you making it sound so ugly?” I slowly turned, my eyes cold and sharp on Damon. I felt a change—the once-brilliant, assertive academic, Willa Benson, was back. Damon’s breathing hitched. He glanced down at the crumpled fake marriage certificate. A flicker of panic crossed his face. But then he remembered my six years of obedience, and he seemed to conclude I was simply desperate and couldn’t leave him. He reached into his wallet, pulled out two hundred dollars, and tossed the bills onto the desk. “A wedding is just a catered dinner. If you’re truly that desperate, go rent a dress.” “I’m taking the students to the stone bridge to see the snow. I expect dinner to be ready and everything to be back to normal when we return.” He adjusted his thin, gold-rimmed glasses with his long, recently-softened fingers, and swept out with his entourage. The heavy front door slammed shut. The next second, I heard the sound of breaking glass from Mrs. Hawthorne’s room. I rushed in. On the floor, next to her withered hand, a pool of scarlet was rapidly spreading. I immediately called 911. As the piercing ambulance siren approached, Mrs. Hawthorne pleaded with me, her voice faint and weak. “Willa, you’re a good girl… Damon is just confused right now… Don’t let me burden you, don’t blame him, okay?” My head exploded in a searing rush of sound. The word “Mom” caught in my throat. I swallowed it, my voice trembling. “You knew? You knew he was going to marry Delaney before he did it?” Mrs. Hawthorne shut her eyes tightly, giving a barely perceptible nod. I collapsed onto the floor. My eyes fell on the simple cell phone she wore around her neck for emergencies. On impulse, I took it, unlocking it and opening the social media app. There, on an album only visible to Damon and “Family,” were photos of Damon and Delaney’s destination wedding. A snowy mountain, a wedding dress, flowers everywhere. Their hands were clasped tightly in front of a sacred altar, sweet vows lighting up the screen: “I do.” “Forever and always.” These were the vows—the exact, romantic, self-written promises—he and I had planned together. Every comment underneath was a congratulation. Including the students who had just righteously criticized me. Their words implied a single, cruel truth: The unloved one is the true mistress. They saw Damon’s deceit as charity, a desperate attempt to keep me in my role as the housekeeper I needed to survive. Domesticity and Romance. Damon had cleanly separated them. The former was mine; the latter, Delaney’s. When our mutual friends had questioned his sudden silence, he’d posted the photo of his legal marriage license with Delaney, silencing their concerns. Tears splashed onto the screen, blurring the vows. When the tears finally stopped, I looked at the woman I had spent six tireless years caring for, and I felt nothing. No anger, no sadness. Just cold detachment. I spoke the last words I would ever say to her. “I will never forgive either of you.” Her mouth twitched. She strained to whisper, “I’m sorry,” before finally losing consciousness. The paramedics arrived. A doctor rushed over with a consent form for emergency surgery. I picked up the pen, then remembered the forged marriage license. I had no right to sign this. I called Damon. “Get to St. Jude’s Hospital, now. Your mother tried to take her own life and needs emergency surgery.” Through the phone, I heard a mocking chorus of young voices. Delaney snatched the phone away, her tone sharp and undisguised. “Mrs. Hawthorne, you don’t have to lie to get the Professor to come home.” “I’m not lying.” “Then why don’t you just sign the form?” I looked at the blazing red surgery light and the anxious doctor beside me. I gave a slight, careless smile. “Believe me or don’t. But I won’t be signing anything.” “Willa Benson, you are an absolute disaster!” Damon screamed before slamming the phone down. I snorted, giving the doctor Damon’s cell phone number, and quickly downloaded the surveillance footage from Mrs. Hawthorne’s room. When the doctor called Damon, he hung up instantly and texted me: [Willa, my cold-weather painting session isn’t finished. Stop creating drama.] [Make sure the ribs are cooking. We’ll be home soon. Don’t forget the takeout container.] The message was grotesque. But I still sent a photo of the Emergency Room door, out of what little decency I had left. The response was a red exclamation point. He had blocked me. After a few more attempts, Damon eventually turned his phone off. Watching the drops of blood that led to the Emergency Room, I knew I couldn’t wait. I bypassed my old mentor and called the one person I could always count on. “Idiot, what’s the penalty for document fraud and fraudulent marriage?”

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The women in the office had a sick obsession with turning everything into a sexual rumor. If I wore a dress, it was to “seduce men.” If my employee number was eight, they whispered I was a high-end escort, “Technician Number Eight.” One colleague, a decent guy, once tried to defend me. Tara Jenkins just scoffed. “It’s just a joke, hon. Does she still want that full-time offer or not?” That was her secret weapon—holding our internships hostage. It wasn’t until the day I went to headquarters to drop off files and hitched a ride back with the Chairman that Tara finally found a rumor she could hang onto. “Hey, Andrea,” she called out, pausing just long enough for the entire floor to look up. “The man who drove you back today in that Maybach, he looked pretty old. Was that your dad?” Everyone knew I was an orphan. It was the one piece of personal information I couldn’t hide. Tara slapped her forehead, feigning a sudden, tragic recollection. “Oh, darn it! He was being so affectionate—arm around you, leaning in—I just assumed he was your father. I completely forgot you don’t have a dad. You’re not mad, are you?” A few nervous, ugly snickers rippled through the cubicles. I looked her dead in the eye, maintaining a professional smile. “Tara, do you genuinely believe he was my dad?” She covered her mouth with her hand, a practiced gesture of false apology. “Well, yeah! With all those wrinkles, anyone would think he was your dad. I’m just kidding, though! Don’t take it personally.” I wouldn’t take it personally. Not anymore. What she didn’t know was that I had a system. A gift, or maybe a curse, designed to counteract the poison of public slander. I called it the Rumor Reality System. If I was slandered exactly ninety-nine times, I could pick one, any one of those rumors, and make it irrevocably true. Since she was so generous as to try and bless me with a billionaire father, I decided I would accept her gift. … 1 I leaned forward, making my question as earnest as possible. “Tara, you truly think the man in that car was my dad?” Tara covered her mouth again, her eyes shining with malicious amusement. “Totally! An old guy like that standing next to you? Who else would he be? Though,” she paused, leaning in conspiratorially, “Maybe not a biological dad. A sugar dad, then!” She gave a high-pitched, fake laugh. “Honestly, I’m just a joker. You have to get used to it. How else are you going to survive here once you’re full-time?” There it was again. The threat of the full-time offer, the secret key she used to control all the interns. The system chimed. Rumor Count: Ninety-Six. I stayed silent, hoping my lack of reaction would make her lose interest. Please, just stop. But as I bent over my keyboard, a phone was suddenly thrust inches from my face. Tara held the phone toward me, a wide, predatory grin on her face. “Hey, guys, look at this! Our little intern here is moving up in the world. She won’t even deliver files unless it’s in a Maybach! Baller, right?” She turned the camera back toward herself and winked. “You want to know how she lives like that? Does she rely on her mom or her dad?” She gave an overly suggestive, slow blink. “Oh, right, she’s an orphan. She doesn’t rely on her parents. She relies on working hard all day, and working harder all night!” Her voice was thick with implication. I started to speak, ready to finally snap back. Tara cut me off with a sickeningly sweet, fabricated smile. “Andrea Hale, I mean you work so hard you take two jobs! How is that not sitting in a luxury car based on your own efforts?” A nearby colleague shifted uncomfortably. “Wasn’t that Maybach the Chairman’s car? I think he just gave Andrea a ride because it was on the way.” Tara immediately scoffed, rolling her eyes as she returned to scrolling through her feed. “My point exactly. Like you could ever afford to sit in a Maybach on your own.” I forced down the searing spike of rage and focused on my screen. Just then, Tara burst into loud laughter. She looked up, her expression a mask of undisguised malice. “Andrea Hale, the chat thread says someone actually recognizes you!” I frowned, confused by the new angle. “Wait a minute, I think I do too…” Tara tapped her chin. “I remember! Didn’t you used to work at that spa? What was it called… The Sapphire Room!” She snapped her fingers, certainty settling on her face. “That’s it! The Sapphire Room! I knew you looked familiar the first time I saw you.” The local colleagues immediately murmured in confusion. “The Sapphire Room? Isn’t that that high-end escort place?” Tara turned to me, gripping my hand with a false show of motherly concern. “Andrea, you need to listen to me. You can’t keep working at The Sapphire Room. This company fires people for having second jobs, especially that kind.” The looks aimed at me hardened. Pity curdled into disgust. I took a deep breath, gently pulling my hand away. “Tara, you’re absolutely right. We did meet at The Sapphire Room. I recognized you the first time I saw you, too.” Tara froze, the smile sliding off her face. “I—” I tilted my head, letting a cold smile play on my lips. “Your memory must be going, Tara. You thought I was a colleague of yours.” I leaned closer, pitching my voice just loud enough for the immediate area. “I was there with an executive meeting, and I actually booked you a couple of times when you were a ‘technician.’ Did you forget?” 2 A collective snicker, then a wave of choked-off, muffled laughter, broke out across the office. Tara shrieked in protest. “You’re lying! What kind of bulls**t is that? I’ve never been a technician!” I covered my mouth, mirroring her earlier gesture. “Oh, Tara, I’m just pulling your leg! You know, making a little joke to lighten the mood!” “You wouldn’t mind, would you?” Tara was speechless, her face crimson with fury. Ryan Cross, my boyfriend, rushed over and pulled me away. “Tara, she’s being an idiot. I’ll talk to her, I promise!” He dragged me to the side of the room. “What did I tell you? She’s a gossip, she doesn’t have a filter, but you can’t let her get to you! Does it actually hurt you to let her talk?” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound. “She just publicly implied I’m a prostitute! And I can’t respond?!” Ryan ran a hand through his hair, frustration etched on his face. “Do you know how many people are desperate to get into Summit Group? We need this full-time offer, and we have to kiss her butt to get it. Why are you picking this fight?” I kept my face cold, refusing to answer. A flicker of impatience crossed his features, quickly replaced by something meaner. “Why is it that everyone else can handle this, but you have to make a scene? You need to look at your position here. You’re not exactly irreplaceable…” I heard the last part, even though he mumbled it. You’re not exactly irreplaceable. The phrase struck me with the force of a blow. I was about to respond when the manager walked in, announcing the dates for the mandatory annual corporate physical exams. As soon as the manager finished, Ryan tried to approach me again. I ignored him, gathering my things and heading straight home. The next morning, I arrived at the clinic at the scheduled time. After completing a series of routine checks, I carried my chart to the last required stop: the pelvic examination. The doctor didn’t look up. “Andrea Hale, right? Pants off, lie down.” I hesitated. I was unmarried, and this was an invasive exam. But the doctor was impatient, so I complied. She adjusted the speculum and began the examination. “Ah!” A sharp gasp escaped me. Cold sweat immediately broke out as a jolt of pain stole my breath. The doctor froze, the instrument still inside me. “Every married woman gets this exam. Stop being so dramatic!” I stared at her, stunned, before managing to explain I was not married. “Unmarried? Why are you even here for this? Are you wasting my time?” The doctor was genuinely angry now. She pointed at the file note on her computer screen. “It says right here your company noted you have three prior marriages and are sexually active and high-risk. You’re flagged for a full workup!” I saw the highlighted, yellow-marked text on the monitor. My mind went instantly blank. The noise of my outburst drew the attention of the people waiting in line behind me. Their judgmental stares felt like physical blows. I stumbled out, my brain reeling, and didn’t stop until I burst back into the office. I slapped the notes sheet down on Tara’s desk. “How dare you tamper with my medical exam form?” Tara stifled a giggle. “Consider it a free premium wellness package upgrade! Are you happy with it?” I was shaking, my teeth grinding. “This is a criminal offense!” Everyone turned to look. Tara’s eyes immediately welled up with fake tears. “Everyone, please judge! I was worried about her health, so I upgraded her exam, and I might have accidentally checked the wrong box! She doesn’t appreciate it and is trying to blame me!” One colleague spoke up to mediate. “Andrea, everyone makes mistakes. You didn’t suffer any real damage, did you? Don’t be so unforgiving.” “Yeah, she was trying to help you. That’s a terrible way to talk to someone!” another added. Someone else shook their head. “Ungrateful much? She gets extra benefits, and she gets mad? No good deed goes unpunished.” I was vibrating with fury. “She changed my status from single to having three marriages and added a vaginal ultrasound to my required tests!” “If this had gone through today, it would have been a double assault—on my reputation and my body!” I yelled. “Who is going to be held accountable for that?!” The room grew quiet. “Well, that’s… that is a bit much.” “Tara, honestly, a young woman like that, how is she supposed to get married now?” Hearing the general disapproval, Tara’s fake tears instantly dried up. She shouted, voice dripping with self-righteousness, “I was just trying to protect all of us!” “She has syphilis! It’s contagious!” 3 The office fell into a stunned silence. When the colleagues registered what she’d said, their shock turned to immediate terror. Tara pointed at me, her voice ringing with false authority. “I’m in HR. I saw her file. The company can’t reject a candidate just because they have a communicable disease. But a dirty disease like this could spread to all of us!” “I only asked the doctor to check her thoroughly to ensure everyone’s safety! Is that wrong?” Blood rushed to my head. I stared at her, my voice a dangerous whisper. “What did you just say?” Tara pulled up a screen shot on her phone, a supposed disease confirmation. “Some people pretend to be pure college students on the surface, but who knows what kind of depraved life they lead to catch something like this!” The colleagues erupted in an angry chorus. “What the hell! No wonder she was so angry about a simple check-up! She has something to hide!” “Oh, God, I sit right next to her! I’m taking the rest of the day off to go get checked!” … The room was chaos. Tara looked at me, her eyes full of triumphant malice. I felt a profound, chilling calmness settle over me. “Tara Jenkins, I am calling the police right now. Are you ready to take responsibility for every word you just said?” A flicker of panic crossed her face. I pressed the call button, but the phone was suddenly snatched from my hand by Ryan, who had just walked in. He threw my phone hard onto the floor and started yelling. “How much longer are you going to keep this up? It was a few office jokes, and you’re going to call the police? What a drama queen!” “You clearly don’t know how to navigate basic office politics. If I wasn’t here to protect you, you’d have been fired eight hundred times by now!” The suppressed emotion of weeks finally broke. Tears poured from my eyes. “She just told the entire office I have syphilis! Am I supposed to just agree with her?!” Ryan was momentarily stunned. He dragged me out of the office. His eyes looked genuinely hurt. “Andrea, I know how hurt you are. Do you think I don’t suffer when she says those things?” “But we need that full-time offer! And my mom already hates your background. If we don’t stay at Summit Group, she’ll never let us be together.” “They announce the full-time transfer list tomorrow at the staff meeting. I’m begging you. You’ve put up with it for weeks. Can’t you just hang on for one more day?” His desperate plea didn’t soften me. It hardened me. In his eyes, my reputation, my dignity, and the profound trauma I’d just endured were utterly insignificant compared to his job promotion. My last vestige of hope for him evaporated. The system chimed. Rumor Count: Ninety-Seven. Two more. I clenched my fists, forcing myself to breathe and calm down. Given Tara’s speed, Ryan’s dream of a full-time offer was likely about to crash and burn. Seeing my silence, Ryan mistook it for surrender. He was ecstatic, pulling me into a hug. “I knew you were the reasonable one! I promise, the second I get that offer, I’ll go with you to sue her! I won’t let her hurt you again!” The next day, during the employee assembly, the interns delivered their final reports. Summit Group only granted a tiny fraction of full-time offers, and this year, only one person per team would be selected. I was awarded “Outstanding Intern” for having the highest performance scores on the team. The company had prepared gifts for every intern. The first intern received a new laptop. “Perfect! My old one just died!” he shouted excitedly. The next few received expensive designer scarves or limited-edition collectibles. Each gift was something the intern needed or specifically liked. Ryan received a pricey bespoke suit. He enthusiastically thanked Tara, who presented the gifts. When it was my turn to go on stage, everyone leaned forward, eager to see what I’d receive. “A phone? A computer?” “Andrea was the top performer, it has to be something expensive! Someone over there got a three-year car lease!” Under the gaze of hundreds of colleagues, I slowly lifted the lid of the box. Inside, resting on a bed of satin, was a vibrating dildo. 4 The entire hall erupted in a shocked murmur. I involuntarily recoiled, letting go of the box. The item clattered to the floor. “Andrea, don’t drop your gift! Handle it carefully.” Tara picked it up using two fingers, her face a mask of undisguised malice. “We appreciate your contributions to the company during your internship, Andrea. But we can’t exactly endorse the methods of contribution…” “Four settings, portable and waterproof, with current stimulation. I figured this is the kind of repair you’d need most! Don’t mention it!” Tara’s words caused an instant uproar. “Wait—what is she implying? That Andrea slept her way to her performance numbers?” “Didn’t Tara say she had a dirty disease the other day? God, it all makes sense now…” The whispers, the jeers, and Tara’s triumphant face. The system’s prompt—the ninety-eighth rumor—was irrelevant now. My blood boiled over. “What the hell are you talking about now?!” Tara just smirked at me. A sudden, terrible premonition hit me. A collective gasp swept through the audience. I turned to follow their line of sight. On the massive screen behind me, my presentation slides had been replaced. In their place was a slideshow of explicit, high-definition private photos. One after another, images flashed of my face paired with the bodies of various different men. None of the bodies were mine. My hands and feet went ice-cold. I was rooted to the spot. As soon as I realized what was happening, I lunged to shut off the projector. Tara snatched the microphone. “Intern Andrea Hale has engaged in promiscuous private conduct and has used inappropriate methods to gain contracts. Due to the severe damage Andrea’s behavior has caused to the company’s reputation…” I roared, cutting her off. “Those are not me!” Tara gave me a look of pure contempt. “I’m sorry, but we received an anonymous, sworn statement.” “Your full-time offer is rescinded immediately and will be offered to the next candidate.” I finally understood. I spun around and looked at the second-place candidate, Ryan Cross. “It was you!” Ryan’s eyes darted away. He reached out to steady me. “Just calm down—” “Calm down?! How can I calm down!” The pain, the anger, and the weeks of suppressed rage exploded. “You knew how much she was hurting me with those rumors! Why did you do this?!” Tara stepped in, playing the role of Ryan’s defender. “Andrea, why are you attacking Ryan? What man would tolerate his girlfriend cheating on him? If anything, Ryan is the victim here!” The colleagues joined the pile-on. “Tsk tsk. She sells her body, and she expected Ryan to keep it a secret?” “If I were her boyfriend, I’d charge her for emotional damages. Ryan is a saint!” The high-level executives in the room looked furious, claiming I had disgraced the company and threatening to blacklist me from the entire industry. The wave of insults made me dizzy. A mechanical voice cut through the haze. “Ding! Congratulations, Host! Tara Jenkins has spread ninety-nine rumors. You may now select one rumor to make irrevocably true. Activate?” I didn’t hesitate. Confirm. A company representative stepped forward, demanding my ID badge and telling me to leave immediately. Ryan’s expression flickered with a hint of shame, but he remained silent. Tara’s eyes narrowed, a sharp glint of triumph in them. She leaned closer and whispered, “I didn’t force him, he came to me. For you interns, if I want you to stay, you stay. If I want you gone, you have to pack your bags and crawl out!” Then, she waved an arm and summoned the two security guards. “Strip her and search her thoroughly! She isn’t allowed to leave with even a single company pen!” I fought back, pain lancing through me. “Tara Jenkins, you will regret this! I swear you will!” Tara laughed dismissively. “You? An intern? You don’t know whose turf you’re on, shouting at me like that!” “Who the hell do you think you are?” She signaled the guards to move. They surrounded me. “Stop!” The main doors burst open. An older man with a shock of white hair strode quickly toward the stage. It was Wallace King, the Chairman of Summit Group. He scanned the scene—the tear-streaked intern, the security guards, the crude image on the screen—and his face turned to thunder. “I’ll tell you who she is!” “She is my biological daughter, lost for twenty-three years, and the sole heiress to the Summit Group!”

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The instant I withdrew the divorce petition, Piper Wells, my son’s tutor, raised her glass at the cocktail gathering. “To the woman warrior who’s too strong to divorce a cheating husband!” Every eye in the room drilled into me. My husband, Spencer Blackwood, gave a faint frown, and Piper giggled, sticking out her tongue. Instead of flipping a table, which was my usual style, I smiled, knocked back the expensive bourbon, and played along. We were back together. I could pretend not to see the crude, localized tattoo—a poorly done “Lakefront Legend” on Piper’s lower back. I could ignore the whispers in our circle, the cruel nickname they’d given me: The Green Queen. I could even stomach the sight of him and Piper dropping our son off at his elementary school, posing as a unified front, as if they were Jamie’s actual parents. “I understand,” I’d said to them, a perfect mask of grace. “It’s Jamie’s birthday. There is no better gift than my absence.” This wasn’t love. It wasn’t a sudden, insane rush of devotion. It was the sudden realization that after storming out that day, after sleeping on a park bench under an overpass, the ten-year clause in my father’s mandate was only seven days from completion. I had to finish the contract. Until the deadline, I would be the dutiful wife and mother, calm, giving, and utterly silent. But now that I was playing the role perfectly, why did they look like the ones going crazy? … “The next one,” someone called out, a little too loud, “is for the man who calls out the wrong name in bed!” I gave a casual laugh, my hand steady as I refilled Spencer’s glass. The room went instantly quiet. Eyes flickered between me and Piper. “Wow, divorce did the trick. Evie’s so much more chill now.” “Some women just need to be tamed.” I didn’t dignify them with a response. Spencer turned, a flicker of something calculating—or was it curiosity?—in his eyes. “You don’t mind?” I lowered my gaze. I used to mind. The first time Piper sent me a photo of them in my bed, I’d screamed at him to fire her. He’d agreed easily enough, but that night, I’d caught him in the dark, breathing hard, holding the flimsy lace he’d supposedly thrown into the trash can hours before. Another night, I walked into our bedroom. Two clear handprints were smeared across our wedding photo on the nightstand. One on my face, one on his. I slapped Piper. Spencer didn’t stop me. He casually lit a cigarette. “Evelyn, let’s get divorced.” I agreed out of spite. Not a single word of protest or appeal followed. Looking back, he was certain. He was the most powerful litigator in Chicago. No one would dare take my case, especially not after I signed the ‘Net-Zero’ agreement he drafted. He was waiting for me to regret it, waiting for me to beg. I swirled the amber liquid in my glass. I raised an eyebrow, the smile back in place. “Why would I mind? Someone’s stepping up to take care of you and the kid. That’s a win-win, isn’t it?” Spencer’s chest visibly rose and fell. It was then I remembered—when he’d handed me the scissors to cut up all the wedding photos, he’d used the exact same rationale. He opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, Piper’s phone chimed. A voice note instantly played through the speaker: “Mommy Piper, can I sleep over tonight? Daddy definitely doesn’t want her around anymore. Why is she still back at our house?” Jamie’s young, innocent voice was brutally clear. A fresh wave of pitying, judgmental looks crashed over me. The first time Jamie had snapped at me over Piper, he’d shouted, “This is Daddy’s house! Go back to your own!” Spencer had struck him. “Jamie, your mother severed ties with her grandfather. She… she has no home to go back to.” Piper fumbled dramatically to silence the voice note, then offered a small, saccharine smile. “Evie-Sis, you’re not mad, are you? He’s just a child, he doesn’t know what he’s saying.” Spencer looked at Piper, his brow furrowed. “The boy is out of line. Can’t you even teach him basic manners?” With that, he took my arm and pulled me out. It was the first time Spencer had left a gathering with me in years. In the car, he kept glancing over. I ignored him, speaking casually into the navigation app. “Route me to the nearest florist.” Spencer’s eyes brightened, his voice softening. “You didn’t forget.” He reached out to take my hand. “Happy Anniversary, Evelyn.” I paused mid-text, looking up at him blankly. His hand, hovering between the seats, froze. After a painful second, he managed to choke out the words. “Today. It’s our eighth wedding anniversary.” I stared at my phone. Two years ago, I had booked the restaurant a month in advance, invited everyone. He’d sent a brief text: Studying with the kid. Can’t make it. I’d later seen a photo on social media of him lighting up the Chicago skyline to celebrate his thirty-day anniversary with Piper. “Don’t test me, Spencer,” I said, flatly. “You’ve never cared about these things.” His face darkened. He gave a cold laugh. “So, who are the flowers for, then?” I sighed, exhausted. “I’m going to see my mother.” His expression instantly went stone-cold. The shrill ring of his phone cut the tension. “Spencer, it’s late. Are you coming to take Piper home?” His fingers tightened around the steering wheel. “Tell her I’m going to the memorial park. It’s not on the way.” Before the engine could even turn over, Piper slammed into the space behind the car. “Spencer! Jamie ate a mango sorbet! He’s having an allergic reaction! Hurry, the hospital!” I threw my door open and sprinted back. Jamie’s face was covered in a rash, his breathing ragged. I reached to scoop him up, but Spencer subtly blocked me, pulling Jamie into his own arms. As I brushed past them, I heard my son’s voice, weak but laced with pure disgust. “Daddy would never go see that dead person with you. That’s bad luck.” My heart seized up, violently. Jamie’s first mango allergy attack was when he was three. I’d stayed by his bedside for two days straight without sleep. His little face was swollen, but he used his feverish fingers to wipe away my tears. “Mommy, don’t cry… If you cry, Jamie’s heart hurts.” He’d pointed to his chest. Since then, he hadn’t touched a single mango, all to keep me from worrying. Now, he would willingly hurt himself to validate his need for his new mother. Piper knelt down, fastening Jamie’s shoe. Spencer was wiping his face. They moved with a seamless, practiced synchronicity. The un-departed guests looked on, their gazes a mix of pity and scorn. “Don’t take it to heart, Evie. He’s sick; he’ll always gravitate toward the person who cares for him most.” “Right. Piper’s been looking after him for years. It’s natural they’re closer.” “Where are you headed? Want a ride?” I checked my phone. I’d hailed an Uber the second Piper appeared. I was done waiting to be abandoned. The suburban memorial park. I walked toward my mother’s headstone, my bouquet clutched tight, but saw several shadowy figures surrounding the plot. My stomach dropped. I rushed forward. When I got closer, the smell of copper and rot hit me. Two burly men were scrubbing thick, scarlet chicken blood onto the tombstone and the photograph! “You homewrecker! We finally found you!” “If this old woman hadn’t meddled, my father wouldn’t be a vegetable right now!” They saw me and their eyes turned vicious. I lunged to protect my mother’s portrait, but one of them grabbed me and flung me aside. “A life for a life! She’s dead, so you pay the debt!” I tried to reach for my phone to dial 911, but a heavy boot slammed into my abdomen. I crumpled, curling into a ball against the cold granite. A searing pain exploded in my belly. “We can’t reach her husband… the blood loss is too much, she might lose the baby.” The doctor’s voice was faint, drifting in and out of my consciousness. I froze. My fingers trembled as I touched my lower stomach. My phone screen was still lit up. A recent message from my father. The contract is concluded. You have paid the price for your defiance. Return now to assume your position. Leave behind what you should not keep, and take only what is yours. I had thought he meant the assets and connections. Only now did I grasp the true, cruel meaning of the last sentence. The eight wasted years. And this child, who should never have been conceived in this broken marriage. I forced my eyes open, signing the consent form for the procedure. When I woke up again, I was in a recovery room. My stomach churned. I practically tumbled off the bed, staggering into the bathroom to dry heave. Outside the door, Jamie’s cold, young voice rang out. “What are you doing here?” “I don’t need you to take care of me. Go away.” I looked out. Spencer and Jamie, the two people I had once adored, were surrounding Piper, laughing. Jamie was the one who had spotted me first. Spencer heard him and turned, clearly startled. He gave an awkward cough. Piper stood with a small, knowing smile, waiting for me to scream and demand answers, as I always had. Instead, I rubbed my temples, utterly spent, my voice flat and unfamiliar even to my own ears. “Relax. I’m just passing through.” I simply didn’t have the energy to care. I dug my nails deep into my palms, forcing myself back to the bed. I pulled a folder from under my pillow and handed it to Spencer. “Those men maliciously vandalized my mother’s grave and slandered her reputation.” I stated. “I am suing them.” Spencer took the files. When his eyes fell on the crime scene photos, his pupils constricted slightly. He knew the faces. Years ago, my father vehemently opposed my relationship with a penniless law student. I broke all ties with him, ran away from Las Vegas, and eloped with Spencer to Chicago. Only my mother visited, handing Spencer her life savings to start his practice. The year Jamie was born, a client came seeking revenge against Spencer with a knife. My mother shoved the attacker away, taking the blade herself. She never woke up. Spencer was silent for a few seconds. He finally nodded. “I’ll take the case myself. Don’t worry.” He looked at my pale face, his voice low. “The hearing is tomorrow. When we win, I’ll give you a proper wedding. Everything I owe you, I will repay, piece by piece.” I paused. A sudden, desolate laugh threatened to bubble up. The wedding I’d waited eight years for? I didn’t want it anymore. The next day, in the courtroom. The opposing counsel, all smiles and sycophantic deference, addressed me. “Mrs. Blackwood, why drag Mr. Blackwood into a petty civil matter? If you’re willing to settle, we can offer compensation…” “I don’t want compensation,” I said, coolly. “I want justice.” The lawyer grimaced and retreated. But when the judge’s gavel struck, declaring, “Insufficient evidence, plaintiff’s claim denied,” the figure I had waited for never appeared. Spencer Blackwood had stood me up, again. I watched, numb, as the defendant rushed out, scattering flyers—white paper covered in vile slander against my mother. I bit down on my lip until I tasted blood. I distinctly heard him lower his voice to a co-conspirator: “Lawyer Blackwood didn’t show up, just as Ms. Wells predicted three years ago. When the old woman blocked the knife, she shoved my father, and he intentionally fell onto that rebar.” “He’s a vegetable, but Ms. Wells paid us a huge sum.” “When she becomes Mrs. Blackwood, the perks will be even better.” My head exploded. A deliberate act. I ran out, spotting Spencer emerging from an adjacent courtroom. I lunged at him, grabbing his collar, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Why, Spencer?! Why didn’t you come?!” His breath hitched as he met my raw, desperate gaze. The next second, Jamie barreled into me, pushing me away violently. “Go away! Don’t touch Daddy!” “Ms. Piper took me to the bookstore this morning, and they overcharged her two dollars and fifty cents! We were here to get justice for Ms. Piper!” Two dollars and fifty cents. I stood there, frozen, my blood turning to ice. Piper stepped in front of Spencer. “Evie-Sis, calm down! Your mother… she did push someone, didn’t she? That’s what started it.” I lost control. I slapped the failed court verdict, the damning piece of paper, hard across her face! Pages scattered. Jamie immediately shielded Piper, glaring at me with pure hatred. Spencer’s brow locked down, the air pressure around him plummeting. “Evelyn,” his voice was arctic. “Stop it.” “Your mother is dead.” He paused. “The dead don’t matter as much as the living.” The sentence was a razor-sharp blade, slashing through my last vestige of hope. I laughed, the sound mingling with cold, streaming tears. I shrieked, fighting with every ounce of strength left in me. “My mother’s death wasn’t an accident! It was Piper! She hired those men for revenge, she killed my mother!” Spencer visibly stumbled backward, then let out a derisive, hollow laugh. “Hah. Evelyn, the act is over? You finally couldn’t keep up the pretense of being the magnanimous wife?” “You’re trying to use every trick in the book to drive Piper away, just like you always have!” He looked down at me. “Admit it, you care. You’re consumed with jealousy.” I clutched his sleeve. “Please, Spencer. Just check again! Just once! Tomorrow, the day after, whenever you can! I can find the evidence! Piper is the killer!” Spencer’s eyes softened momentarily. He reached to pull me up. Piper rose gracefully, leaning weakly on the stair rail. “Evie-Sis, I love Spencer, and I love Jamie. I’d give them everything.” Her voice was fragile. “But I know I’m not worthy. I only ever wanted to be there for them silently… If my presence is truly intolerable, I’ll resign immediately!” She reached for my hand. I jerked away. “Don’t touch me. You’re disgusting.” Spencer’s eyes hardened. He let out a cold chuckle. “Evelyn, you’ve been with me since you were sixteen. How clean can you possibly be?” The words carved a void in my chest. I felt a freezing, desolate wind rush through the empty space. Seeing my scarlet eyes, Spencer instantly softened his tone. “That’s not what I meant…” He frowned. “You look terrible. Our wedding is coming up. I’ll hire the best nutritionist to get you in shape.” A flash of venom crossed Piper’s eyes. She stepped forward, pulling a small porcelain urn from her bag. “Oh, Evie-Sis, speaking of that, thanks to you, I got a little Goat’s milk powders to help me recover.” My gaze fell on the urn. I froze. Buried in the white powder, a tiny ring glimmered—the delicate eternity band I had hand-engraved and placed in my mother’s cremation urn years ago! Piper leaned close to my ear, her voice a chilling whisper. “Evie-Sis, your mom’s grave got a little dirty, so I had her moved for a breather.” She smiled triumphantly. “She walked in on Spencer and me. She was going to tell you, so I had her removed. You wanted the killer? You are the cause of her death.” “AAAAH—!” I screamed, lunging for the urn! Piper suddenly seemed to lose her footing and tumbled backward down the steps. “Ms. Piper!” Jamie’s small figure flew forward, trying to break her fall. The porcelain urn slipped from Piper’s hand and shattered on the marble floor. My knees buckled. I fell to the ground, surrounded by powder and glittering fragments. The next second, a powerful kick sent me sprawling. “Evelyn, are you insane?!” Spencer’s forehead was veined with fury. “You have to fight for everything? Even some damned Goat’s milk powders that Piper wanted?” I laughed through my tears. Jamie stood up, shouting for all the surrounding onlookers to hear. “I want to cut ties with you! I don’t want this crazy woman as my mother!” Spencer took a deep, shaky breath. “Aggravated assault.” He stated into his phone, his voice a block of ice. “Three days, then I’ll pick you up.” “Go in there and reflect on what you’ve done. The wedding… we’ll talk once you’ve figured things out.” The three of them walked away, journalists flocking to their heels, leaving me alone in the shattered glass and powder. That night, Spencer couldn’t shake the image of Evelyn’s last look—hollow, utterly lifeless. A strange, cold dread crept into him. He finally picked up his phone. “Hello, Detective Lee? Can you arrange a visit? I’d like to see Evelyn Benjamin tomorrow.” A few seconds of silence on the other end. “Evelyn? Lawyer Blackwood, your wife was put into the transport vehicle, but she never made it to the precinct. She was intercepted halfway by the Benjamin family with formal bail documents.” “Wait… you didn’t know?”

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It was the fifth year of my estrangement when I found myself serving a table of familiar faces. I carried the pre-ordered cake onto the dining table, and the moment I stepped inside, the family of three froze. Without a flicker of emotion, I finished the chorus of “Happy Birthday,” then turned to close the door discreetly. But the daughter chased me out, a slice of cake on a plate held out toward me. “Mom wanted me to give this to you,” she said, her voice shaking slightly. “It’s your birthday today too.” “They talk about you all the time, Lena,” she continued, her eyes growing red. “They’re getting old. Please, come home, okay?” I shook my head, my expression polite and distant. The next second, the plate exploded against my chest. Dr. Evelyn Ruth, the famed child psychologist, had stormed out of the room, her voice a raw, furious shout. “What did we ever do to you to make you hate us this much, Lena?! What did we take from you?” I stood there, silently watching the woman who was my identical twin sister. I thought about it for a moment. It was probably because she was named Stella. And I was named Lena. 1 The commotion in the hallway was loud. When my biological parents rushed out, their gaze went straight to Stella. “Stella, are you all right? Oh, sweetheart, don’t get upset.” Evelyn, the ever-emotional mother, pulled a trembling Stella into a hug, her eyes welling up. I quietly pulled a handful of paper towels from my apron to wipe the cream off my uniform. Habitually, I said nothing. My father, Victor Ruth, who had swallowed his immediate outrage, suddenly exploded at the sight of my silent clean-up. “Lena! That’s your mother! Your sister! What is that look on your face? You disappear for five years without a word, and the first time we see you, this is your power play?” Hearing that name, the one I detested from the core of my being, after five years, still made my stomach turn. My breath hitched, but when I looked up, I was wearing the uniform, professional smile. “Excuse me, sir, but the name tag reads Lena Maris.” “If you don’t require anything else, I’ll step out to change my clothes now, so as not to ruin your dining experience.” Five years surviving on my own in the city had taught me that righteousness was a luxury. I finished my speech smoothly and turned to leave. The three of them stood frozen behind me. I imagined they couldn’t reconcile the hysterical, destructive girl who walked away eight years ago with the polite, guarded woman standing before them now. … It was well after midnight when I finished my shift. As I walked toward the bus stop, a car slowly pulled up beside me. The window slid down, revealing Evelyn’s cautious, anxious face. “It’s too late. Let me drive you.” As if afraid I would refuse, she added quickly, “It’s just me, sweetie. Can your mother just give you a ride home?” The streetlights flickered in her eyes, making her eagerness look like something I should feel sorry for. It was a familiar look. Dr. Evelyn Ruth, the celebrated child psychologist, was still so confident. She believed that her personal charm alone could persuade me to return. I’d seen this trick since I was a child. But I wasn’t a child anymore. “I’m fine, thank you. My friend will be here any minute.” She seemed surprised to be dismissed, but she stubbornly refused to drive away. I knew she thought I was making an excuse. I didn’t bother to explain. There was no need. 2 When Evelyn first became pregnant, she was certain she was having a girl. She settled on the name “Stella” early on—meaning “star,” brilliant and bright. She was at the height of her career, having seen too many miserable families, and she swore she would give her child a brilliant life. Unfortunately, she had twins. And she hemorrhaged during the delivery, nearly dying. Lying in the hospital bed, weak and depleted, her eyes held a shocking resentment. “One can be Stella, and the other can be Lena,” she’d spat out. “She’s just an extra. If it weren’t for her, I wouldn’t have almost died!” Born second, I carried the burden of nearly killing my mother before I’d even opened my eyes. In the years that followed, I was always the one who was forgotten. For the busy Dr. Ruth, just managing one child was overwhelming; the other was to be handled with perfunctory neglect. As a result, Stella would often take my food, knowing that since we looked alike, no one would notice or care. One night, I was so hungry I crept into the kitchen. I knew there was half a cup of yogurt left in the fridge. Stella hadn’t been able to finish her portion after stealing and eating mine that day, and she’d pleaded with Evelyn to save it for the morning. “Mom, this is Stella’s portion. You can’t give it to Lena.” She’d stressed the point repeatedly. I remember staring up at Evelyn, wanting to expose the lie. But before I could speak, I was impatiently cut off: “Lena, we agreed you and your sister each get one. You cannot steal your sister’s!” But I was truly starving. Too hungry to sleep. I’ll just taste it, I thought. No one will know. I held the small plastic cup, dipped a finger into the creamy white yogurt, and licked it. It tasted wonderful. The next second, Stella, who had followed me, found me. The ensuing scream brought the house to life. I stared at the yogurt spilled across the kitchen tiles, paralyzed with shock and confusion. “Lena! You’re stealing even when you’re this young? Didn’t I tell you that was Stella’s? Are you truly that greedy?” Evelyn held a sobbing, shaking Stella, her eyes filled with only pity for my twin. Stella spoke up again, drawing out the accusations: “M-Mommy, she takes my snacks all the time…” No, she takes mine! “And at lunchtime, she threw away the steak you made because she didn’t like it, and wouldn’t let me have it…” No, you hated it, and you wouldn’t let me eat it either! Evelyn stroked Stella’s hair, her gaze full of protective tenderness. I panicked. “It’s not true, Mom! It’s not what she said!” I tried to defend myself, but I was clumsy with words, only managing frantic repetitions of “It wasn’t me,” and “I didn’t steal.” “Lena, you truly live up to your name. Rotten from the inside out. How did I raise such a toxic, flawed person?” Beep. The sound pulled me from the memory. Harper, my friend, had arrived on her little moped. I was about to climb onto the back seat when Evelyn surprisingly stepped out of her car. “Lena, you… you’d rather ride on that raggedy little thing than in your mother’s car? It’s cold tonight. Why do you have to be so difficult?” She reached out to grab me. My response was to jerk my arm away without hesitation. “Dr. Ruth,” I still used her professional title, keeping a wall between us. “Isn’t everything I am today your creation?” 3 Years of neglect and false accusations made my personality highly sensitive and quick to anger. I was the exact opposite of Stella, who was an A-student, cheerful, and the perfect example of Dr. Ruth’s parenting expertise. “Mr. and Mrs. Ruth, we called you in today regarding Lena’s bullying. She put an allergen in another student’s cup, and the student is currently hospitalized.” “The school has zero tolerance for bullying. We have decided to expel Lena Maris.” I was completely bewildered when I first heard the news. While I wasn’t a stellar student and rarely spoke to anyone, I lived by a code: don’t mess with me, and I won’t mess with you. I didn’t even know the so-called victim. It was Stella. It had to be. She’d used our identical faces to do something malicious and frame me for it. Half of my bad reputation was thanks to her. For the usual slights and gossip, I never bothered to explain. But I didn’t want to be expelled. “Stella brought a bag of peanuts from home this morning. I didn’t do it.” I looked steadily at the two people I didn’t want to acknowledge as my parents. As the words left my mouth, I realized my palms were slick with nervous sweat. I deliberately lifted my chin, meeting their gaze head-on. “It wasn’t me, it was Stella. She was jealous the victim beat her for the top spot last term.” Their faces darkened. My father scoffed first. “Look at the daughter you’ve raised! You, a renowned child psychologist, can’t even manage your own kids!” He turned and walked out, abandoning the mess, as he always did. Evelyn hated when anyone questioned her career, her proudest achievement. She whirled and slapped me across the face, calling me her “failure.” “Stella is always top of her class, why would she be jealous? Lena, you are beyond saving. You would actually try to drag your sister down with you!” I was forcibly withdrawn from school. Confined to the house, I eventually developed severe Bipolar Disorder. Most days, I just lay in bed, staring blankly, letting time slip by. Forgetting to eat for an entire day was common. My family treated me like a ghost, only checking in to ensure I was still breathing. To them, my lack of energy for trouble was a blessing. I turned on the TV, and it was Dr. Ruth’s interview. The reporter asked her, “How do you view the growing mental health crisis among modern adolescents?” On screen, Evelyn looked far warmer and kinder than she ever did with me. She smiled and said, “A child’s mental health issues often stem from parental neglect. We must start with the parents, building a bridge of communication…” “With a mother like you, your children must be exceptional.” The reporter gushed. Evelyn nodded in response. “Yes, I have one exceptional daughter. Her name is—” “Stella.” 4 I smashed the TV. To them, it was just another one of my episodes. Evelyn didn’t even spare me a glance. I stood barefoot in the wreckage. My feet were cut and bloody. From that day on, I began my campaign of reckless self-sabotage. Evelyn didn’t want to acknowledge me? I would claw and bite to prove my existence. I stayed out all night. I started drinking, smoking, and hanging out in the grimiest parts of the city. I was inflicting a thousand cuts on them, even if it meant eight hundred on myself. I felt no joy, only a desperate need to inflict pain on both of us. I found myself back in a dimly lit, sticky-floored Arcade and Pizza Joint. I sat down at a computer, just staring for hours. I didn’t want to play; I just needed two hours to soak up enough cigarette and stale beer smell to thoroughly annoy Evelyn when I got home. But that day, I met Silas Graham. The only piece of light in my dark, messy existence. When I saw him sheepishly walk into the grubby place, I was in disbelief. This was the kind of place Evelyn called a “den of delinquency.” I never expected to see Silas, the national Math Olympiad prodigy, here. Logically, a failure like me should never have crossed paths with Silas. But he was the one person Stella both envied and admired. She was the perennial class president and top student, but only because Silas focused on competitions and skipped school exams. She hated the insinuation that once Silas returned, she’d lose her rank. Hearing her complaints, I’d pieced together an image of a flawless genius. The boy standing in front of me—clumsy, embarrassed, and fumbling to even find the computer’s power button—was nothing like that image. I leaned over and pressed the start button for him. “Thanks,” he whispered, smiling shyly. After that, I’d find Silas in the same spot, almost every Friday afternoon. We gradually became acquaintances. He told me his parents were extremely strict, and he only had two short hours on Friday afternoons for himself. “I hate the competitions. It’s boring and exhausting. But my parents sacrificed so much to push me forward, so I have to keep going. I just sneak away to decompress a bit.” “Lena Maris, promise you won’t tell anyone.” I didn’t give him my real, despised name. “Lena” was bad enough; I didn’t want him to ever speak the word “rotten.” I had often wondered why Evelyn hadn’t chosen a name like “Maris” (meaning “of the sea,” vast, open) instead of “Lena.” Then I could have been Lena Maris, and Stella could have been the “rotten” one. Silas and I would play games online together. He’d tell me the school gossip, even though I’d been gone for months. Sometimes he’d bring me snacks—a pastry, a candy bar, a yogurt. The first time I drank the yogurt he gave me, I burst into tears. “What’s wrong? Is it bad? I won’t bring that flavor again.” He frantically wiped my tears, looking mortified. I let myself sink into the feeling of being worried over, and I smiled through my wet, sparkling eyes. “It’s my first time having this,” I confessed. “It’s so good, I’m crying because it’s the best thing I’ve ever tasted!” We became inseparable friends, our distance shrinking. My Bipolar symptoms lessened. Things were finally getting better. One day, in the middle of a noisy online game, a guy next to us got too excited and slammed his plastic cup down, startling me. When I gathered my wits, I realized Silas had pulled me into his arms, shielding me. In the tight embrace, I looked up, and he was looking down. “Are you okay? Did it scare you?” I shook my head. Our breaths mingled, and my face instantly turned scarlet. Silas froze, then pulled away, looking equally embarrassed. We went back to the game, but neither of us could focus. Then, his little finger hooked mine. I turned to look at his sweet, anxious face. “Maris,” he said. “Let’s be together.” I was so overwhelmed by surprise and joy that my cheeks burned, and I couldn’t find the words. Silas instantly looked regretful. “Wait, that was terrible. I should have given you a proper confession.” I remember telling him it was fine, just to give me a proper one later. But years later, in the deep of the night, I would always wake up crying, whispering: “Don’t be with me.” I will only hurt you. 5 My fiercely proud mother, Evelyn, eventually gave up after my repeated rejections. I followed Harper back to her small shared apartment. It was tiny but incredibly cozy. After a quick shower, I lay in bed, going through the motions of opening and closing my eyes, until finally, I reached for the pill bottle in the drawer. I hadn’t had insomnia for a long time. The demanding reality of my new life, coupled with the deliberate repression of my past, meant I hadn’t needed medication in months. But they had shattered the fragile peace I’d constructed. That night, I had the nightmare again. After Silas confessed, he promised to plan a formal proposal. I was ecstatic, but I knew I had to keep it a secret from Evelyn. Despite my best efforts, Stella somehow figured it out. When I finally realized my phone was missing, it had been gone for nine hours. It reappeared in Stella’s hand. She waved it triumphantly. “I rejected him for you,” she announced. “Lena, how do you even know Silas Graham? You must have used my name to get close to him.” “Honestly, I don’t know what he was thinking, asking you out. It’s hilarious. What do you have that I don’t?” I saw undisguised jealousy and malice in her eyes. “Silas is my academic rival. I don’t want a boyfriend like that. Since you used my looks to get to him, I, as the big sister, had to clean up your mess.” “Don’t worry, I was very clear. He definitely won’t confuse us anymore.” I watched Stella ramble on, her identical face a grotesque mirror. But for the first time, I felt a desperate urge to tear that face apart. I frantically texted Silas. No reply. I called. It went straight to voicemail. Ignoring Stella’s attempts to stop me, I threw on a jacket and ran out. The night was cold, and the wind stung my face. I had only one thought: I needed to find Silas and explain. But as I rushed to our agreed-upon meeting spot, I heard the shrieking wail of police sirens. A few people were walking away from the direction of the sound, shaking their heads in sorrow. “Such a good kid…” A scaffolding at a construction site had collapsed. Silas, unable to react quickly enough, was crushed. The police said surveillance showed Silas could have dodged the debris, but he seemed distracted, completely oblivious to the danger. I screamed and pushed through the crowd, seeing the long yellow tape and Silas lying on the ground, his eyes closed. A pool of dark blood spread out from beneath him. I’d never seen so much blood. It felt like it was going to drown me. I dragged my numb, heavy feet home. Stella saw my face and let out a light, mocking laugh. “Serves him right,” she sneered, her eyes haughty. “Don’t reach for things that are above you.” I don’t know what snapped, but I grabbed a glass and smashed it, picking up a shard and slashing her face. “Why, Stella? Why did you have to destroy everything I had!” Stella screamed and stumbled back, clutching her bleeding cheek. My own palm was sliced open, but I didn’t feel the pain. Evelyn rushed in and started hitting and kicking me, shielding Stella. I didn’t react. Not until Silas’s parents showed up at the door. “You ruined my son! My brilliant son! It must have been you who corrupted him!” Silas’s mother grabbed my collar, desperately shaking me, demanding I give her son back. My father, Victor, sighed heavily, still standing aside. But Evelyn, my mother, joined the chorus of condemnation. A single tear rolled down my otherwise blank face. My stubborn spine slowly gave way. I knelt before Silas’s parents and bowed my head to the floor, once, then again. If Silas hadn’t met me, if I hadn’t been so foolish as to press the power button for him, he would still be the brilliant young man he was. My very existence was a mistake. I shouldn’t have dragged him into my mud. 6 When I woke up, the daylight was blinding. Sweat drenched my skin. I fumbled for my phone and found a slew of blocked numbers. I mechanically added the new unfamiliar numbers to the block list, got ready, and headed to work. I hadn’t expected to run into Evelyn again. She was waiting for me. “Maris. Lena Maris. Is that your new name? It’s lovely.” I stepped away from her, keeping my distance. Business-like, I replied, “Ma’am, please don’t interfere with my work.” Evelyn dropped her hand in a gesture of loss. But then the owner of the restaurant walked over. “Lena, we have enough staff today. Take a break. Talk to your mother. What’s an old grudge between mother and daughter?” She was right. At first, it was just disappointment—accepting the fact that she didn’t love me, which wasn’t quite hate. But later, she made it impossible for me not to hate her. I was standing on the roof of the building, ready to end my ridiculous life, when Evelyn appeared. She told the rescue personnel to stand back, not to provoke me, adding that she was a child psychologist and could talk me down. Then, she said the words I had always longed for. She apologized for neglecting me. She said she’d had postpartum depression; it wasn’t that she didn’t love me. But I no longer cared about any of that. Until she mentioned Silas. My heart lurched. “The boy… he’s been brought back from the brink. He survived…” I scrambled off the ledge in a burst of hope, grabbing Evelyn, demanding she take me to him. Instead, she slapped me. “Are you insane? I raised you for all these years, and this is what you turn into? You are a failure, Lena. You are rotten to the core!” I never saw Silas. Instead, I was committed directly to a psychiatric hospital. It was there I learned the full truth. Silas had indeed survived, but he was a living ghost—a vegetable who might never wake up. His parents were preparing a lawsuit to seek justice for their son. “Evelyn,” I heard my father argue, “I’ll give them a huge settlement. Stella was the one who was wrong. Why send Lena to the hospital?” Evelyn’s voice was hard, resolute: “So what if Stella did it? Lena was the one who led him astray. I’ve already ruined one daughter; I won’t ruin the other!” “Only by keeping Lena locked away can I ensure she doesn’t ruin Stella’s future.” No one knows what my three years in that institution were like. It was a place where even a healthy person would be tortured into illness. When I was finally released, the name “Lena” vanished into the world. Meeting them again five years later, I realized the shadows never truly faded. “Dr. Ruth, we have nothing to talk about.” I looked at the silver streaks in her hair, cold and detached. Evelyn anxiously tried to stop me from leaving. “Maris. That boy—Silas. He woke up.”

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The diagnosis was cancer. Testicular cancer. The surgery—a radical orchiectomy—was performed by my own mother, Diana Westcott, the Chief of Surgery at Veridian City’s most prestigious hospital. I was barely out of the anesthesia when I heard the low voices of the assistant surgeon and a nurse. “Professor Westcott actually went through with it, tricking her own son just to appease the little foster darling.” “I know, right? And his wife, Blair, authorized it. They say he’s completely gutted now, missing two key parts. He’s ruined.” My body seized in a cold tremor. The first thing I did when I could move was try to crawl up and demand an explanation. My wife, Blair Kincaid, didn’t even flinch. She was tucked against Jude Ashton, her foster son, and the smile she gave me was utterly ruthless. “What’s wrong, Cal? You spent years mocking Jude for being frail and sickly. It’s about time you learned a lesson, don’t you think?” I stumbled forward, only to be shoved back onto the surgical table by my own mother. “Stop this nonsense, Calvin!” Diana’s voice was sharp with annoyance. “Jude’s story is heartbreaking. You have everything. Losing two small organs is a negligible price to pay for what you have.” My son, Brooks, the genius I’d raised, chimed in with a chillingly casual tone. “Seriously, Dad. Looking at you now, it’s about time you just let Mom go.” It was then, in that moment of absolute, soul-crushing betrayal, that the system—my long-dormant link to my real life—flickered back online. [Host, your Redemption Quest has been confirmed as complete. Do you wish to immediately initiate soul-return to your original world?] A slow, profoundly relieved smile stretched across my face. If this deep, all-consuming act of devotion and rescue was a lie from the very beginning, why should I care what happens to them? I hit the confirmation button instantly. The system’s cold, metallic voice was the sweetest sound I’d ever heard. [Soul-return confirmed. Upon your physical demise, everyone in this fictional world will be erased in three days. Initiating exit portal. Award: $700 Million USD plus permanent health confirmation in the original world.] … Hearing the reward, my heart was flooded with pure, ecstatic anticipation. Home. I staggered to my feet, the simple act of walking sending agonizing, post-surgical pain shooting through my body. I made for the window. I looked out at the glittering skyline of Veridian City. Millions of lights, yet not a single one had ever shone for me. That thought alone made me quicken my pace. A mocking voice sliced through the silence. I turned my head. It was my son, Brooks. “Dad, you should be resting. Why are you climbing up there?” He folded his arms, unimpressed. “You’re not an actor. Who are you putting on this dramatic ‘I’m going to end it all’ performance for?” “A performance?” I stared deeply into his face, searching for any flicker of genuine emotion. “Tell me, Brooks, who was really performing for whom?” His reply was effortless. “This is hardly a trick. It was a simple misdiagnosis by Grandma. You don’t have cancer, so you’re not going to die. You can stay right here with us. Isn’t that great news?” Oh, right. I was supposed to be celebrating the dismantling of the life I’d built. I turned back to the window. The night wind was a sharp, biting chill. I had stepped onto that surgical table to live. I was stepping onto this ledge to die and truly live again. Without hesitation, I leaned out, ready to fall. But the relief of the drop never came. Brooks had pressed the emergency call button and was now dragging me back, his teenage grip surprisingly strong. “Dad! What are you doing? Hold on to me!” “Let go,” I rasped, the word tearing out of my throat. Brooks clenched his jaw, veins popping in his neck. “I won’t!” “Dad, they’re just body parts. It’s not a big deal. Mom said she’d never abandon you, no matter what.” I was sick of their calculated lies. I thrashed my arms, trying to shake him off. His eyes went red with panic, and he pleaded through a sob, “Can you really bear to leave me, Dad? To die alone?” I looked up at the boy I had raised with my own hands. The terror in his eyes looked convincingly genuine. I yanked hard. My gaze was ice. “If you can’t bear to let me go, then come down and join me.” I pulled with all my strength, twisting his body outward. The blood drained from his face. He finally released his grip, his strength completely failing him. He was truly scared. I felt my body slowly slipping down, and just as I thought freedom was mine, a powerful force yanked me back. Security guards and nurses had rushed in, surrounding me. Damn it. I was one step too slow. Torn from the window, I collapsed on the bed, exhausted. Brooks was hysterical, shaking and weeping. Before I could fully process the failure, Blair burst into the room. She pushed through the crowd, stopping right beside me. Smack. The sound echoed. My head snapped to the side. “Are you insane, Cal?” Her eyes were bloodshot. She grabbed my collar, her face inches from mine. “Brooks is our flesh and blood! You tried to drag him to his death just to prove a point?! Calvin Westcott, how long are you going to keep this up? Do you have no heart at all?” I choked on the bitter irony of her question and let out a single, cold laugh. I have no heart? Who told me I had cancer? Who put me through pointless chemotherapy when I was perfectly healthy? Who ordered my body to be mutilated, all under the guise of treatment, just to appease the fragile feelings of her foster son? I managed a pained, hollow smile, looking at my own body, weakened and ravaged by unnecessary procedures. But I was too tired to explain. I simply didn’t care anymore. My silence seemed to fuel Blair’s impatience. She ordered the guards to lift me. “If you don’t want to be in this hospital, then you’re coming home with me!” Numbly, I allowed myself to be dragged and shoved into the car. Only one thought remained: I had to find a chance to completely escape this world. The lights of Veridian City flew by. The urban warmth was palpable, yet there was no place for me in that life. As the car sped up a desolate hillside road, I suddenly reached for the door handle. “Are you trying to get yourself killed?!” Blair roared, grabbing my arm. The driver swerved violently, the sedan carving a sickening arc on the road. I put all my remaining strength into pushing the door open. A blast of icy air flooded the car. Without a second thought, I pushed my weak body out. Just as I was about to tumble onto the asphalt, Blair, fueled by a terrifying, primal strength, yanked me back and pinned me down. The car, completely out of control, slammed violently into the mountainside guardrail. The impact threw us forward. Blair’s forehead hit the dashboard, and blood immediately streamed down her face. She fixed me with an icy, contained rage. “You want to die that badly?” I looked at her, my answer firm. “Yes.” She opened her mouth to say something else, but the acrid smell of gasoline hit our nostrils. Blair’s face paled. She looked for the driver, who had already abandoned the vehicle and fled. Panicked, she ignored the cut on her head and fought to pull me out. I had no survival instinct left, even hoping the flames would arrive sooner. “Just go. Leave me.” She didn’t hear me. She was frantically wrestling with the seat mechanism that had trapped my legs. When she finally pulled me free, her fingers were bloody, but she didn’t seem to feel the pain. She dragged my dead weight out of the wreck. The instant we cleared the car, there was a deafening explosion. A monstrous column of fire swallowed the expensive German sedan. The heat washed over us. Blair gasped for air, her eyes blazing red. “Let me tell you something, Calvin Westcott, and listen carefully.” “You do not get to die without my permission!” The scene was a chilling echo of years ago, when we were trapped in a blazing warehouse after a clash with a rival syndicate. I had taken a bullet for her, collapsing at her feet. Back then, she had cried and said: “Cal, hold on. I’m here. I won’t let you die.” I lived by that promise. I bled and fought for her, carving a path out of the shadows and using the full power of the Westcott name to help her become the unrivaled queen of Veridian City’s underworld and high society. Now, the same scenario only filled me with sickening irony. I don’t remember how I got back to the penthouse suite. As soon as we walked in, the warm, jovial atmosphere hit me—a stark contrast to my own frozen state. Jude Ashton was there, blowing on a bowl of artisanal bone broth. My mother, Diana, hovered behind him, her eyes full of doting concern. “Slow down, Jude. Don’t burn yourself.” “You’re too thin, sweetheart. You need to gain some weight.” Seeing us, particularly Blair, covered in blood and soot, Jude rushed over. “Blair, what happened? You’re hurt!” He glanced at me—a quick look of contempt, which he instantly softened into pity. “It must be Cal. Don’t be too hard on him. He probably can’t accept… the reality of his condition. We need to be compassionate.” I couldn’t stop myself. I lunged and landed a solid punch on his jaw. “Shut up! What right do you have to stand there and play the saint?” Jude stumbled back, shock and pain evident in his eyes. Almost simultaneously, my mother threw herself forward, slapping me hard, and pulling Jude protectively behind her. “Enough!” she shrieked. “Look at you! You’re supposed to be the heir to the Westcott name. We indulged you too much, and now you think you can terrorize Jude! A simple orchiectomy was meant to teach you discipline. Instead, you throw a suicidal tantrum!” I stared at her, the woman who had once loved me fiercely, and asked the question that killed my last ounce of hope. “Is this why you lied about my having a fatal illness? To put me through that just for him?” She didn’t answer. Guilt? No, maybe just a twisted sense of righteousness. When I entered this world, Diana was a grieving widow, constantly fighting off rivals who wanted to seize my father’s empire. The System sent me to ‘redeem’ her. For a long time, we were each other’s salvation. I had even considered giving up my mission to stay. But the moment I brought in Jude—the poor, smart medical student I’d sponsored—everyone around me turned. My slightest criticism of Jude was instantly interpreted as abuse or jealousy. They would willingly see me crippled and hurt just to appease him. I let out a bitter laugh and reached for the silver letter opener on the coffee table. I failed again. Blair reacted like lightning, snatching the opener away. “Calvin Westcott, are you addicted to using death as a bargaining chip?” Her tone was frigid. She jammed the point of the opener back into my hand, pressing it against her own chest. “If you want to die, you have to kill me first! Go on. Do it! I dare you!” I released the opener, my arm falling uselessly to my side. “Why, Blair? Why do this?” She stared at me, stubbornly defiant. “Cal, I know you still care about me. Just stop antagonizing Jude. Even if you can’t… be a man in the traditional sense, you will always be my husband.” The air thickened with silent contempt. In the next second, my mother stepped forward and yanked the heavy, engraved signet ring—the heirloom symbolizing the Westcott inheritance—from my finger. Her eyes were filled with cold disappointment. “In this state, you are utterly unfit to be the Westcott heir.” The words that followed were the final nail in the coffin. “When you and your father were in that accident, I had to choose who lived. If I had known you would become this soft, suicidal man, I never should have saved you.” My heart didn’t just break; it dissolved. Lying on the cold marble floor, I laughed until tears streamed down my face. Right in front of me, Diana placed the signet ring into Jude’s hand. That night, I was locked away in the panic room—the reinforced cellar—to prevent any further attempts at escape or death. Jude used “psychological therapy” as an excuse to gain unrestricted access to me. “Jude, Cal’s very unstable right now. You’re a doctor. I’m relying on you to keep him calm,” Blair said, massaging her temples, relieved to pass off the responsibility. But she didn’t see the veneer drop the moment the heavy steel door closed. Jude kicked me, aiming for the area of my recent surgery, forcing me to look at him. “You know what, Calvin? I always hated that arrogant, high-and-mighty look on your face.” He leaned closer, his voice a mocking whisper. “Now, you’re not even a man. What gives you the right to compete with me anymore?” I struggled weakly. He simply chuckled and plunged a cold needle into my arm. “Don’t worry, big brother. You want to die, but I won’t let you. I will keep you alive. And I will make you so weak, you’ll live under my shadow like a perfectly obedient dog.” I lost track of how many days passed. Then, Brooks crept in, holding a takeout container of artisanal soup, his eyes widening at the sight of my skeletal, wasted body. Perhaps the sight of my living death finally triggered some guilt. His eyes were red. He clumsily spooned the soup to my lips. “Dad… please, just eat something.” I turned my head away from the spoon, only able to manage a faint, broken whisper. “… just let me die…” Brooks’s hand, holding the spoon, trembled violently. My refusal felt like a personal insult to him. His face instantly contorted with anger. “Always this! You use this hunger strike to make us suffer! To make Mom and me feel guilty, right?” I closed my eyes, trying to block out the flood of memories: his face when he slept, the contented expression; tossing him up and down while he squealed, “Daddy is Superman!” I relinquished it all. I didn’t want any of it. After a long silence, I squeezed a single word from my throat. “Get out.” Brooks’s tears finally spilled over. He spun around and ran out. He didn’t close the door properly. Perhaps it was a final burst of adrenaline, but I found the strength to drag myself, inch by painful inch, out of the cellar. The main hall was brightly lit, buzzing with people. It was their victory party. Center stage, the three people I had loved were gathered around Jude Ashton, forming a perfect, happy family portrait. Jude, the triumphant victor, was wearing a bespoke suit, holding my father’s Westcott signet ring. “Jude, from this day forward, all the Westcott assets and influence in Veridian City belong to you,” Diana announced to the gathered guests, patting his shoulder. Blair stood beside him, leaning delicately against his chest, and pressed a kiss to his cheek. “You deserve this, Jude.” Even my son, Brooks, looked up at him with clear admiration. “Thank you, Uncle Jude, for taking such good care of our family.” Rage obliterated the last of my sanity. I scrambled down the last flight of stairs. “Give it back to me!” I lunged at Jude, desperate to grab the ring. In the struggle, the heavy, engraved crest shattered into two pieces. The hall went silent. A second later, Jude began to laugh—a triumphant, cruel sound. “Hahaha! Even the heirloom rejects you, you useless cripple!” Blair threw me off her foster son, and I crashed into a tall pyramid of champagne glasses. She put Jude behind her and faced the stunned crowd, her expression terrifyingly cold. “Please excuse us, ladies and gentlemen.” “My husband… he’s had a difficult time accepting the physical changes after his cancer surgery. He’s been receiving psychiatric treatment.” In a few quick sentences, she publicly branded me as a volatile madman. Whispers rippled through the crowd. “He’s actually insane? No wonder…” “Ms. Kincaid is so strong, managing the empire and having to carry that dead weight.” “Young Master Jude is a godsend. It’s right that Diana gave him the ring.” The cutting words finally stopped my struggle. I stopped crying. I stopped lashing out. I simply looked at them. “Blair Kincaid,” I said, my voice flat. “One should never forget one’s origins. Have you forgotten how I built you into the woman you are today?” Then, I turned to Diana. “Mother… no, Ms. Westcott. Do you truly think simply wearing my father’s name gives you the right to steal his legacy? You know how much he loved you. Yet you betray his memory and trick your own flesh-and-blood, leaving me a castrated shell, all for an imposter. Does your conscience let you sleep at night?” The hall erupted in commotion. The family advisors looked uneasy. I reached out, my fingers closing around a handgun a security guard had foolishly left holstered on his hip. Without a moment of doubt, I pressed the muzzle to my temple and smiled—a final, genuine, liberated smile. The sound of the shot was deafening. I heard the System’s cold prompt one last time. [Physical demise detected. Initiating exit portal immediately.]

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Old Man Silas had promised me a star-crossed, whirlwind romance the year I turned twenty. I bought it. Hook, line, and sinker. The universe, however, had a different plan. On my twentieth birthday, I kicked the bucket. Even more ridiculous? Two years later, the dilapidated hill where I was buried was developed into a massive theme park. And the exact plot of earth where my supposed “shot at true love” was meant to bloom? It’s now directly underneath a men’s restroom. Lying six feet under, the thought of being subjected to the backside traffic of hundreds of men every day sent my ghostly composure shattering. Just as I was gathering my ethereal strength to scare the pants off the cheapskate developer and force a re-interment, I got a better look at the suit-and-tie CEO. It was my stepbrother. The one who despised my existence. Caspian Shaw. 1 That blind old charlatan, Old Man Silas, had sworn on his life that I was going to run straight into an earth-shattering, soul-mate type of love when I turned twenty. I waited, full of starry-eyed anticipation. What I got instead was an unfortunate accident that ended my life the minute I crossed the threshold of adulthood. I floated in mid-air, pointing an accusatory finger at the fortune teller, calling him the biggest fraud who ever lived. Later, the scrubland I haunted was fenced off and turned into an amusement park. The cruelest joke? The men’s restroom was constructed directly above my resting place. Are you kidding me? I did not wait two decades for a destiny that smelled like stale urine and bad life choices! The park was nearing completion. The floor tiles for the men’s restroom above my head were already laid. I lay in the dirt, closing my eyes in utter despair. If it were just one or two hot guys, maybe I could grin and bear it. But hundreds of male rear ends every single day? That’s a haunting even a veteran ghost couldn’t survive. Just imagining the scene made being a ghost seem pointless. I’d rather just go ahead and reincarnate. But reincarnation is pure luck. Some spirits get ushered away by the gatekeepers the minute they cool off. Others wander the mortal coil for years, and the reapers act like they don’t even see them. Unfortunately, I was the latter. I floated up from beneath the restroom floor and started wandering around the park. I had to admit, the outskirts had developed fast in the last two years. This area used to be dead—literally—and now they’d built a park this huge. I’d dreamed of going wild at a theme park when I was alive, but I never got the chance. What a shame… A Ghost Friend I knew from the hill waved me over to the Ferris wheel. Since it wasn’t powered on yet, we floated up to the roof of the highest gondola to catch the breeze. She saw the slump in my ethereal shoulders. “Why don’t you try to send your family a dream?” she suggested. “Tell them to move your grave already.” “You don’t want to turn into a full-blown vengeful spirit because you’ve seen too many backsides,” she warned. “That’s a miserable eternity.” She had a point. But sending a dream was an advanced technique. For one, I was out of practice. For another, I didn’t exactly have any direct living relatives who cared. 2 My name is Summer Evans. My dad passed away when I was ten. My mother followed ten years later, when I was twenty. My Ghost Friend looked shocked. “No other relatives?” I started counting on my fingers. “Grandparents on both sides are long gone. My paternal grandparents haven’t spoken to my family in decades.” “Oh…” Then I had a spark of sudden realization. “Wait! My mom remarried, so I had a stepfather… and a stepbrother.” “A stepfather and a stepbrother count as family!” my Ghost Friend insisted, slapping her knee. “It doesn’t matter who they are; the priority is getting your grave moved.” I thought about it, then shook my head. “Forget it.” My mother had married into The Shaws, one of the old-money dynasties of Crestwood. My stepfather only had eyes for my mother and treated me with cold indifference. As for my stepbrother, Caspian, forget it. The guy had never spared me a single civil glance. When the adults were around, he could pretend to be polite, but the moment they left, his face would drop so far it looked like he was chewing on lemons. The first time we met, he warned me: “Don’t covet what isn’t yours.” “When you’re a guest, you remember your place.” I was the definition of a tag-along, and he hated me for it. If he found out I had a men’s room on top of my grave, he’d probably just laugh and order: “Double the investment on this theme park! And while you’re at it, dig a massive septic tank right next to the men’s room!” I finished my rant and threw my hands up. “So, what am I supposed to do?” My Ghost Friend went silent. See? She always clammed up when the problem was too hard. She scratched her head, about to start on a forced bit of inspirational ghost talk, when she suddenly noticed a large entourage approaching below. She was a natural gossip, and her eyes lit up like a neon sign as she immediately dove down. “I’ll go see who the big shots are!” Two minutes later, she floated back, breathless with excitement. “Girl! Guess who just showed up?!” Before I could guess, she burst out, “The big boss, the developer of the whole park, is here! I heard the workers whispering he came for a final inspection before the grand opening.” I looked at her skeptically. Why the theatrics over a construction check? Sure enough, the next second, she started swooning. “The CEO is gorgeous!” “I even overheard an employee gossip that he poured all this money into the park just to make his girlfriend happy!” she gushed. “Young, rich, and devoted? Total unicorn!” I was unimpressed. The Shaws were a top-tier family. I’d spent four years navigating the elite social circles after my mom remarried, and I’d seen plenty of so-called “Prince Charmings.” My Ghost Friend suddenly changed tack. “Summer, I’ve figured out a way for you to ditch the butts-on-your-ceiling problem!” 3 She suggested that since I couldn’t send a dream to family, I should send one to the developer. Give him the scare of his life and force him to move the bathroom! It sounded absolutely ridiculous. But when I thought about it, it was crazy enough to work. I decided to try anything. I followed the direction of her pointed finger without a second thought. I needed to recognize his face so I wouldn’t haunt the wrong person tonight. … There were a lot of people in the entourage. I figured I’d have a hard time finding the CEO. But my Ghost Friend hadn’t been exaggerating. The man was a lighthouse in the crowd, impossible to miss. He stood with his back to me, the silhouette of his custom-tailored suit—wide shoulders, lean waist, endless legs—absolutely lethal. Just the sight of his back could stop traffic. I shot forward, hovering right in front of the man. I looked up. God, he was gorgeous. But why the hell did he look so familiar?! “Mr. Shaw, the project will be fully complete by the end of the month. We estimate the grand opening will be May 1st.” The man stared at the still Ferris wheel in the distance. His eyes were dark, unreadable. After a long moment, he lowered his gaze and answered in a low, deep voice, “Mhm.” “Good work.” “No trouble at all, sir.” The project manager chuckled nervously. “Everyone knows how much this project means to you, Mr. Shaw…” They continued talking and walked past me, leaving one utterly dumbfounded ghost frozen mid-air. Caspian Shaw. It couldn’t be. Caspian, the stepbrother who was supposed to be the death of me?! This theme park was his project? 4 I squatted on the men’s restroom roof, my gaze locked on Caspian. I’d been dead for two years. Two years since I’d last seen him. I didn’t know if it was my imagination, but in that short time, he seemed to have changed. He looked… less untouchable, less like a porcupine covered in ice. A memory flashed, unbidden, of the first time I met Caspian. I’d only been moved into the Shaw estate for a few days. I was constantly walking on eggshells, trying to maintain the facade of a quiet, obedient stepdaughter. Only when I left the sprawling estate could I feel like I could truly breathe. I was squatting by the roadside talking to my best friend, completely oblivious to the black sedan that had pulled up beside me. My friend, curious about my new life, was asking: “Summer! You always wanted a sister, right? Did you finally get one?” I nodded enthusiastically. “Yep.” “Except my new sister is a lot older than me, and she’s got a bit of an attitude.” My friend paused. “That’s called a brother, genius!” I burst out laughing. When I looked up, the window of the luxury car slid down, revealing Caspian’s cold, severe face. He looked at me, saying nothing, but the sheer pressure was suffocating. It wasn’t until I was back at the house and saw him sitting there, looking every bit the lord of the manor, that I realized he was the stepbrother I hadn’t yet met. I gathered my courage and went over to greet him. The word “brother” barely left my lips. He sneered. “I thought you were telling your friend you had a ‘sister’?” he drawled, his voice a low, cold vibration. “Did I get a sudden promotion?” He looked up at me, his eyes frigid and devoid of humor. Right then, I knew this cheap substitute for a brother was going to be trouble. When I stayed silent, he seemed to lose interest and stood up to head upstairs. Standing on the spiral staircase, he looked down at me. “You’re a guest in this house, Summer. Try to remember it.” He was arrogance personified. I fought the urge to roll my eyes, maintaining a fake, sweet smile. “Yes, Brother.” We lived under the same roof for four years, and our relationship always hovered at absolute zero. Perhaps my current reservoir of resentment was too strong, my ghostly glare too direct. Caspian must have felt the heat of my two-year-old anger, because he suddenly turned his head and looked directly at the rooftop. I didn’t even try to hide. If he could see a ghost, good for him. He stared for a moment, lost in thought. The project manager, ever observant, asked, “Mr. Shaw, would you like to use the facilities?” I panicked. Wait. What? Was Caspian about to use the restroom right in front of me? This was way too awkward. The thought alone made my ghostly face flush. The next second, Caspian shook his head. “No. Let’s go check the eastern wing.” 5 Ghost rules are very clear: I couldn’t wander too far from my grave site. Luckily, Caspian was staying tonight at the park’s resort hotel, which was right next door. I followed him all the way to his penthouse suite on the top floor. I didn’t have any sinister motives… just a deep, burning desire for cosmic revenge after he’d tormented me so much when I was alive. Even giving him a good scare would be a win. … 10 p.m.: Caspian was reading documents. 11 p.m.: Caspian was still reading documents. 12 a.m.: Caspian was still reading documents! The man wasn’t just working; he was running a ghost endurance test! Just as my patience was running out and I was about to throw an invisible tantrum, Caspian finally closed his laptop. He took off his gold-rimmed glasses, massaging the bridge of his nose with a gesture of pure exhaustion. He stood up, slowly removed his suit jacket, and grabbed a robe, heading for the shower. Oh, showtime. I was ready. I’d wait for him to finish, and when he stood in front of the mirror, I’d manifest right behind him. That was guaranteed to scare him into a full-blown spiritual crisis. I rubbed my hands together with a little ghostly glee. Caspian reached the bathroom door, but suddenly stopped. He turned back, carefully removed a small pendant from his neck, and placed it gently on the bedside table. His movement was so tender it was almost shocking. Clearly, it was something precious. Curious, I leaned my head over for a look. It was a small charm… The style looked familiar, like I’d seen it somewhere. Doesn’t matter, though. I was right here, and the charm wasn’t reacting at all. Must be a cheap knock-off he bought from a street vendor. Caspian looked smart, but apparently, even billionaire CEOs fall for tourist-trap spirituality. While I was having this internal monologue, Caspian entered the bathroom. I told myself I had no unghostly desires… Fine. Maybe a tiny bit of morbid curiosity. But I’d never even been on a date when I was alive; this level of visual intensity was too much. I floated in for a quick peek and immediately floated back out, blushing (a neat trick for a dead girl). Quick summary: He’s definitely been lifting. I paced the floor anxiously, waiting. Finally, the sound of the water stopped. The moment. My eyes flashed. I phased straight through the door. Caspian was standing in front of the sink mirror, towel-drying his hair. He reached for the hairdryer. Flicker. The bathroom light died. He froze, feeling a sudden disturbance in the air. He instinctively looked up at the mirror… 6 I hovered inside the glass, making the most horrible ghost face I could manage. I curled my lips into the classic horror-movie sneer, my voice a synthetic rasp. “Hi, big brother,” I whispered. “I missed you. Why don’t you come down and keep me company?” Caspian stared into the mirror. He was frozen solid. But instead of terror, after three agonizing seconds, his eyes welled up. Welled up. What the hell? Was he crying? I’d barely started! This wasn’t the reaction I’d planned. I was ready to double down on the theatrics when I saw him spin around, yank open the bathroom door, and rush out. Trying to run? Not a chance! I chased after him. Then I realized… He wasn’t running. He was standing by the bed, phone shaking in his hand, as he dialed a number. Me: “?” I floated closer, pressing my ear to the receiver to eavesdrop. “Master, I saw her!” Caspian’s voice was fast and trembling with emotion. “I did what you said! I built the park right here, and she came back! She’s still smiling… the way she always did.” Me: “???” The things he was saying were a hundred times more disturbing than my ghostly appearance. This plot was going totally off the rails, man!

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The moment Zack Ryder cornered me in that grimy alleyway behind Northwood Prep, the first comments appeared across my vision. I blinked, convinced the stress of Senior Year had finally pushed me into a full-blown hallucination. [The supporting character doesn’t know it yet, but this ‘yellow-haired punk’ is her long-lost older brother.] [The Heroine manipulated him into becoming a delinquent; he’ll later die trying to save her.] [It’s because of today’s incident that he gets a permanent record trying to protect the Heroine.] I stared at the punk—Zack, as I’d named him in my head—with his bleached-out hair and intimidating leather jacket, as he took a threatening step closer. “Hold up!” I shouted, my voice surprisingly steady. “Don’t start yet! Let me call my people!” He snorted, a laugh rumbling in his chest. “Fine. Call ’em.” A few minutes later, Mom and Dad roared up to the alley entrance on our beat-up old Ford Ranger. The four of us stared at each other in a deeply awkward silence. Mom, a woman whose resting face looked like she was about to demand to speak to the manager, was the first one out. She didn’t hesitate. With a sound like a wet towel snapping, a solid, stinging smack landed across Zack’s face. “Zack Ryder!” she bellowed, using his real name from the missing person’s file, not the fake one he probably used. “You’ve got some damn nerve! Bullying your own flesh and blood!” She grabbed a handful of his bleached hair. “Look at you! No self-respect! You look exactly like your deadbeat father did when he was young!” 1. Zack’s head snapped sideways from the force of the blow. He instinctively raised a hand to strike back, but Mom had already twisted his collar, jerking him forward. She delivered a sharp, functional kick to his kneecap. Zack folded, landing right on his knees in front of Dad. Mom pulled his hair back, forcing him to look at my father. “This is the one, right? The one harassing our daughter?” Dad, Mark Reese, a man whose primary mood was weary resignation, raised his fist. It froze mid-air. “Wait a minute… that face…” “‘That face’ what, Mark? This is your favorite son! The exact same idiot you were twenty years ago!” Mom shoved Zack’s head forward. “Look at the state of him, wearing his school uniform under all that leather! School’s not even out yet, is it? It’s all your fault, Mark! If you didn’t have those weak, criminal genes, our son wouldn’t have turned out like this!” Zack squirmed, trying to escape Mom’s iron grip on his ear. “I’m not your son! Let go of me!” he yelled, face burning red. “A guy’s gotta have some dignity!” Dad didn’t hesitate this time. He backhanded Zack across the head. “You rotten little punk! Don’t you talk to your mother that way!” 2. [OMG! What happened? I thought Yellow Hair was supposed to be a total badass?] [Up there, this looks like pure, natural bloodline suppression.] [The Heroine must be flipping out. She sent Yellow Hair to teach the side-character a lesson, and now she’s waiting in class for him to come back and report.] [This side-character’s mom is incredible; she took one look and recognized her son.] [If the side-character hadn’t messed with the Elite Prince, the Heroine wouldn’t have been this mad. But now Yellow Hair is going to be dragged to the police station, isn’t he?] The comments finally pieced together a rough plot for me. The “Elite Prince” they were talking about had to be Elijah Pierce, my new desk partner. He was a moody loner, but smart. I had no idea what I’d done to “mess with him.” I just wanted to borrow his calculus notes—that was it. As for the “Heroine,” I didn’t know her name, but I figured she was some kind of tough-girl delinquent. So she was the one who had groomed my brother into a punk? My eyes scanned the chaotic scene again. Zack was kneeling off to the side, sulking, his glare at me full of pure, homicidal rage. He looked up at my parents, his voice defiant. “You’ve got the wrong guy! I’m not your son! My name is Tony Diaz!” he insisted. “I grew up in foster care! I don’t know either of you!” Mom ignored him entirely. She elbowed Dad. Dad took a long drag from his cigarette and promptly smacked Zack again. “Still talking back to your mother? In this family, her word is gospel!” Dad squinted. “And you say you’re not Zack Ryder? Look at your face! You’re the spitting image of me when I was young! And if you’re not Zack, why are you shaking so damn much?” 3. Zack looked like he was about to explode, but Mom’s death glare shut him down instantly. He fell silent. Mom told me to get in the truck. They shoved a mortified Zack into the backseat, and we drove home. My parents had never hidden the fact that I had an older brother. Mom got pregnant with me soon after my father started working extra shifts to support a larger family. My brother, Zack, was a sweet, self-reliant kid who walked home from school alone. That was the day the traffickers hit our town. He was gone, and for eighteen years, he was just a ghost in our house. I never thought we’d end up at the same high school. During the drive, Zack kept giving me dark, murderous side-eyes. Every time he did, I just piped up, “Mom, he’s glaring at me.” Eventually, his eyes were sore, and my throat was hoarse. As soon as we got home, Mom dragged Zack straight to his old room. She pulled out a stack of faded photographs, pointing to a picture of a twenty-year-old Dad. “I don’t care what you believe, but I am your mother,” she stated flatly. “You look in the mirror. You look at this picture. Those two faces are the same. Even if you were reduced to ash, I’d know you instantly.” She paused, the threat implicit. “After dinner, you dye that hair back to normal. If you don’t listen, I’m shaving that annoying yellow mess right off your head.” Zack stared at the photo, completely speechless. [Wow, the Heroine’s mom is relentless! Her hurricane personality completely blows away any chance of a sappy moment.] [Aww, the Heroine is probably dying of worry! She’s still at school, and hasn’t even eaten because she’s so concerned about Yellow Hair.] Under Mom’s creative coercion—which included a pair of buzzing electric clippers—Zack ultimately dyed his hair back to a dark brown. After lunch, Mom drove both of us back to Northwood Prep. Zack was several years older than me, but because he’d bounced around in foster care and correctional facilities, he was repeating his Senior Year, just like me. 4. The only difference was, I was the undisputed valedictorian, and he was the undisputed bottom-of-the-barrel student. Mom nearly fainted reading Zack’s transcript. Ultimately, Mom’s word was final. Zack, my long-lost brother, became my new desk partner. “Jenna Reese, you keep a close eye on your brother,” Mom ordered, her voice like grinding stone. “If he even looks at another gang member, you call me immediately!” I nodded eagerly. Before she left, Mom gave Zack’s ear another vicious twist. “You study with your sister. If I hear one more word about you bullying her, I’ll have your father break your legs!” She straightened her jacket. “I’m heading straight to the Registrar’s office right now to transfer your enrollment and finalize your custody!” She leaned in. “Zack Ryder, do you hear me?” Zack was hunched over, thoroughly defeated, but he mumbled one final protest. “We’re at school! I’m a guy, I need some dignity.” He looked up. “Whether I’m your son or not, you could at least give me some respect in front of my peers.” Mom didn’t care about dignity. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing a solid, corded forearm. “I asked you a question. Do. You. Hear. Me?” Zack still hesitated. I immediately grabbed his arm. “Bro, our mom’s got a black belt in the freezer section at Costco, selling fish for a decade. She’s got the strength and the tools. I strongly suggest you listen.” A look passed between us—a shared, immediate understanding of Mom’s terrifying competence. Finally, Zack grumbled, sounding constipated, “Fine. Got it.” Satisfied, Mom finally left. But I should have known better. Zack stayed quiet for exactly two class periods. During the third, he went to the restroom and never came back. I sat in the classroom, watching the comments dance in front of me. [Yellow Hair finally couldn’t hold back; he went to find the Heroine.] [The Heroine will find out Yellow Hair failed the mission and will totally beat him up.] [‘Beat up’? No, no. Yellow Hair is the Heroine’s personal dog! A mere pawn. He’ll get his redemption arc, but he has to make way for the main couple.] 5. Dog? Pawn? I shot up out of my seat. Anyone who dared to disrespect my brother was dead to me. The teacher looked startled. I quickly doubled over, feigning a terrible stomach cramp, and contorted my face into a mask of pain. I was granted an emergency pass. I sprinted toward the gym equipment room. I reached the room just as Zack knelt before the “Heroine,” Riley Brooks. Riley looked furious, her cheap hair dye in multiple mismatched colors, not unlike Zack’s earlier look. Even through the window, I could hear her furious screech. “You couldn’t even handle a simple thing like that! And who told you to dye your hair back?” Her voice cracked with genuine rage. “Did you forget what you promised? You’re mine, Zack! You do what I tell you. I just told you to deal with a little bookworm! How hard is that?” Zack, the newly reformed son, actually shuffled closer on his knees, lifting Riley’s foot with embarrassing reverence and placing it squarely on his thigh. I couldn’t watch the rest. I shut my eyes and ran straight for the administration office. [OMG! Yellow Hair is finally smartening up? They’ve been through so much together. It’s totally normal to develop feelings.] [But even if the Side Character and Yellow Hair got together, she wouldn’t be happy. The Side Character has had a miserable life; she deserves the Elite Prince and a lifetime of money.] [What’s the Supporting Character doing? I thought she’d run in and stop them!] I didn’t wait for the comments to finish. I burst through the door of Dean Walker’s office, winded and breathless. “Report! Dean! I need to report! There’s public indecency and possible truancy in the equipment room!” 6. Dean Walker, who knew I was a straight-A student and therefore a reliable source, grabbed his notebook and marched out immediately. Dean Mendez, in charge of discipline, heard the word “indecency” and followed. Adolescent romance? Not on his watch. That meant someone hadn’t been morally supervised enough. A few teachers who lived for drama also trailed behind us. Northwood Prep was a top-tier magnet school—teen romance was strictly forbidden. [I swear! The Heroine just kicked Yellow Hair to the ground!] [The way Yellow Hair looks at the Heroine is totally inappropriate.] [Why is the Side Character bringing all the teachers? I thought she’d call her mom!] [Things are getting weird. I thought this was a high school redemption romance? Why is the cannon fodder side character messing up the script?] I ignored the commentary and kicked open the equipment room door. Riley was sitting on my brother, mid-punch, while he looked up at her with a sick, clearly enjoyable expression—the picture of a dedicated simp. “What in God’s name are you two doing in here?” Dean Walker roared. “Zack Ryder, Class 11! Riley Brooks, Class 15! This is utterly inappropriate!” His face was purple. “Get to the office now! You’re students! What is this, dating? Getting romantic in a school facility?” “We’re calling both your parents! Now!” Dean Walker waved his hand and strode off, the crowd of teachers trailing him. Coach Daniels pried a bewildered Zack and Riley apart. Zack spun around and saw me. A flicker of utter defeat, a sense of having been caught by his parole officer, crossed his face. He marched up to me. “You again?” Riley, seeing me for the first time, rushed over. “You must be the little wannabe who’s trying to hook the Elite Prince, right?” she snarled. “Elijah Pierce is mine! This is your lucky day, but you better not be alone when you walk home from school! If I see you by yourself, I promise you, you’ll regret it!” I wasn’t afraid of her. 7. The three of us stood in a miserable row in the Dean’s office. Mom, Sharon Reese, having just completed the paperwork to formally claim Zack as her son, rushed into the school after the Dean’s call. She saw me first. Without asking any questions, she delivered a solid, stinging smack across my cheek. “How dare you get yourself into trouble!” Zack, beside me, let out a loud “Pfft!” Before he could even fully laugh, Mom delivered the exact same stinging blow to his head. Riley, whose face was still a mottled mix of anger and entitlement, finally spoke up. She jutted her chin out, staring down my mother with pure aggression.

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