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

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

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Even after I drowned saving Vanessa Wells, I wasn’t afforded the courtesy of a remorseful widow, the kind you read about in tragic love stories. On the third day following my rushed, minimal funeral, she married her assistant. The wedding was obscenely lavish, but my portrait was tossed into the dustbin before the three-day mourning period was even over. From then on, no one in the Wells family dared speak my name. Neil, my four-year-old boy, rushed to grab his mother’s skirt, only to be roughly shoved aside. “Cameron Riley is gone! You’d better start calling Tristan Lowe ‘Dad’ right now, or you won’t last long in this house!” she snapped. “And you’ll be off to boarding school next month. Don’t think you’re going to interfere with Tristan and me trying for a baby.” My son hugged my urn and ran away, only to be hit by a car and die on the side of the road. Vanessa used the collection of paintings my father left me to stage a spectacular comeback, becoming the wealthiest woman in San Francisco and living to be ninety. It turned out that all those stories about evil meeting its just end were nothing but lies. When I opened my eyes again, I was back on the day Vanessa nearly drowned. I understood then that it was no accident. My death in the first life was a casualty of a sick, twisted bet they made. This time, I would simply stand back and watch. “Dad!” A small, distressed voice snapped me back to the present. I felt a jolt run through my body. Neil, my son, all of four years old, was clinging to me, his small body soft and warm. The image of him running away, clutching my portrait and sobbing to find his father, only to be struck by a car—it seared into my brain. I had thrashed above, a powerless ghost, unable to stop it. My arms tightened around him instinctively. “Dad, I want to come with you on the boat, too,” Neil pleaded, looking up at me. The boat? I froze. Vanessa’s voice, cold and impatient, cut in from behind me, “Hurry up, what’s the hold-up?” I turned slowly. The woman I had loved a lifetime was approaching. She was still breathtakingly beautiful, but the sight of her now sent a chill straight to my bones. “If we’re late for the Bay Area Business Summit, you’ll answer to me!” I remembered. Today was the Summit, and today was the day I died in my first life. “Maybe we shouldn’t go.” Tristan Lowe, dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, descended the grand staircase, naturally sliding his arm around Vanessa’s waist. “The little guy is frail, Nessa. The deck wind will only make him sick.” He shot me a look of pure provocation. But unlike before, I didn’t lunge at him, didn’t tear him away. When Neil shrieked, “Bad man, let go of my Mommy!” I simply shouted. “Neil, come here!” I picked up my son and calmly rose. “Mr. Lowe is right. Neil should stay home with Mrs. Wu.” A flicker of astonishment crossed Vanessa’s face. Three months ago, when I first discovered their affair, I had smashed her office, made a spectacle, and even begged her on my knees not to leave. In her eyes, my current composure was deeply unsettling. “Cameron…” she paused, studying me. “You’re finally being reasonable.” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked upstairs. She was right. I shouldn’t go. In the first life, Neil had witnessed my drowning, and the trauma broke him. This time, I only needed him to be safe. I changed clothes and came back down. I didn’t take Vanessa’s outstretched hand; I gave the passenger seat to Tristan and settled into the back. The yacht deck was cold. I stared out at the flat expanse of the bay. I couldn’t help but think of the hospital morgue in the first life, of Vanessa clutching my body and crying—grief that seemed agonizingly real. Yet why, just three days later, did she trash my photo and let Tristan move in? Even if the love was gone, I was still the man who sacrificed himself for her. Just then, a muffled crash came from the cabin. Tristan poked his head out. Seeing no one nearby, he cautiously withdrew. “The PIs got all the evidence,” he whispered, though I could hear him clearly. “He was meeting that woman frequently… Nessa, he’s cheating on you!” “Enough!” Vanessa’s voice was tired. “I told you, you’ll be compensated. But as long as Cameron is alive, he is my only husband.” “Don’t you want to know if he still loves you?” Tristan hissed. Vanessa stopped dead. “If he jumps in after you, it proves he still does.” “And if he… doesn’t?” “Don’t worry, I have people ready for the rescue,” Tristan grabbed her arm. “It’s just a test, a confidence trick. There’s no real danger.” The silence that followed stretched on. Finally, Vanessa gave in, nodding. I almost burst out laughing. So that’s how I died in the first life—a casualty of their idiotic, half-baked suspicion. That woman was just a collector of rare handbags. Vanessa was obsessed with a limited-edition piece, and I was trying to buy it for her as a surprise. But she hadn’t given me a chance to explain. A heavy splash sounded from the far end of the deck. “Honey, help me!” Vanessa was flailing and screaming in the frigid water. Last time, I jumped, and I lost my life. This time, I stood still, casually checking my phone. Tristan was stunned. “Mr. Riley! Aren’t you going to save her? Don’t you care about Ms. Wells’ safety?” “I have a terrible cold. Can’t risk getting wet,” I shrugged helplessly. “You look so concerned, Mr. Lowe. Why don’t you save her?” And with a swift push, I sent him tumbling over the railing. His shriek mixed with Vanessa’s gasping, and the water became a chaotic mess of splashing and yelling. I wiped my hands and pulled out my phone, sending two texts. One to my lawyer, instructing him to finalize the divorce papers. The other to my childhood rival and frenemy in France. [Keep a close eye on the painter Theo Dubois at the Saint Mary Hospital. I’ll make you a fortune.] The rescue team was fast. Neither of them died. Tristan woke up quickly. When I returned to the hospital room with a container of hot soup, he was gone. I walked towards the staff kitchen and overheard a hushed conversation. “The plan is ruined!” It was the deckhand’s voice. “Mr. Riley didn’t jump. We can’t testify that he pushed Ms. Wells’ head under to inherit the estate…” I held my breath. Was that the truth? No wonder, shortly after I died, the only thing Vanessa felt for me was hate. “Don’t panic,” Tristan’s voice was light. “His refusal to jump is all the proof we need that he doesn’t love her anymore.” “I have plenty of ways to break them up!” He leaned in close. “Besides, I still have my ace in the hole.” I couldn’t hear the rest. Seeing them about to leave, I quickly slipped back into the hospital room. Vanessa was awake, her face ghostly pale. She yanked the IV out of her arm and seized my wrist. “Why… why didn’t you jump in after me?” I gently pulled free. “I have a cold. Not a good idea to go swimming.” She let go, looking stunned. “You… you weren’t like this before.” That’s right, before. In my first life, I emptied my father’s entire estate to help her rebuild her company. I gave up my career as an art buyer to support her. In the end, I gave my life, and I couldn’t even save my only son. Just then, Tristan rushed in. He threw himself into Vanessa’s arms, holding her tightly. “Nessa, you scared me to death!” “Thank God I didn’t think twice and just jumped in…” As he spoke, Tristan glanced at me pointedly. I simply smiled and pulled out my phone, pressing play on the recording. “Mr. Lowe, you didn’t sound all that eager to jump, did you?” The conversation from the deck played clearly. “I have a cold. You save her.” Tristan’s high-pitched voice: “She’s your wife! What does she have to do with me?” “Don’t you love her fiercely? Wouldn’t it be great to die together if you can’t save her?” Then came the sound of a massive wave, almost submerging Vanessa, and Tristan’s terrified, shaking voice. “I don’t want to die! I have so much left to do!” His voice cracked as he stumbled backward, followed by the sound of him being shoved overboard. The recording cut off. Vanessa’s face was ashen. Tristan flushed, desperate to explain, but she pointed a shaking finger at the door. “Get out!” He whimpered, rising to leave, but his phone rang at the door. He turned back, his panic replaced by a smug, sudden confidence. He handed the phone to Vanessa. “I’ve been wondering why Mr. Riley was so quick to let you drown… until I saw this.” It was a paternity test report. The subjects were Vanessa Wells and Neil Riley. The conclusion on the last page was definitive: No biological relationship. Vanessa’s hand trembled. Her eyes, when she looked up, were bloodshot. She hurled the phone at me, demanding an explanation. I didn’t catch it. “First, you swapped the baby Nessa gave birth to, then you planned for her to die in the boat crash, so your bastard could inherit the Wells family fortune, didn’t you?” Tristan expertly twisted the knife. “And then you’d use that money to live happily ever after with your mistress, right?” I remained silent. Vanessa shot up, pulling out her IV and yanking me toward the door. “We’re going for a retest right now! The truth will be obvious.” Tristan’s face went white. His nervousness was palpable. I shook off her hand. “I’m not going.” Vanessa grew frantic. “If you have nothing to hide, why are you scared?” “If the test proves I’ve been framed,” I pointed at her stomach, “will you abort the baby you’re carrying with Tristan? How about that?” Vanessa froze. I hadn’t known she was pregnant until the day I died in the first life. I had clung to the belief that they were just fooling around, that if I was pathetic enough, she would come back to me. “Two months, isn’t it?” I smiled, shifting my gaze to her slightly swollen abdomen. “About the same time you were pregnant with Neil.” Tristan gripped Vanessa’s sleeve tightly. “Cameron, what are you doing? The baby is innocent!” “Nothing at all.” I smirked. “Just reminding you that you need your prenatal vitamins to fight morning sickness. If you need a nutritionist, I can help you find one.” My calmness only made Vanessa frown. “You’re not angry? Not jealous?” I shook my head. “I’m a kept man. You’re carrying a Wells family heir. Why would I be jealous?” “Unless…” she choked up, her breathing accelerating, “your heart is no longer with me at all?” I offered no reply. “Neil is four. So you hooked up with your mistress four years ago, didn’t you? While I was working myself to the bone to make a comeback!” I watched her eyes turn scarlet, but I didn’t say a word. She knew, deep down, that if I’d been having an affair, I would have run off with the money long ago. Why would I have risked my father’s entire legacy to gamble on her? She just didn’t want to believe me. My phone vibrated. It was the reply I’d been waiting for. [Theo is critically ill. His final works will double in price, at least.] I closed my eyes, recalling the twelve paintings I had left her as my estate. I pulled a crisp, warm document from my bag and slapped it against her chest. “Let’s get a divorce.” Vanessa stared at the words, Divorce Agreement, her pupils trembling. “What did you say?” “Divorce,” I repeated. “When there’s no trust between a couple, it’s best to go our separate ways.” “Do you really have to do this?” Her voice softened, a hint of a plea in it. “Just take the test. Just give me an answer…” “And what good will that do?” I cut her off. “Even if I prove my innocence, will you punish Tristan for this? Will you dare do an amniocentesis to give me the proof of your affair so I can sue you for divorce?” She immediately fell silent. “Divorce, divorce, that’s all you think about!” She suddenly flew into a rage, grabbing the agreement and throwing it back. “I know what this is! You want more money to support your mistress! I’m telling you, absolutely not! I won’t sign this. If you want to leave, you’ll walk away with nothing!” I picked up the pen. With almost no hesitation, I signed my name. Quick and clean. Vanessa tried to stop me, but it was too late. “You…” her hand shook. “You really want to leave me, and you don’t care about anything else?” “I’ll only take what’s left of my things.” “Those few worthless paintings?” She tried to find a flicker of doubt in my eyes. “Cameron, think carefully…” “I have.” “Fine. Very well.” Her eyes were red as she nodded. She immediately called Mrs. Wu to pack my bags. She refused to stay in the hospital, insisting on going home with me. The moment we walked through the door, she grabbed Neil and ordered the staff to move my luggage into the maid’s quarters. “You have to stay here until the cooling-off period is over.” “Why?” “Because you are still my husband, the Wells family’s kept man!” “That’s unlawful confinement!” Tension hung thick between us. She was betting on me staying and seeing her and Tristan’s public displays of affection, hoping jealousy would force me to back down and retract the divorce papers. I didn’t waste time arguing. I yanked my suitcase and turned to leave. But she suddenly grabbed Neil and slammed his head against the corner of the table. CRACK. A sickening thud, followed by a spray of blood. Neil screamed, clutching his head. I rushed over and held him, my entire body shaking. Vanessa quickly masked the brief flicker of panic in her eyes. “The child is hurt. You can’t drag him around looking for an apartment in this weather, can you?” I looked up at her, this stranger. I suddenly remembered the night of my car accident in the first life. I had shattered bones and ruptured organs, and Vanessa stood outside the operating room, red-eyed, begging the doctors to save me. Later, she cried, holding me, swearing eternal love. Now, she was deliberately hurting our son just to force me to stay. “Ms. Wells, please call a doctor.” I turned, my voice laced with fury. She gave a dismissive nod and then walked into the master bedroom with Tristan on her arm. Over the next few days, Tristan became the man of the house. I constantly found them intertwined in the living room, the dining room, or on the stairs. He accompanied her to every prenatal appointment, acting as the father. When he craved cake late one night, she ventured out in the snow to buy ingredients and baked until dawn. She ignored Neil and me entirely. My lawyer, however, kept calling to remind me of the cooling-off period countdown. That night, Neil asked, nestled in my arms, “Dad, are you really going to leave Mom?” “Yes.” “When are we going? I don’t want to be here anymore.” I checked my phone. Soon. Just two more days until the painter Theo Dubois dies, and Vanessa’s company welcomes disaster. Last time, she used the paintings my father left me to pull herself out of the wreckage. This time, I was getting there first. I opened my phone and sent a text to my connection. [Remember to come to the auction the day after tomorrow.] [If Theo is still alive, I’ll work in your gallery for life. You literally can’t lose.] After a moment of silence, she replied with one word. [Fine.] I went downstairs in my suit on the day of the auction. Vanessa was on Tristan’s arm and paused when she saw me. “Let’s go. The car’s warm.” I strode over, nudged Tristan out of the way, and offered Vanessa my arm. The corner of her mouth twitched. “Did you change your mind about the divorce?” I just smiled, my gaze sweeping over the trunk. I got into the passenger seat. In the rearview mirror, Tristan looked ready to kill me with his eyes. Vanessa was in good spirits, talking non-stop about the items she was interested in bidding on. I, however, was distracted, either looking at my phone or staring out the window. At the venue, I deliberately chose a seat far away from them. Vanessa stared at me. “Sitting that far away? Are you trying to embarrass me in front of the media?” “We’re getting a divorce,” I chuckled. “Does it matter if we sit together?” Her face darkened. She immediately bought three diamond watch sets for Tristan. “To the most important man in my life,” she announced loudly. Reporters, sniffing gossip, swarmed over. “Ms. Wells, has your marriage to Mr. Riley officially broken down?” She didn’t confirm or deny, just looked over at me, waiting for me to jump in and defend her. I said nothing. I remained a quiet spectator throughout the auction. Tristan beamed, showing off the watches, but Vanessa’s face grew darker and darker. Towards the end, I stood up. I glanced at the familiar figure in the corner, then walked onto the stage in my polished shoes. “Ladies and gentlemen, I also have a few paintings to auction today. They were part of my late father’s estate.” Whispers erupted in the audience. “Why is Mr. Riley selling his father’s belongings? Is the divorce with Ms. Wells really happening?” I took the microphone. “Vanessa and I are in the middle of a divorce. She requires me to walk away with nothing, so I need to sell the paintings for cash.” The media instantly erupted. “Is this because of Mr. Lowe?” Vanessa’s face was livid. She clenched her fist and sneered, “How much are a few worthless paintings going to fetch?” She was right. The painter Theo Dubois was virtually unknown at the moment. But after his death—which was today—the twelve paintings in the series would be worth a fortune. “Stop the drama, Cameron,” she said, her voice strained with anger. “I’ll raise your allowance if you’re short on cash, or I’ll buy the paintings at a low price as a charity donation.” “No, thank you.” I waved her off. “Ms. Wells should save her money for Mr. Lowe’s watches. These paintings will go to someone who understands their value.” The auction room fell silent. No one raised a paddle. Vanessa raised an eyebrow, about to speak, when a voice from the corner interrupted. “Three million.” It was her. Susie Kensington. Vanessa clearly recognized her. “Is she the mistress?” She grabbed my wrist. I pulled free forcefully. “Ms. Wells, please maintain your composure. If you’re not interested in the remaining lots, you’re free to leave.” “Nessa,” Tristan tugged at her sleeve. “I don’t feel well. Let’s go home.” Vanessa shot me a venomous look and turned away. As she was about to step into the car, she received an international news alert on her phone. At the same moment, the distinct pinging of phones went off throughout the auction hall. Vanessa froze. [The renowned French painter, Theo Dubois, passed away this morning. The value of his final works is expected to skyrocket.] She whirled around. By the time she returned, the bidding inside had multiplied several times over. “I’m adding another bid! Five million! I want them!” Security guards held her back, breathless. “Anyone who leaves the room may not participate in the bidding.” I smirked, then brought the hammer down. “Sold for thirty million to Ms. Susie Kensington.” Vanessa was rigid. I watched Susie rise from the corner and give me a small, knowing smile. Within the next half hour, the Wells Group would face disaster. And she had missed her only chance to turn the tide.

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I had just claimed the prestigious Prima Award for dance, the culmination of two decades of brutal work. I was eight months pregnant, exhausted, and soaring. Then my husband told me I had to hand the title over to his Golden Girl. When I refused, Lachlan ordered me to dance on a stage riser he’d covered in sharp carpet tacks. The agonizing stabs pierced the soles of my feet. Blood mixed with my suddenly ruptured waters, streaming down my legs. I curled up, begging him to stop, but his voice was a sheet of ice. “You winning already upset Kinsley, and now you have the pregnancy, too. People shouldn’t be so greedy, Anya.” “Besides, you won’t need to dance anymore. You have me.” I lost the baby and, eventually, married another man. He came for me, on his knees, and in a terrifying fit of madness, broke his own leg with a glass vase. “If I pay you back my own leg, Anya, will you finally look at me?” 1 “Lachlan Mercer, are you out of your mind?” “I’m eight months pregnant! How can I dance on that?” My voice echoed, panicked and thin, in the cavernous, empty theater. Two of his security guys—thick, silent men—held my arms in a grip like steel vises. The stage lights were blinding, illuminating the dark, wooden percussion riser right in front of me, its surface studded with hundreds of sharp, silver tacks. Lachlan adjusted the cuff of his bespoke suit, slow and deliberate, and then gripped my chin. His tone was casual, as if discussing a slight change in the dinner menu. “The doctor said the baby is perfectly stable, Anya. Tell me, do I believe you, or do I believe a specialist in fetal medicine?” A sharp contraction seized my lower abdomen, a sudden, brutal pain that was becoming more frequent. Eight months of carrying our child had already pushed my body to its limit. The voice that once promised me forever now only delivered a bone-deep cold. Fear, thick and paralyzing, began to spread. I softened my tone, pleading. “Lach, please, I’m pregnant. Our baby is coming soon. Don’t do this to me.” But his face was immutable, the anger in his eyes frigid. “You winning the Prima already devastated Kinsley. Now you have the baby, too. You can’t be this greedy, Anya.” “You upset her. You’re going to apologize.” Kinsley Wells. Lachlan’s true north, the girl he’d cherished on a pedestal since high school. The one no amount of effort, no amount of success on my part, could ever measure up to. In that moment, a profound, gut-wrenching regret washed over me. I regretted loving Lachlan Mercer. My nose stung. Bitter tears, hot against the cold in the air, started to fall. “Lachlan, dance is all I have. If I can’t dance, I have nothing left.” He scoffed, a dry, cruel sound. “You’re still selfish. You’d even use our child as a bargaining chip for your career.” He wiped away a tear with a chillingly cold thumb. My body shivered violently at the contact. “But I can overlook it.” “You won’t need to dance anymore. You have me.” “Didn’t you always want a big wedding? I promise you, if you complete this dance, apologize to Kinsley, and do it right, I’ll give you the wedding. As soon as the baby is born, we’ll get married.” I was trembling, the abdominal pain intensifying. But it was Lachlan’s look of chilling possessiveness that truly suffocated me. The guards’ grip loosened. I tore free and grabbed the sleeve of his jacket. “Lachlan, I won’t dance. I surrender. I’ll take the baby and disappear. I’ll never show up in front of you or Kinsley again.” I clung to him, my voice ragged and broken. “Please, just let me go.” His expression darkened instantly. He ripped his sleeve from my grasp, the force sending me stumbling back, nearly pitching me onto the tacks. “Anya, what is this drama?!” His voice was a whip-crack, slicing through the air. “I’m offering you the wedding you wanted, and you’re still making a scene?” I stared at him, a choked, hysterical laugh caught in my throat. The wedding? Did he truly think I cared about a ceremony? “I don’t need your wedding.” I shook my head, tears mixing with cold sweat. “I just want my baby safe. I just want my legs.” “Enough!” He exploded, seizing the back of my neck and forcing me to look straight into his eyes. “Anya Reid, don’t push me!” “It’s just a few scratches on your feet. You’re not going to die.” He sneered. “You’re such a star, aren’t you? You used to get hurt all the time in training. Why the sudden delicacy?” His fingers clenched, the pressure making my vision swim, but I instinctively clamped my hands over my belly. Lachlan’s hand slid from my neck and clamped hard onto my wrist. A dark, unreadable emotion churned in his eyes. He flicked his gaze toward the guards. “Put her up there.” “No! Lachlan!” I fought, twisting backward, but the guards were too strong, dragging me forward by the arms. In my struggle, my calf brushed the edge of the riser. An immediate, searing pain shot up my leg. They tossed me like a broken doll toward the center of the wooden box. “Ah!” The instant my body contacted the surface, hundreds of tacks simultaneously impaled my palms, my knees, and my shins. The agony turned my vision red. I tried to curl up to shield my abdomen, but the slightest movement drove the pins deeper. Warm blood immediately saturated the thin fabric of my dancewear, spreading into sickening, dark stains on the wood. “Dance.” Lachlan stood just outside the spotlight, his voice laced with cruel anticipation. “You love it so much, don’t you?” I tried to push myself up, trembling, but my hands slipped the moment I lifted them from the tacks, throwing my balance. A tack plunged deep into the arch of my right foot. I threw my head back, a broken, involuntary sob tearing from my throat. That desperate movement put tremendous pressure on my belly. A sudden, sharp, twisting pain made me freeze. Something was terribly wrong. “The baby, Lachlan. Please, save the baby.” 2 I managed to look up, seeing blood now streaming down my inner thigh. A gush of amniotic fluid, already stained crimson, spread across the wooden surface. I could smell the metallic tang of blood, the scent of life—mine and the baby’s—ebbing away. Lachlan finally took a half step forward. The light cast harsh shadows on his sculpted features. I thought, hoped, his heart might soften. Instead, he spoke into his phone. “Kinsley? Are you watching the feed? She won’t ever dance again.” A tearing pain erupted in my abdomen. I convulsed, doubling over, my fingers clawing at the wooden surface, only to be pierced again by the tacks. The physical torment was eclipsed only by the realization: my suffering, my humiliation, was being offered up as a trophy to another woman. “Lachlan, the baby.” I trembled, weakly reaching out a bloody hand, my voice a barely audible whisper. “I think… I’m in labor.” “More of your theatrics?” Lachlan scoffed, his eyes sweeping disdainfully over my soaked clothes. “Anya, your acting skills truly have improved.” The side door of the theater swung open. Kinsley Wells glided in, her stiletto heels clicking sharply on the concrete floor. She wore a pristine white dress, radiating an artificial purity under the spotlights. “Lach, honey, I came to watch Anya dance!” Her overly sweet voice grated in the empty space. I writhed on the tacks, agony making me sweat profusely. My fingernails dug into the wood, immediately drawing more blood. Kinsley approached, then suddenly pressed a hand to her nose and gasped dramatically. “Oh my God, what is that smell?” She pretended to look down at my drenched skirt, her expression one of manufactured shock. “Anya, you didn’t… did you lose control? Is she wetting herself?” Lachlan frowned, a flicker of disgust crossing his face. He actually took a half step back. That small movement hurt more than any of his words. “It’s my water.” I struggled to lift my torso, cold sweat pouring down my temples. “Please, call an ambulance.” Kinsley suddenly crouched down, scrutinizing my pained, twisted face up close. Her red lips curved into a wicked smile. She spoke just loud enough for only me to hear. “Watch closely, Anya. I’m going to show you, right now, who Lachlan will choose.” “Ah!” Before I could react, Kinsley grabbed my hand. She yanked hard and then, with a sharp cry, dramatically threw herself backward, near the edge of the riser. A few tacks scraped her slender arm, leaving shallow, insignificant lines of blood. “Kinsley!” Lachlan’s eyes went wide. He lunged forward instantly, shoving me aside to sweep her into his arms. My already precarious body, weakened and bleeding, was thrown off balance by his shove. I crashed fully onto the center of the wooden box. Several tacks drove deep into my back. The intense, piercing pain made my vision go black, and a guttural cry escaped my throat. “Lach, honey, it hurts so bad.” Kinsley clung to him, tears streaming down her face, her voice fragile and heartbroken. Lachlan’s eyes flashed with a murderous rage. He turned his head and glared at me, the fire in his eyes threatening to incinerate me. “Anya Reid, are you trying to die?!” Then, he slammed his foot into my stomach! “CRACK!” The impact sent me flying off the riser and onto the hard concrete floor. A firestorm of pain exploded in my abdomen. I curled into a fetal position, cold sweat soaking my entire body. I clutched my belly, tears and blood pooling beneath my head. “The baby! My baby!” Lachlan watched me, his voice a cold snarl. “Anya, you’re truly disgusting. How dare you push Kinsley?” Kinsley leaned against him, her face a mask of tearful fragility. “Lachlan, does Anya hate me? I only wanted to watch her dance.” Lachlan gently wiped her tears, his voice laced with tenderness. “Don’t be scared, darling. I’m here. No one will ever hurt you.” With that, he lifted Kinsley into his arms and walked away. He didn’t spare me a final glance. Only the guards remained, looking uncomfortable. “What do we do with her?” “We can’t just let her die, can we?” “This is a mess. Take her to the hospital.” 3 I lay on a freezing gurney, blood continuously pooling beneath me. “My God, what happened to her?” “Where is the family? The patient is hemorrhaging badly, risk of emergency delivery and fetal distress. We need to operate immediately!” The doctor frantically looked around, seeing only the cluster of awkward security guards. “Where is the father? We need his signature!” The guards exchanged uncertain looks and finally called Lachlan. Over the phone, Lachlan’s voice was detached and utterly sarcastic. “What is she faking now? The doctor already confirmed the baby was stable.” “Mr. Mercer, the doctor says your wife is in distress. It’s a very critical situation.” “Hmph.” He sneered. “Her due date is weeks away.” “Anya’s best skill is acting. She’d use her own child as leverage. Tell the doctor to let her get on with whatever she’s doing and not to bother me again.” The line went dead. The doctor’s face fell. “Absurd! This is a matter of life and death!” I lay on the moving stretcher, my consciousness starting to fade. But Lachlan’s final words cut through the pain, sharp and absolute. He didn’t care if his child lived or died. The intense pain was a constant blur as I was rushed into the operating room. Under the blazing surgical lights, I felt my life force slowly draining away. In a haze, I saw Lachlan’s retreating back, holding Kinsley. So final. So cruel. He really didn’t love me. He didn’t even want our baby. Then I knew. I wouldn’t love him anymore, either. “Blood pressure dropping rapidly!” “Prep for transfusion!” “Patient is in shock!” The voices of the medical team grew distant. My world dissolved into a heavy darkness. When I woke up again, a doctor was standing over me, his expression complicated and sorrowful. “Ms. Reid, I have some unfortunate news.” My hand automatically went to my abdomen. It was terrifyingly flat. “The baby?” My voice was hoarse, unrecognizable. The doctor sighed. “I am so sorry. You arrived with severe hemorrhaging and catastrophic amniotic fluid loss. We did everything we could, but the baby suffered an acute lack of oxygen and passed away.” My entire world imploded. Eight months. I had felt him grow day by day. I had bought small outfits, imagined the first time he would call me Mommy. Now, it was all gone. “Also,” the doctor hesitated. “Your feet and knees had multiple deep puncture wounds. We’ve cleaned and sutured them, but…” “Will I ever dance again?” I gripped the bedsheet so tightly my knuckles turned white. The doctor was silent for a long moment. “Theoretically, yes. But it will severely limit your ability to perform high-level professional work, and you will require years of intensive physical therapy.” The first clear thought I had was to call the funeral home. I had to bury my child. The second was to call my lawyer. I needed divorce papers drafted immediately. I saw Lachlan three days later. He pushed the door open and walked straight to my bedside. “Anya Reid, how long are you going to keep up this act?” He looked down at me, his eyes filled with sheer annoyance. “Have you had your fun? I told you Kinsley and I are nothing. I’m giving you the wedding.” I stared at him, suddenly realizing this man was a complete stranger. His gaze finally drifted to my flat abdomen. A look of startled confusion, then sudden, misplaced joy, flashed across his face. “You delivered early? Why didn’t you tell me? Where is the baby? Is it a boy or a girl?” That was the moment the dam broke. My tears finally came, hot and endless. The door swung open just then. It was the funeral home attendant, carrying a small, rose-pink velvet box. My voice was quiet, almost unnervingly calm. I pointed to the small box. “You wanted to see the baby?” “He’s right there.”

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When Malcolm Reynold, CEO of the Carrington Group, finally decided to “recognize his son,” I was deep inside the counting room of my high-stakes private club, tallying the house’s take. A black Range Rover smashed through the gilded lobby doors, scattering fine mahogany and sparking a chorus of screams. Before I could even stand up, two of their private security men had me slammed face-down on the felt table. “Look at the gutter trash. A pathetic gambling addict,” a voice sneered. It was Pierce Reynold, Malcolm’s slick, self-important stepson. He looked at me with open disgust, then threw a serrated knife onto the table. “Father is feeling charitable. He’s offering you a chance to reclaim your name, Kian. A chance to go home.” Pierce’s voice dripped with condescension. “You self-mutilate. Three fingers, cut clean to settle your debts and cleanse the filth. Otherwise, you’re never setting foot inside the Carrington estate.” I kicked out, tripping the overzealous guard on my right, and felt a cold rage bloom in my chest. “Who the hell are you to give me orders?” I spat, pushing myself up. “This city is mine. I don’t need your broken-down mansion, and I certainly don’t need your approval.” 1 Malcolm Reynold’s oldest, Blair Reynold—the one who actually emerged from the sleek black Bentley—pointed a sharp, lacquered nail at me and addressed her security detail. “Is that really him? I thought we were here for the missing heir, not a B-list mobster.” The guards, wielding shock-batons, began clearing the floor. Chips and cocktails were abandoned as the high rollers scrambled for the exit. I stood slowly, my expression fixed, but before I could move, a handful of my own floor managers and less-loyal associates swarmed me. “Kian, we heard you’re the lost heir to the Carrington billions. Is it true?” “You’re going back to the top of the food chain, boss. Does that mean we get to carve up this territory?” The desperate, greedy whispers were a ringing chorus in the sudden silence. I shoved through them, stepping onto an overturned bar stool to gain some height. Pierce, seeing my movement, recoiled two steps, his face a mask of revulsion as he looked me up and down. “Such a common, uncultured street thug.” “Father reiterated his offer,” he continued, adjusting his bespoke cufflink. “A chance to finally be clean.” He raised his chin, pulling a gleaming, tactical knife from a holster at his waist and tossing it to the floor near my feet. “Do the right thing. Cut three fingers. Sever your ties to these unsavory, back-alley dealings. The Carringtons welcome the prodigal son, but we don’t allow those with unclean hands into the family chapel.” I glanced at the knife, a humorless twist to my lips. I pulled a cigarette from my pocket. “Are you concussed? Who the hell do you think you are, setting rules for me?” I took a slow drag. “The damage to my property today? Every single cent is coming out of your trust fund.” I was done with this juvenile drama. I turned to head to my office to check the surveillance feed. He lunged to block my path, panic flashing in his eyes. “Kian Blackwood! The whole family is waiting! Don’t you dare disrespect us! You’re turning down a seat on the board to manage a petty gambling den?” He reached out to grab my expensive silk shirt. I caught his wrist, twisted it back against the bone, and drove my heel into the back of his knee. “Hands off.” My voice was low, laced with the kind of warning that had kept me alive on the streets. “Whether I carry the Carrington name or not, you are not a person who can afford to cross me.” “Touch me again, and I guarantee you walk in vertical and leave horizontal.” Pierce hit the marble floor, his hand landing in a slick of spilled champagne and liquor. “You! You worthless piece of—” The few loyal subordinates who remained began murmuring among themselves. “Mr. Reynold, Kian is the real power here. Are you really asking him to cut off his fingers?” “This is family. Isn’t that a bit extreme, even for the Carringtons?” Pierce scrambled up, pushing away the security guard trying to help him. He forced a strained, brittle smile. “We’re family, of course. No one wants Kian back more than I do.” “I’m simply the elder son, setting the house rules. The Carrington name allows for rough edges, but there is a basic code of conduct.” He looked straight at me, his meaning obvious. “I, for one, didn’t have to beg favors from wealthy older women just to clear my bookie’s tab.” I let out a short, cold burst of laughter and lit the cigarette. “You, Pierce? Are you actually related to the Carringtons in any meaningful way?” I let the word hang in the air. “You’re an adopted placeholder, nothing more. Don’t mistake yourself for the main course.” The insult found its mark. The veins on Pierce’s neck bulged. “Shut up!” he hissed, refusing to make a full scene in front of the witnesses. I flicked my ash onto the pristine floor. “Can’t take a little heat?” “This is tedious. Get lost if you can’t speak like an adult.” The room buzzed with renewed speculation. “What’s the game here? They came to find the heir, but they’re pushing him away?” “Maybe they do look down on him being the son of a club owner. Do they think all of us are just common thugs?” Pierce’s face was the color of cement, his teeth clamped shut. It was clear they hadn’t counted on me having this much leverage. I crushed the cigarette under my heel just as another long, black Maybach screeched to a halt outside the shattered entrance. The man who stepped out—the family’s head butler, a prim, funereal figure—hurried to Malcolm’s children first. “Mr. Pierce, Ms. Blair, the Senator received the alert and will be arriving shortly.” Then he turned to me, the tone shifting to one of chilling contempt. “Mr. Reynold said that mixing with this gambling crowd is not proper. If you wish to join the family, you must make a gesture. Three fingers are a small price. Chop them, and the past is wiped clean.” 2 The collective gasp from my managers and rivals was audible. “I thought Kian was finally getting out. Looks like the Carringtons see him as a liability.” “He’ll be under their thumb, even with the bloodline.” Just then, my assistant, Jesse, scrambled through the crowd, sweat pouring down his face, and grabbed my arm. “Boss, you’re trying to be a living martyr! Just swallow your pride and play along!” “You’re all over the news! The entire city is calling you an ungrateful fool! This is the Carrington Group! We can’t afford to make enemies, so just step back!” I looked at a panicked, red-eyed Jesse and clapped him on the shoulder. “Relax. If the sky falls, I’ll catch it.” Jesse leaned in, his voice tight with desperation. “Boss! Do you know who Blair Reynold is?” “The Financial Oversight Commission, Kian! She can freeze our licenses tomorrow! Getting on her bad side is suicide!” My phone buzzed in my pocket. Jesse snatched it up, his expression turning to pure dread as he answered. “What? An unscheduled audit? They’re suspending the liquor and gambling permits?” He gave me a death stare. “I have to go handle this. Just apologize to Mr. Pierce, please.” Suicide? I almost laughed aloud. My adoptive father, Silas Vaughn, ran half the global high-stakes gambling world. The Carringtons were mere amateurs by comparison. I only kept my identity quiet because Silas preferred a low profile. The Carringtons couldn’t make me bow down. Pierce, seeing Jesse’s panic, couldn’t contain his smugness. “What’s the matter? Feeling the pressure now?” “One call from my sister, and this entire operation goes dark. Do exactly as I say.” The front door opened again. A woman in a tailored skirt suit and stiletto heels strode in. Pierce rushed to her, grabbing Blair’s arm with a desperate, relieved smile. “Blair, you’re finally here!” Blair looked me over, her expression ice-cold. “You’re Kian Blackwood?” The crowd pushed closer, the whispers gaining volume. “Jesse’s been loyal for ten years. They’re really hitting Kian’s business that fast?” “It looks like the blood relative is less important to the Carringtons than the adopted ones they raised.” Blair crossed her arms, her voice sharp. “So you share a bloodline. So what?” “You assault family members the moment we arrive. You’ve been running wild for too long, without an ounce of decency or discipline!” I didn’t answer, subtly drafting a text to my adoptive father. Blair’s face hardened. “I don’t care how many debts you’ve cleared on your own. The Carrington Group is not a crowd you mess with!” “One more outburst, and I’ll stop being civil!” The spectators shifted their gaze between us. I stood under the chandelier, my smile mocking. “There are a lot of eyes on this, Blair. Your family invaded my establishment and caused massive damage.” “You demanded I mutilate myself. Self-defense seems appropriate.” “Besides, the license suspension has already started, hasn’t it? Why pretend to be the bigger person?” I took a step toward her. “Is that what we call abuse of authority? Using your government position for a personal vendetta?” A few of the major investors and business partners in the room instantly shifted their posture. Kian had just flipped the script, questioning her professional ethics in front of the city’s elite. Pierce was sweating, forcing a sickly, strained smile. “My, my brother. A misunderstanding. Blair is just direct. No malice intended.” Blair simply adjusted her hair, her voice offering a false generosity. “If you just come home quietly, all past events are nullified. The Carringtons are generous. Chop your fingers, clean up this sordid mess of a life, and come back. We understand that life on the streets required you to employ some… questionable tactics.” I suppressed the urge to laugh, reaching out to tap a button on the control panel. The main floor lights instantly dimmed by half. The emergency lights cast a stark, white glow on Pierce’s pale face. I walked right up to him, my voice carrying clearly through the semi-darkness. “You didn’t actually think you were the first person to find out who I am, did you?” “Let me warn you clearly: whether I accept this family or not is my decision. And you, outsider, have no say in the matter.” 3 After I was taken, my mother was consumed by guilt. She spent years searching, eventually succumbing to depression. Her pleas and ads—complete with a massive reward—were plastered all over the city. My adoptive father saw them and called countless times, only to be dismissed. Until one day, my maternal grandfather finally picked up the phone. After much deliberation, Senator Alistair Carrington decided to leave me exactly where I was, with my adoptive family. For years, he had been strategically maneuvering, quietly setting the stage, waiting for the precise moment that would allow me to return to the Carrington Group with indisputable power. Pierce, sensing a shift in the mood, suddenly raised his voice, a desperate attempt to regain control. “So the old man found you! So what? Father runs the Carrington Group now!” He straightened his back, a note of arrogance returning. “I am the rightful heir! You’ve been a stray for twenty years. What could you possibly offer that I don’t?” I shook my head. If he was truly in line to inherit the Group, they wouldn’t have gone to this dramatic effort to find me. I scoffed, picking up a handful of high-value chips and idly stacking them. “In that case, we can wait until Chairman Reynold gets here to continue the discussion.” Word travels fast in this city. Even the club’s guests were pressing against the railing, desperate to witness the drama. The more people, the more interesting the show. I actually instructed a server to send a round of high-end champagne to the VIP onlookers. Into this surreal, charged atmosphere, a voice, choked with suppressed fury, roared from the entrance. “What in God’s name is this racket?!” The crowd parted instantly. Malcolm Reynold walked in, his face etched with fury and a sickly green hue. I slowly stood, meeting his eye across the distance, a challenging, amused smile on my lips. “Chairman Reynold. You certainly know how to make an entrance.” Under the intense, critical gaze of my onlookers, he immediately lost his composure and barked at the crowd. “Are you all trying to get fired? Get back to your tables!” The managers and elite guests were instantly outraged. “Excuse me? Is this your club?” “Seriously? He’s abusing his own son, and now he’s threatening us? What kind of lowlife is he?” The vein in Malcolm’s temple pulsed furiously. “The DNA test isn’t finalized yet! You open a simple club, and you think you’re untouchable?!” “I am willing to let him claim his family name—that is a privilege! For him to mouth off and shame the Carrington name like this is an outrage!” I looked at his bluster, his transparent effort to project authority, and felt a wave of absolute absurdity. An average man, a hanger-on who had married into my mother’s family and built a career on her wealth, dared to try and play the paternal role with me? Blair, seeing my continued silence, mistook it for fear. She immediately pointed at the crowd and barked orders to her security. “Get these unwanted people out! And anyone who dares to spread rumors about the Carrington name will be dealt with severely!” Most of the onlookers, intimidated by the Carrington name, reluctantly dispersed. But a few older, more entrenched business magnates—the true power brokers of the city—remained calmly seated in the VIP booths, sipping their drinks. Pierce, sensing the tide turning back in their favor, squared his shoulders. “Looks like you’re going home, whether you like it or not, little brother. Submit now, and you’ll find it much easier.” Malcolm scowled with blatant disgust. “He’s running rampant just because of a slight blood connection. He clearly needs a lesson in respect.” “Take him! We’re dragging him back today, even if we have to use force!” Several Carrington guards advanced on me. At that exact moment, a voice, deep and resonating with undeniable authority, thundered from the entrance. “Who dares lay a hand on my grandson!” A silver-haired patriarch, leaning heavily on a polished oak walking stick, slowly entered the room, surrounded by an entourage. The true center of power in this saga: Senator Alistair Carrington. My grandfather. 4 Malcolm, Blair, and Pierce froze, their faces a picture of utter shock. They couldn’t utter a single word. The shock of losing his grandson and the subsequent death of his daughter had nearly destroyed the Senator. For years, he had been largely confined to the estate, entrusting the majority of the Group’s operations to Malcolm. Until a few weeks ago. The old family butler, sorting through my mother’s personal effects, discovered a hidden compartment—and inside it, my mother’s old, discarded cell phone, filled with years of my adoptive father’s unanswered calls. The Senator had quietly followed the trail and found me. More importantly, he had already seen through Malcolm Reynold’s ambition. The hanger-on had been systematically siphoning assets and installing his own loyalists for years. His rush to “find” me was simply a move to install a legitimate blood relative—a puppet—to gain full, undisputed control over the Carrington Group. The Senator walked right up to me. His eyes, though clouded by age, sparkled with sudden tears. He gently touched my shoulder, his voice trembling. “Kian… I know. The things you’ve endured.” My own throat tightened. I bent down and embraced the man I had only just met. “Grandfather.” Malcolm swallowed hard, stammering. “Father… Sir, why are you here? You should have called ahead!” The Senator slammed his walking stick onto the marble floor with a deafening crack, his voice booming with fury. “If I hadn’t come, would my flesh-and-blood grandson have been mutilated and dragged home like a stray dog?!” “Malcolm Reynold! Do you think I’m an imbecile?!” Sweat streamed down Malcolm’s forehead as he hastily tried to defend himself. “I… I didn’t! I only wanted to teach him proper decorum. After all, a gambling club is no place for a future CEO…” “Decorum?!” The Senator was shaking with rage. “Does a man who married into the family, a man who doesn’t even carry the name, get to dictate the rules of the Carrington house?!” The room exploded. The few remaining old-guard magnates exchanged knowing glances. One of them chuckled loudly. “Well, well. It seems Chairman Reynold isn’t a Reynold at all, is he?” Malcolm’s face went instantly white. It was the one truth he had sacrificed everything to bury. To join the Carrington family, he had changed his name and severed all ties to his own past. To have it exposed publicly was a deeper humiliation than any physical assault. Blair, seeing the utter collapse, quickly stepped forward and took the Senator’s arm, softening her tone. “Grandfather, please. We are family. There’s no need for this scene. It will only hurt the Group’s reputation.” The Senator coldly yanked his arm free. “Do you even have the right to call me that?” His sharp eyes swept over the Reynold siblings, his words cutting deep. “One of you is a woman he dragged in from an affair, and the other is a bastard he raised as his own. Do you truly believe the Carrington name is so desperate for heirs that we’d welcome filth?” Pierce visibly flinched, shouting hysterically, “I am not a bastard!” “Silence!” The Senator pointed the stick right at Pierce’s nose. “You and your shameless mother—did you really think I wouldn’t find out how you schemed against my daughter?!” The onlookers, who hadn’t fully dispersed, surged forward again. “Holy hell! An absolute bombshell!” “So Pierce is illegitimate? And Blair was a package deal?” “No wonder they were desperate to cut the real heir’s hands off. They’re terrified of losing their status!” Blair’s face was green with mortification. She grabbed both Malcolm and Pierce, pulling them toward the entrance. “We’re leaving. We won’t be humiliated here.”

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Scarlett Grey, the CEO of Starlights Dynamics, stood by my desk. Her voice was ice. “Nolan Robin, pack up your things.” “Why?” “Your contract expired. The company won’t be renewing it.” A faint, almost invisible smile played on her lips. “It’s the company’s right. Perfectly reasonable, perfectly legal.” I looked at the computer screen. The email that had just popped up, its subject line a blinding flash of irony. [National Patent Office: Dear Mr. Nolan Robin, your invention patent, ‘The Quantum Charging Matrix,’ has received final approval.] My patent was approved the day after they fired me. Slowly, I lifted my head and looked at her face, exquisite yet utterly devoid of warmth. “Understood.” 1 My name is Nolan Robin. I was a core R&D engineer at Starlights Dynamics. For three years, I shouldered nearly every battery technology challenge the company faced. A ninety-hour workweek was standard. Sleeping under my desk was routine. Scarlett Grey, the parachuted-in CEO, had only done one thing since taking over six months ago: slash the R&D budget and declare marketing the new king. Chad Bell, her slick-talking Marketing Director, had successfully minimized the R&D department into a high-cost nuisance. Reasonable? You package my three years of core technical achievement into your quarterly report, then kick me, the “high-priced deadweight,” out the door? That’s certainly your definition of “reasonable.” I kept my face expressionless and began unplugging my monitor cables. “Nolan, don’t drag your feet. Ms. Grey’s time is valuable.” Chad folded his arms, wearing the smug smirk of a man who’d just won a petty battle. “The company respects loyalty, so your severance package won’t be missing a single dime. Take the money and get lost. You’re an eyesore.” My colleagues cast me a variety of looks: pity, regret, but mostly schadenfreude and cold indifference. They’d disliked me for a long time. I was the best technician, earned the biggest bonuses, and was the least sociable. I ignored Chad’s yapping, quietly packing a few professional texts and personal items into a cardboard box. I didn’t have many personal effects at my workstation. To me, this place was just a workshop for technical concepts. Now, this workshop didn’t need me anymore. Scarlett looked down at me, her gaze a mixture of scrutiny and impatience. It was as if my continued presence, even for a second, was polluting her territory. “Nolan, you should learn gratitude. Starlights gave you the platform for your achievements. Don’t harbor resentment over a minor setback.” Her tone was patronizing, a handout from on high. I paused, nearly laughing out loud. Grateful? For being run into the ground, stripped of my value, and then dumped like old hardware? I looked up, meeting her eyes. My voice was calm, placid as dead water: “Ms. Grey is right.” My appearance of compliance seemed to satisfy her. She nodded, turned, and her heels clicked on the floor—crisp, definitive, a closing chorus to my exit. Chad followed her, turning back to mouth a single word at me: Loser. I carried the box and walked toward the main doors, every colleague’s gaze boring into my back. Muffled whispers rose behind me. “Serves him right, acting so high and mighty all the time. Look at him now.” “Heard he crossed Chad, and Chad’s the CEO’s favorite.” “Still, it’s a shame. His tech was genuinely good…” “Good for what? This is the age of viral marketing. Knowing how to spin a story is way more important than writing code!” I didn’t look back. Stepping out through the revolving door, the afternoon sun felt harsh and blinding. I took a deep breath, pulled out my phone, and dialed the number that had called me three days ago. It was answered immediately. “Hello? Who is this?” A bright, clear woman’s voice, edged with anxiety. “It’s Nolan Robin.” A two-second pause, then an explosion of surprise and joy: “Mr.Robin! You finally called back! I’m Camille Quinn, from Quinn Industries. We spoke about the—” “I know.” I cut her off. “Is that technology partnership you mentioned still on the table?” “Yes! Absolutely, yes!” Camille’s voice was shaky with excitement. “Mr.Robin, are you saying… your ‘Quantum Charging Matrix’ patent, you’re willing to work with us?” I looked back at the towering glass facade of Starlights Dynamics, a cold curve on my lips. “No. Not a collaboration.” “I want Quinn Industries to back me in launching a new company. And I want Starlights Dynamics erased from this industry within ninety days.” 2 Camille was stunned into silence. The line went quiet for a full ten seconds. “Mr.Robin, are you… are you serious? Starlights Dynamics might be struggling, but they’re still the market leader. A dying horse is still bigger than a rabbit.” Her uncertainty was palpable. “I’m serious.” My voice was quiet, but every word landed like a steel spike. “Is your patent… does it really have that much leverage?” Camille asked cautiously. “It’s not a matter of leverage,” I said calmly. “It doesn’t just improve the game. It fundamentally rewrites the physics of it. Starlights Dynamics and their precious old tech will be swept into the dustbin of history alongside the rest of their obsolete assumptions.” A technology that cuts a phone’s charge time from two hours to five minutes, while tripling battery life? You think that’s just ‘leverage’? The impact of my statement clearly exceeded Camille’s expectations. She took a sharp breath, her tone shifting to one of utmost seriousness: “Mr.Robin, I need to report this to my grandfather immediately. Give me ten minutes—no, five! Please keep your line open!” I hung up, carried the cardboard box, and sat on a park bench by the street. The traffic rushed by, but my mind was utterly calm. Three years of my life, paid back with a termination notice and a demand for “gratitude.” Ridiculous. If Scarlett and Chad hadn’t been so absolute, I might have felt some lingering loyalty and offered Starlights a license for a secondary version of the tech. But now, they had personally slammed the last door shut. In that case, they couldn’t complain when I tore the whole damn building down. Less than three minutes later, Camille’s call came in, but this time, the voice on the line was old, deep, and forceful. “Is this the young man, Nolan Robin? I’m Alistair Quinn.” Alistair Quinn, the founder of Quinn Industries, a titan of American industry. My heart gave a small thump, but my voice remained level: “Mr. Quinn. Hello.” “Hahaha! Excellent, excellent, Nolan Robin!” Alistair’s laugh was hearty. “Camille told me everything. Ninety days to make Starlights disappear! That’s a hell of a target! I like it!” He wasn’t questioning me; it was the appreciation of a master chess player who’d found an equal. “Young man, I have only one question for you,” Alistair said, his tone turning serious. “The patent ownership is one hundred percent in your name, with absolutely no dispute or claim from Starlights Dynamics. Is that correct?” “Correct,” I answered without hesitation. “I developed it on my personal equipment, on my own time. All data and documentation have timestamps proving no legal relationship with Starlights. They didn’t even know the project existed.” That was my ace in the hole. “Good!” Alistair announced, the decision made. “If that is the case, then you, Nolan, are a friend I want to keep! You want to start a company? Quinn Industries will fund it! You need people? All our top technical talent is yours! You need distribution? Our global sales network is wide open!” “I have only one condition.” “Name it, Mr. Quinn.” “I want you to bring your technology and come to Quinn Industries headquarters. I want to personally witness the launch of a new era!” “No problem,” I stood up. “Send me the address. I’m on my way.” Hanging up, I tossed the cardboard box containing my ‘entire life’ at Starlights into a nearby trash can. The past ends here. I hailed a cab and headed across the city to the financial district, that jungle of steel and glass where power and wealth resided. Quinn Industries HQ. I was coming for it all. 3 Meanwhile, in the CEO’s office at Starlights Dynamics. Scarlett Grey was holding a glass of red wine, gazing out the massive floor-to-ceiling window at the city below. Chad Bell stood behind her, his smile sycophantic. “Ms. Grey, truly visionary. Cutting that hothead Nolan Robin didn’t just save us tens of thousands in costs every month, it sent a message to the rest of the R&D old guard. Two birds, one stone!” Scarlett swirled the wine. Her red lips barely moved: “Just another technician who didn’t understand adaptation. Thought having a little tech mastery meant he could challenge the company. Naive.” In her view, Nolan’s skills were good, but not irreplaceable. More importantly, he was insubordinate, which challenged her authority as the ultimate controller. “Exactly! Who believes in ‘technology is king’ anymore? This is the age of marketing!” Chad affirmed. “Don’t worry, Ms. Grey, I’ve got the next quarter’s marketing strategy ready. Our new product sales are guaranteed to hit new highs!” “Excellent.” Scarlett nodded, satisfied. “Keep a close eye on R&D. No more surprises from them.” “Understood! Mission accomplished!” Chad puffed out his chest. Just then, Scarlett’s private cell phone rang. She glanced at the caller ID, her brows slightly furrowed. It was her father, the retired Chairman of Starlights Dynamics. “Hello, Dad.” “Scarlett! Did you just fire an engineer named Nolan Robin?” On the other end, the old Chairman’s voice was unnaturally urgent, bordering on a subtle tremor. Scarlett frowned. “Yes, an employee whose contract expired. What’s the big deal?” “You fool! You utter fool!” The Chairman was practically shouting. “Do you even know who you just fired? That man was the root of Starlights Dynamics! He was our future cash cow!” Scarlett was perplexed. “Dad, what are you talking about? He’s just a senior engineer, taking home a seven-figure salary. He was a low-value asset.” “Low-value asset? Let me tell you what low-value means!” The Chairman’s voice was laced with dread. “Quinn Industries just issued an emergency announcement: In three days, they’re holding a ‘Disruptive Technology Launch’! The entire investment world is buzzing! They claim it’s a brand-new fast-charging technology that can cut charge time to five minutes!” “What?” Scarlett’s hand tightened on the phone, spilling red wine onto the carpet. Five minutes? Impossible! That defied existing physics! “And the holder of that patent…” The Chairman squeezed out the words, one by one, “is named Nolan Robin!” Boom! A bomb went off in Scarlett’s head. Nolan Robin? The man she’d personally tossed out like trash? She whipped her head around, eyes blazing at Chad. “You told me his technology was nothing special!” Chad, having heard the conversation through the phone, had gone paper-white. His legs felt like jelly; he nearly dropped to his knees. “I… I didn’t know, Ms. Grey! I thought he was just doing optimizations… How was I supposed to know he… he had something like that?” His voice was a pathetic quiver. “Idiot!” Scarlett slammed the phone onto the desk. The screen instantly shattered. Her chest rose and fell rapidly. Her perfect makeup was distorted by pure rage. She finally understood what her father meant by “fool.” She hadn’t just fired an employee. She had personally strangled the future of her company, then gift-wrapped that future and delivered it to her biggest rival! 4 The taxi pulled up in front of the Quinn Industries headquarters. I looked at the skyscraper—even more impressive than the Starlights tower—and felt no emotion. This was my new starting line. As I stepped out, a professional, sharp-looking woman in a business suit rushed to meet me. It was Camille Quinn. “Mr.Robin!” Her face was alight with undisguised excitement and joy. “Welcome! My grandfather is waiting for you on the top floor!” “Hello.” I gave her a small nod. Camille led me into the lobby. All the Quinn employees we passed offered her a respectful greeting while curiously sizing up the young man she was personally escorting. Who’s this kid? The boss’s daughter is personally greeting him? He looks ordinary. Doesn’t seem like a big shot. I ignored their scrutiny and followed Camille into a private elevator. The elevator climbed rapidly. “Mr.Robin, my grandfather has agreed to every one of your demands.” Camille’s eyes sparkled. “The Group will form a brand new subsidiary, with your technology as the sole equity contribution. You will hold 70% of the stock and serve as the CEO. Quinn Industries will inject the first $10 billion and will not participate in any day-to-day management—only provide whatever support you require.” I felt a surge of respect. 70% equity! $10 billion in funding! No interference in management! This wasn’t just a generous offer; it was a gamble, betting half of Quinn’s future on me. Alistair Quinn had immense courage. “I have only one request,” I said. “Please!” “The new company’s name must be ‘Aurora.’” Aurora. It meant the dawn. And it was the end of the Clear Sky (Starlights). Camille paused, then understood the implication and nodded firmly. “Done! Aurora Tech it is!” The elevator doors opened to a massive, elegantly furnished corner office on the top floor. A vigorous old man stood by the window, hands clasped behind his back. Alistair Quinn. He turned, his sharp eyes scrutinizing me, trying to see straight through me. I met his gaze openly. After a long moment, Alistair burst into laughter: “Wonderful! A true young lion! Poised, confident, with fire in his eyes! Nolan Robin, welcome!” He skipped all pleasantries and immediately had the prepared contracts brought out. I scanned the document. The terms were even more favorable than Camille had stated. I picked up the pen and signed my name. From this moment on, I was no longer a pawn. I was Nolan Robin, the Founder of Aurora Tech. “Nolan, how are you preparing for the launch event in three days?” Alistair asked. “I don’t need to prepare,” I handed the signed contract back. “My technology is all the preparation I need.” “On the day of the launch, I will expose every lie Starlights is built on, and then, I will personally ring the death knell of the company I left behind.”

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1 When I was at my lowest, I took in Sebastian Blackwood, the destitute illegitimate son of the city’s wealthiest family. After using him for four years, I discarded him without a second thought. The next time we met, he was head of the Blackwood empire. My half-sister Lila hung on his arm, sneering at my wretched state. “Sienna, did you ever think this would happen when you dumped Sebastian for money?” For revenge, Sebastian bought every hospital in Crestfall City and raised my mother’s life-saving medication price a hundredfold. He forced me into a month as his secret lover in exchange for the millions needed for her treatment. With three days left, he pushed me until I blacked out on the bed. Drifting in and out, I heard him on the balcony: “…Campus beauty? She’s just a vain, gold-digging tramp.” Another voice warned: “Don’t let that innocent act fool you again. Remember the plan—get even for Lila, then leave her.” I heard a cigarette being crushed. “Don’t worry,” Sebastian replied, cold and flat. “I stopped feeling anything for her long ago.” When I woke, he was gone. All that was left was a familiar bottle of pills on the nightstand. The conversation replayed in my mind as I dry-swallowed a tablet. The bitter pill scraped my throat, and a metallic tang of blood rose in my mouth, just like the wound Sebastian had just carved into my heart. I knew he could be cruel, but I never imagined this. He knew. He knew that if I didn’t have the money in three days, my mother couldn’t have her surgery. And without that surgery, I would lose the only person in the world who truly loved me. And he still left. Tears fell, hot and silent. I forced myself up, got dressed, and checked out of the hotel. The moment I stepped outside, Lila’s call came through. Her voice was a needle, sharp and triumphant, piercing my ear. “I heard you were begging Sebastian for money for your mother’s surgery.” A cruel laugh. “Too bad he’ll never give it to you. You’re not worthy.” “He’d rather spend five million on a mausoleum for my dead puppy than waste a single cent on you. Got it?” Five million. The exact amount my mother needed. In Sebastian’s eyes, was my mother’s life now worth less than Lila’s dead dog? The world went dark at the edges, and my knees buckled. It took several long minutes before I could hail a cab to the Crawford estate. The last time I was here, I’d run into Sebastian, three years after our breakup. He had watched, his eyes cold and distant, as Lila and my stepmother, Veronica, the cuckoos who had stolen my nest, humiliated me. I should have known then. He was playing with me from the very start. He was never going to help me. My timing was terrible. It was dinnertime. The happy little family of three sat at the dining table, their laughter echoing in the grand hall, leaving me to stand by the door like a stray. Once, this had been my life, too. Lila pointed at me with her fork, a smirk on her face. “Wow, you didn’t waste any time. Calling you wasn’t enough? My dad and your mom have been divorced for ages. Don’t you have any shame, still coming here for money?” The man who was once my loving father didn’t even look at me. Veronica, no longer the fawning woman who used to flatter my mother, radiated the smugness of new money. She patted her daughter’s hand in a mock chiding. “Now, now, Lila. How can you speak that way? Sienna is your sister.” “I don’t have a sister that shameless!” Lila snapped, turning away in disgust. Years ago, those words would have shattered me. But I had endured too much pain since then. Hearing them now didn’t bring the same crushing despair I felt when I first saw my father in bed with Veronica. All that was left was a heart already broken into dust. A cold wind whipped through the open doorway, and my legs, weak from a day of kneeling—metaphorically and literally—began to tremble. I took a step forward, about to plead my case one more time, when Lila shot up from her chair, her eyes sparkling with delight. “Sebastian! I thought you said you couldn’t make it!” The sharp click of expensive leather shoes on the marble floor and a man’s mocking voice sounded behind me at the same time. “You said there was a good show.” Lila hooked her arm through Sebastian’s and sauntered over to me. She pointed, her voice dripping with scorn. “The show is right here!” she announced. “I told you she’d be back, begging for more!” “Sienna, you must be kicking yourself, right? To think you dumped Sebastian for money, and now look at him. But hey, thanks for throwing him away. It gave me my chance.” Lila prattled on, and Sebastian’s gaze on me grew colder and colder, as if we were trapped in the memory of that day five years ago. But that wasn’t how it happened. Not at all. I never abandoned Sebastian. He was the one who abandoned me. 2 Seven years ago, to make a place for Veronica and Lila in our home, my father used every dirty trick he could think of. He not only forced my mother and me out with nothing but also orchestrated the ruin of her music academy. Her reputation was destroyed, and she was saddled with millions in debt. And right then, she got sick. To pay off the debts as fast as possible, I dropped out of college. I worked from dawn till dusk, a chaotic blur of jobs. I went from the pampered Crawford heiress whose hands had never known a day of work to a girl juggling eight part-time gigs. That’s when I met Sebastian. I found him on the streets, another soul cast out, and took him in. He was the Blackwoods’ illegitimate son, despised by everyone. People humiliated him just to curry favor with his legitimate older brother. Two miserable souls, we found each other. One desperate for money for medicine, the other desperate for respect. During the day, he delivered food, and I worked my jobs. At night, we’d huddle together in our cramped 200-square-foot apartment, pooling the cash we’d earned. Sebastian gave every penny to me. His dreams could wait, he’d said. My mother’s health was what mattered most. On my twenty-third birthday, he bought me a teddy bear cake I’d been eyeing for months. As I made a wish, he slipped a ring onto my finger. He promised he would marry me before my next birthday. I waited, my heart full of joy, to become his bride. Instead, it was his biological father who showed up. He offered me a check to leave Sebastian. I refused. So he sent thugs to trash my mother’s hospital room and threatened the staff into discharging her. Seeing my mother lying in a hallway, writhing in pain, I finally broke. I was terrified. I called Sebastian, but he didn’t answer. When I finally found him, he was having a candlelit dinner with Lila. He knew exactly who she was. He knew she was the daughter of the woman who had destroyed my family. And still, he personally fed her a piece of steak. Under the soft, romantic glow, they looked like a perfect couple. Later, I took the check. I packed my things and left the little apartment we had called home for four years. I left him only a single note. Get out. I’m done with you. I thought that was the end of our story. Until now, when we were face to face once more. He stroked Lila’s hair, his eyes full of a tenderness that was once reserved for me. Seeing it now, I no longer felt the thousand daggers piercing my heart. I was numb. I curled my lips into a hollow smile, my words sharp and precise. “In that case, I wish Miss Crawford and Mr. Blackwood a swift marriage and a lifetime of happiness.” Lila preened. “About time you showed some sense. Sebastian and I are getting engaged soon. Don’t forget to come.” She stepped aside, took out her wallet, and pulled out a few hundred-dollar bills. Just as she was about to throw them at me, Sebastian stopped her hand. His eyes were simmering with a cold anger. “Lila, darling,” he purred, “money isn’t that easy to earn. One has to give something in return, don’t you think?” My fists clenched, my nails digging into my palms. Lila, catching his meaning, put the money away. Instead, she had someone bring down her violin. “Why don’t you perform for us? I’ve always wanted to hear what a city-level champion sounds like.” She pulled Sebastian back to the table. The four of them sat there, chatting idly about the upcoming engagement party as if I were a hired performer. I thought of my mother. If she knew I was using the skill she so lovingly taught me to entertain Veronica and Lila, she would be devastated. But what did it matter? All I wanted was for her to be safe. She was the only family I had left. I would do anything for her. Anything. Taking a deep breath, I swallowed the lump in my throat. I picked up the expensive instrument and settled it on my shoulder. 3 I hadn’t touched a violin in five years. My technique was rusty, clumsy. But Lila was determined to humiliate me; she didn’t care how well I played. An hour later, my vision swam with black spots, and my knees nearly gave out. Lila finally, mercifully, called a stop. “And that’s supposed to be city-level talent?” she sneered. “I heard your mother taught you herself. How disappointing. You’re an insult to my ears.” She threw the cash at my face. The bills fluttered down as she turned to whine to Veronica about something. I pressed my lips together into a thin line and slowly knelt to pick up the scattered money. In the distance, I could hear my father laughing at something Lila said. A cold sweat dripped down my forehead. Suddenly, a polished leather shoe appeared in my vision, pressing down hard on the last hundred-dollar bill. Sebastian’s voice, laced with contempt, rained down on me. “Sienna. Have you no shame?” I looked up, my voice low enough for only him to hear. “And you have shame, Mr. Blackwood? A man who fools around with his fiancée’s sister?” I yanked the bill out from under his shoe. Wobbling to my feet, I clutched the money and walked out of that house. A light rain was falling outside. I ignored the cold sting of the drops on my skin and quickened my pace. My phone rang. It was Mom. The moment I answered, her gentle voice washed away some of the chill in my soul. “Sienna, darling. Was it a busy day? You didn’t come by the hospital.” My eyes burned. I fought to keep the tremor out of my voice. “Yes, I had to work late.” I forced a brightness I didn’t feel. “Mom, I have the money for your hospital bills.” She was silent for a moment. “Sienna… maybe we should just… stop the treatments? I don’t want to be a burden to you anymore…” “Don’t say that!” I cut her off, my voice finally breaking. “Mom, don’t you ever say that. You are not a burden to me.” “You have to live a long, long life. You have to be there on my wedding day, you hear me?” I could hear her start to cry on the other end. “Okay… okay, my love…” she sobbed. “Mommy will live to see her Sienna get married and have children!” Just then, a black sedan with a license plate of all eights screeched to a halt right in front of me. I stumbled back, and my phone clattered into a puddle. The window rolled down. Sebastian’s eyes raked over my drenched form, and a cruel smirk twisted his lips. “Thinking about getting married?” He dragged me into the car and told the driver to park directly in front of the Crawford estate’s main gate. Through the window, I could see Lila swinging on a hammock on her second-floor balcony. I couldn’t even imagine what would happen if she saw this, if she told Veronica. What would they do to me? I didn’t care about my own fate. But my mother… what would happen to my mother? The blood drained from my face. I hissed, my voice low and furious. “Sebastian, are you insane?!” He shoved my head down, his voice calm with a terrifying, wild edge. “Didn’t you just say I had no shame? Good. Let me show you what shameless really looks like.”

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Tidying my son’s room, I stumbled upon his blood donor card. The box for blood type was clearly marked: B. But my husband and I are both type O. How could we have a type B child? I took the card to my husband, Victor. My usually composed, gentle husband flew into a rage. “Our son is in college, Amelia! What more do you want? You’re always so suspicious. Are you having some kind of breakdown?” I insisted on a paternity test. He struck me twice, hard across the face, then stormed out, locking the door from the outside. Hearing the deadbolt turn, a strange laugh escaped my lips. Eighteen years of marriage, of selfless devotion, all fed to the dogs. Calmly, I picked up my phone and dialed the number for my husband’s main competitor. “I’m ready to transfer the patent rights to you.” … 1. After hanging up, a wave of desolation washed over me. Over the years, so many industry giants had extended golden invitations to me. For Victor and our son, Noah, I’d turned them all down, content to be the ghost in the machine of Stone Enterprises. I had given Stone Enterprises patents worth billions without ever seeing a dime in dividends. Looking back now, the foolishness of it was staggering. I sat on the sofa until three in the morning. Victor didn’t come home until the dead of night. We sat in the darkness, a chasm of silence between us. We’d had good times in those eighteen years. When he was first starting his company, I’d stay up with him, poring over business plans. When I got tired, I’d rest my head on his shoulder for a quick nap. He always used to say, “Amelia, when the company makes it big, I’ll give you the world.” And the company did make it big. He was so busy I barely saw him. He’d come home exhausted and collapse into bed. When I told him the house felt empty, he’d say, “But you have Noah to keep you company.” When I said I wanted to go to a concert, he’d say, “Have my assistant go with you. I just can’t get away.” Slowly, I stopped asking. I thought this was just what marriage became. A slow burn from passion to placid companionship, from romance to the comfort of family. Now, I realize, perhaps I was the only one who made that transition. He had transitioned into something else entirely. At dawn, I rose and went to the kitchen, only to find Victor there. He hadn’t cooked in years. “You’re awake?” He looked at me, dark circles under his eyes. “I made breakfast.” On the table were glasses of milk, toasted bread, and fried eggs, slightly burnt around the edges. He sat down, and neither of us mentioned the day before. “Noah’s coming home next week.” My hand, wrapped around my mug, tensed. “I know.” His voice dropped. “Amelia, please, don’t overthink this. I promise I’ll spend more time with you and Noah from now on.” I looked up at him. I had looked at this face for eighteen years, watched it morph from youthful ambition to weathered success. I used to be able to tell a real smile from a fake one, to know his joys and his worries with a single glance. Now, I couldn’t see through him at all. Without meeting his eyes, I asked softly, “When are we doing the paternity test?” The tenderness on his face froze, then slowly dissolved. “You’re really going to force this?” He dropped his fork onto his plate with a sharp clatter. I suddenly remembered when Noah was little. Everyone said he was the spitting image of Victor. Not a single person ever said he looked like me. I stood on the balcony and watched his car pull out of the garage. Then, I went to the study. A set of divorce papers and a property division agreement lay on the desk. I held one hundred percent of the rights to the patents that had built Stone Enterprises. But it had been so long, Victor seemed to have forgotten they weren’t his. My phone rang. It was my mother. “Amelia, dear, are you feeling better today?” her voice was cheerful. “Oh, by the way, your sister is coming back from overseas next week. Victor knew you were feeling down, so he bought Isabelle a ticket. He’s already arranged a director position for her at the company. It’s been so long since you two have seen each other. We’ll all have dinner together next week.” Isabelle. The name made my eyelid twitch. She was coming back, and Victor had arranged it. After all my years of work for the company, I didn’t even have a title. But she was waltzing into a director’s role the moment she stepped off the plane. Flashes of memory surfaced. When had Victor and Isabelle become so close? I pressed my lips together, keeping my voice steady. “What time? I’ll prepare the food.” “No, no! We’ll bring everything. You just rest,” my mother said. She paused. “Amelia, listen to me. Be a little warmer to Victor tonight. You know how men are, their egos need stroking.” I didn’t want to hear any more. I mumbled a few words and hung up. Then I opened my phone and scheduled an expedited service with an out-of-state DNA lab. After that, I went to Noah’s room and collected a few strands of his hair. Once the sample was sent off, I messaged a private investigator, asking him to look into all of Victor’s external financial records. Twelve hours later, the lab report arrived in my inbox. I sat in the study, staring at the file for a long time before I clicked it open. I scrolled straight to the bottom. “Amelia Stone is excluded as the biological mother of Noah Stone.” Even though I had already known the truth in my heart, seeing it in black and white made my hands tremble uncontrollably. Eighteen years. The air hitched in my lungs, and the world tilted on its axis. I closed the file and walked to the window. Outside, it was autumn in Riverton. The leaves of the sycamore trees were turning gold. In the distance, the Ferris wheel at the amusement park turned slowly, and for a moment, I saw the three of us there, happy. I once believed those were the two people I would protect for the rest of my life. My phone buzzed. It was the preliminary report from the investigator. A few bank statement screenshots, several transfer records. Monthly wire transfers from Victor’s personal account to an offshore account, a fixed amount, going back at least a decade. The owner of that offshore account was Isabelle. The amount wasn’t astronomical, but it was more than enough for a very comfortable life abroad. On the last page, the investigator had added a note. Ms. Isabelle has a property overseas, purchased nineteen years ago, paid in full. That was the year I found out I was pregnant. The same year Isabelle went abroad. A horrifying suspicion began to form in my mind. That weekend, my parents arrived as promised, their arms laden with groceries. Isabelle followed them, dressed in a chic cream-colored suit, a delicate gift box in her hand. “Sis,” she said with a bright smile, moving to hug me. I subtly shifted, and her arms closed on empty air. Her smile faltered for a second before she recovered smoothly. “It’s been so long. I brought you a gift.” The dinner table was laden with food. My mother bustled about, while my father and Victor discussed business in the living room. Isabelle naturally took the seat next to Victor. I frowned but said nothing. During the meal, Isabelle reached for a dish, revealing a jade bracelet on her wrist. My gaze froze. I had seen that bracelet two years ago at an auction. The jade was exquisite, a vibrant, translucent green. I had loved it, but the price made me hesitate. Victor had said at the time, “If you like it, we’ll get it. Money isn’t an issue.” I’d replied, “It’s too much. Let’s forget it.” When I asked about it later, he said someone else had bought it. Now, it was on Isabelle’s wrist. “Sis, what are you looking at?” Isabelle noticed my stare and playfully twirled her wrist. “Isn’t this bracelet lovely? Victor gave it to me. Said it suited me.” Victor, who had been sipping soup, choked slightly and looked up at me. “It was a welcome gift, for her new position.” “That’s right, that’s right,” my mother chimed in, smoothing things over. “We’re all family. What’s wrong with a little gift? Amelia, don’t be so petty.” I said nothing, just kept my eyes on Victor. He looked away. Isabelle smiled again, her voice soft. “Don’t misunderstand, sis. I just think some things look better on the right person. Like this bracelet. Doesn’t it seem even more radiant on my wrist than it did at the auction house?” As she spoke, her eyes were on Victor. I knew that look. It was possessive, triumphant. The way a woman looks at her man. After dinner, Isabelle offered to do the dishes. Victor stood up to help, and they disappeared into the kitchen together. I sat in the living room, listening to the sound of running water and their low voices. I couldn’t make out the words, but I could hear Isabelle’s occasional laugh. My mother sat down beside me. “Amelia, look how thoughtful Isabelle is, always willing to help. She’s only back to support Victor. You should stop looking so stern all the time and talk to her more.” My father added his opinion. “Victor’s worked hard to build this company. Having another trusted family member on board is a good thing. As her older sister, you need to be more gracious.” I turned to my father. “Dad, Victor is your son-in-law. Isabelle is your adopted daughter. Don’t you think they’re a little too close?” His face darkened. “What nonsense are you talking about? We watched Isabelle grow up. She’s like a daughter to us. What’s wrong with her helping her brother-in-law?” “Like a daughter?” I repeated softly. “What if I told you Noah might not be my biological son?” My parents froze. My mother was the first to react, grabbing my hand. “Amelia! You can’t say things like that! How could Noah not be your son? Are you having these strange thoughts again?” My father slammed his hand on the table. “That’s enough! I think you really have a problem! Victor was right, you need to see a doctor!” Their reaction extinguished the last flicker of hope in my heart. In their eyes, only people like Victor, who brought them tangible benefits, mattered. They had no idea that Victor was only where he was today because of me. That night, after everyone had left, I told Victor, “I’m going to the old house for a few days next week. I need to sort through some things.” He didn’t ask questions, just nodded. “Do you need me to drive you?” “No.” The old house was where I lived before I got married. My parents had since moved into a new condo, leaving it empty. I was in the attic, rummaging through old boxes. In a worn leather suitcase, I found things Isabelle had left behind. A few diaries, some photos, and a small tin box. I opened the box. Inside was a stack of letters. The envelope on top was yellowed with age. It read: “To my dearest Victor.” The handwriting was elegant, undeniably Isabelle’s. I pulled out the letter. Victor, you came over to see my sister again today. The way you smile at her breaks my heart. I know I shouldn’t feel this way, but I love you so much. I read the next one. Victor, I heard you two are getting married. My sister is so lucky. If I had met you first, would things be different? My hands started to shake as I continued. The last item wasn’t a letter. It was a photograph. In the photo, Isabelle and Victor stood side-by-side under a cherry blossom tree. Her head was resting lightly on his shoulder, one hand protectively on her stomach. On the back, a line was scrawled in small letters: The one who isn’t loved is the other woman. I clutched the photo, my fingertips turning to ice. It started so long ago. And I had been the fool, kept in the dark for all these years. Then where was my real child? I took out my phone, took a deep breath, and sent a message to the investigator. “Check the birth records and security footage from Riverton General Hospital’s maternity ward for June 21st, eighteen years ago, around 3 PM.” “Also, pull all of Isabelle’s records from her time abroad eighteen years ago. Focus on any birth records.” Just then, my phone vibrated. A notification from our smart home app. “Unusual motion detected in living room.” I frowned. Victor should be at the office. The housekeeper had the day off. I opened the app, and the live feed loaded. The camera was aimed at the sofa. Isabelle was there. Victor was leaning back on the cushions, his tie loosened around his neck. Isabelle, now in a slinky, semi-sheer slip dress that clung to her body, was sitting on his lap. Her fingers were slowly, deliberately unbuttoning the top two buttons of his shirt. And Victor wasn’t pushing her away. Instead, he raised a hand, tracing a line down her hair, his fingers coming to rest on her waist, giving it a gentle squeeze. His breathing was noticeably heavier. The light cast their entangled shadows on the wall. I stared at the screen, a cold, nauseating feeling rising in my throat. “Victor, darling,” her voice was a husky whisper, practically dripping with seduction. “Do you have any idea how much it hurts me every time Noah calls me ‘Auntie’? He should be calling me…” “Isabelle!” Victor cut her off sharply, turning his face away from her touch. But his hand, gripping her wrist, didn’t let go. In that moment, I felt something inside me shatter completely. What followed was a blur of intimacy I couldn’t bear to watch. I stopped the recording. I closed the app and threw the phone aside. My stomach churned violently. I ran to the old bathroom sink and dry-heaved, but nothing came up, only a searing pain that spread from my chest through my entire body. The phone buzzed incessantly on the bed. It took me a long while to compose myself enough to look at it. Message after message from the investigator. “Ms. Stone, I found it.” “Isabelle landed in the U.S. in July, eighteen years ago. In August, she gave birth to a full-term baby boy at a private hospital in Los Angeles. Blood type on record is B.” “I’ve pulled the records from Riverton General for the day you gave birth. Between 3 PM and 5 PM that day, two baby girls were born. The hospital has since closed, and the archives are lost.” “However, when Isabelle returned to the U.S. in November of that year, she was accompanied by a female infant, approximately five months old.” “She is currently working under the table at a Chinese restaurant in the area. According to the owner and neighbors, her life is difficult, she’s withdrawn, and she often has unexplained bruises. Isabelle collects most of her wages every month through an intermediary.” Photos were attached. One was of a back alley, a small, thin figure hauling an enormous trash bag. Another showed her in the corner of the restaurant, huddled on a stool, eating cold leftovers, her face blank. The most recent was a close-up of an arm covered in bruises. My daughter. So far away, doing the hardest work, getting beaten, and the money she earned went to the woman who stole her life. A tidal wave of hatred consumed me. I stood up, and the world went black for a few seconds. I braced myself against the wall, my nails digging into my palms. The pain brought me back. I cried for a long time, until the tears ran dry, leaving only a raw, burning ache in my chest. I forwarded all the files, including the video footage, to my lawyer. Then I called Victor’s rival company. “The patent authorization can be signed tomorrow. But I have one condition. Stone Enterprises has to go bankrupt.” A low chuckle came from the other end, a cool, male voice filled with confidence. “Consider it done.” Hanging up, I looked at the evidence on my phone. Victor, the higher I built you up, the harder I’m going to make you fall. On the flight to Los Angeles, I barely slept. New information from the investigator revealed my daughter’s registered name was Anna. She worked at a restaurant in Chinatown, living in a windowless basement room in the alley behind it. In the photos, she was alarmingly thin. At eighteen, she had the weary eyes of a forty-year-old. What broke my heart were the bruises and marks on her arms, a patchwork of old and new. The plane landed in the early hours. I rented a car and drove straight to Chinatown. At seven in the morning, the restaurant was still closed, the back alley piled with last night’s trash. A girl in a faded T-shirt and worn-out jeans emerged, carrying two enormous black trash bags. She was so frail, the bags seemed to crush her. Her face had several faint scars from what looked like burns, but I recognized her instantly. She had my face. She struggled to heave the bags into the dumpster, then stood by a utility sink, washing her hands. The water was cold; she shivered and wiped her face with the back of her hand. In that instant, she looked up. Our eyes met through the car window. She froze, a flicker of confusion in her eyes, before she quickly looked down and turned to go back inside. “Wait!” I pushed the car door open, my voice trembling. The girl stopped and looked back at me, her eyes wary and distant. “Are you Anna?” I approached her, trying to keep my voice steady. “Who are you?” Her voice was quiet, raspy from disuse. I opened my mouth, but my throat was tight. “I came from… back home.” “Do you know Isabelle?” Her gaze turned icy. “What does she want now? I already sent this month’s money.” “No, it’s not her.” I took a deep breath. “I’m Amelia Stone. I’m your real…” Before I could finish, a harsh voice bellowed from inside the restaurant.

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When the gentle, jilted CEO in a romance novel was about to jump from a skyscraper, I stopped him, my hand on my pregnant belly. “Mr. Eckert, before you die, could you do me a favor and sign the consent form for my abortion? I’m carrying your child!” He stared at me, his mind finally recalling a night months ago, when he’d been drugged and spent a wild night with a stranger. That stranger was me. 1. The moment I realized I was just a background character in a CEO romance novel was the exact moment the story’s tragic hero, Owen Eckert, was standing on the rooftop of his sixty-six-story building, ready to jump. He was heartbroken, publicly humiliated at his own engagement party when the female lead left him for another man. None of this should have been my problem. As an insignificant character, my only role in this entire saga was a single, fleeting night with him months ago. But just a few minutes ago, I’d discovered I was pregnant. The test showed two solid lines. Carrying a billionaire’s baby… if I did nothing, I’d be wasting the opportunity of a lifetime. A chance to completely change my fate. He wanted to die, but I wanted to secure my future through this child. So, for now, death would have to wait. Just as he lifted one foot over the ledge, I burst onto the rooftop and shouted, “Wait a minute!” Owen turned, his brow furrowed in confusion. “If this is about your salary, don’t worry. The company will continue to pay all its employees after I’m gone.” He closed his eyes, ready to take the final leap and end his unloved existence. I glanced down at my hotel staff uniform and realized he’d misunderstood. This hotel was one of his assets; he probably thought I was worried about my next paycheck. With seconds to spare, I yelled again, “Mr. Eckert, don’t jump! What I meant was, before you die, could you sign my abortion papers? I’m pregnant with your child! But I’m an orphan, and the hospital won’t let me sign the consent form myself.” To sell the performance, I put on my most pitiful, helpless expression. I’d heard he was a man with an overwhelming sense of responsibility. I couldn’t believe he’d still jump after hearing he had a child on the way. I was betting everything on his conscience, betting that for the sake of this child, he would put his suicide on hold. A few seconds later, he turned back, his eyes wide with disbelief, trying to determine if I was telling the truth. He had a child? When did this happen? How did he not know? He studied my face, and a slow blush crept up his neck, turning him the color of a cooked lobster. He remembered. He remembered the madness of that night. That bastard Marcus Thorne, trying to steal his fiancée, Olivia, had drugged his drink. And I, a hotel maid cleaning his suite, had become the antidote. He’d spent the entire night making the irreversible happen. When he woke up, I was gone, leaving only a single crimson stain on the sheets. It was his first time. And mine. If I was truly pregnant, there was a very real chance the child was his. He had a duty to sign that form. With a sigh, he realized this baby had come at the worst possible time. Just when he was ready to end it all. But suicide would have to wait. The fate of the tiny infant inside me was more important than his own death. After all, his death was his business alone, but my child was tied to my future. He had already hurt me once; he couldn’t bear to watch me face this alone. He stepped back from the ledge. “When is the procedure, and at which hospital? I’ll sign the papers for you.” The rumors were true. He really was a responsible man. My gamble had paid off. 2. For the next two days, Owen meticulously arranged everything for my procedure. From choosing the best hospital and the most skilled doctor to planning my post-procedure recovery care, he handled every detail. He was so worried I wouldn’t have enough money to recover properly after he was gone that he gave me a debit card with a hundred thousand dollars on it, calling it compensation. On the day of the surgery, he personally supervised me for the twelve hours prior, making sure I didn’t eat anything. He held my hand, told me not to be afraid, and assured me it was a minor procedure. He promised to wait outside until it was over. Then, he would go and die. After signing the consent form, he gave me a small wave, as if sending me off to a battlefield. “Go on. If there are no surprises, we won’t see each other again.” But my appearance was the biggest surprise of all. Five minutes later, the operating room door opened again. I walked timidly to his side and said apologetically, “The doctor said I’m in my second trimester. The procedure would be very damaging, and I might not be able to have children again. “I’ve changed my mind. Can I… can I keep the baby? “I’m an orphan, I have no one. This child could be the only family I’ll ever have. I’ll raise him well, I promise!” I gently cradled my slightly showing belly, my eyes red-rimmed, looking up at him like a lost puppy about to be abandoned. My timing was perfect. Owen hesitated. Keep it? A child of his own blood. If the mother truly wanted it, then why not? He saw it as my decision, and he respected my choice. Once again, the ever-agreeable Owen Eckert gave in. His gaze softened as it fell on my stomach. He nodded. “Okay.” Success! Now, all I had to do was dance on the edge of his patience. I had discovered he was a complete pushover, nothing like the ruthless tycoon described in the media. When it came to this child, I could see the softness in his heart. He respected my choices and was willing to bend for them. Now, watch me use this baby as my ultimate trump card. 3. After I canceled the procedure, Owen, eager to get back to his plan of dying, started making arrangements for me again. This time, it took him ten days. In those ten days, he bought a condo for me and the baby near the city’s best schools, a place for us to live. He also gave me another card, this one with five million dollars, enough to raise the child to adulthood. He dismissed the nurse he had hired for my post-abortion recovery and instead booked and paid for a full-service stay at a luxury postpartum wellness center. When I mentioned I had terrible taste and was worried his child would be dressed in ugly clothes, he waved his hand and had an entire room filled with baby clothes, from newborn to three years old, for both boys and girls. A crib, a stroller, and a complete set of baby supplies all appeared. If they didn’t expire, he probably would have stockpiled formula and diapers too. After all this was done, he stood on that same rooftop one evening, his will to live completely gone. Last time he had watched the sunset. Tonight, he watched the city lights flicker to life below. When I arrived, he was sitting calmly on the outer edge of the parapet, his legs dangling over the abyss, swinging gently. He could fall at any moment. My heart pounded in my chest, but I didn’t tell him not to die. You can’t reason with someone who truly wants to die. You can only delay. How long I could delay was up to him. I gently tapped his shoulder. “Sorry to bother you again.” He wasn’t annoyed, just furrowed his brow out of habit, ready to solve whatever new problem I’d brought him. “What is it now?” I fidgeted. “I heard the maids talking. They said you have a lot of money, and if you die, your relatives will inherit everything. The same relatives who treated you horribly and schemed against you. “I was thinking, instead of leaving it to them, why not leave it to our child? “He’s your only bloodline in this world, and he’s never done anything to hurt you. And I have no grudge against you either. “You should keep it in the family. Instead of letting them benefit, why not let your own child have it?” I pointed to my belly, and at that exact moment, a small lump protruded. The baby was moving. He’s kicking! I figured if the baby could understand, he would agree with me. If Owen agreed, both of us could skip a century of hard work. The baby would be born into the highest echelon of society. Owen’s wealth was an accumulation of three generations; to say his family was rich was an understatement. This time, Owen was silent for much longer. But eventually, he turned his head and gave a slight nod. “Alright.” He was determined to die. After Olivia had abandoned him, he had lost all hope in the world. But I hadn’t. Neither had the baby in my womb. We wanted to live, and live well. He felt I had a point. It was better to leave his fortune to his own flesh and blood than to his spiteful relatives. He didn’t need the money, but his child could. He decided to give in to me one more time. As he climbed back over the railing, I reached out to steady him. “Careful!” I was terrified he might slip, and my baby’s inheritance would vanish into thin air. Of course, there was also the fact that he was a good, responsible man. I didn’t want him to die. I wanted him to live. Once he was safely on the rooftop, he took off his overcoat and draped it over my shoulders. “It’s windy up here. You’re pregnant, you can’t afford to catch a cold.” I nodded, pulling the coat tighter around me without hesitation. It carried a faint, pleasant scent, like a fresh, sweet body wash, reminiscent of morning dew on jasmine flowers. 4. After having his assistant liquidate all his assets, Owen brought in a lawyer and signed the papers in front of me. From now on, no matter what happened to him, everything he owned would go to the child in my womb. If the child didn’t survive, it would all go to me. Until the child came of age, I was the sole custodian of his entire fortune. In an instant, I went from being an ordinary woman to a top-tier billionaire. I moved into his mansion, drove his luxury cars, had a chauffeur at my beck and call, and a team of maids to cook and care for me. I wore designer clothes and ate gourmet food. Though I wasn’t his wife, the Eckert family staff treated me like royalty. Their future income now depended entirely on me. The saying “a mother’s status rises with her son” was playing out perfectly in my life. When his relatives found out, they were furious. They stormed my home and his office, causing all sorts of trouble. To shut them up, Owen spent the next ten days dealing with them. In those ten days, I witnessed the thunderous power of a man at the top. First, he leaked scandalous information he had collected, driving a wedge between his aunt and uncle. They were so busy fighting and heading for divorce that they had no time to bother us. Next, he handed over evidence of his cousin embezzling company funds directly to the police. His cousin was arrested and would likely spend several years in prison. Then there were his two troublesome maternal uncles. Worried they would harass me, Owen cut off their cash flow and, citing incompetence, transferred them to a remote overseas branch of the company. It was practically exile. After all that, he took a shower, changed into his favorite black suit, put on the watch Olivia had given him, and once again, headed for the rooftop. As he passed me, he even smiled and said, “Good evening. The baby needs nourishment, so remember to eat more every day. You’re too thin.” He thought that this time, I would finally be satisfied and wouldn’t bother him anymore. I had everything I could possibly want. He could finally die in peace. But he had underestimated my ambition.

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“You don’t deserve this room.” My stepmother stood in the doorway, my schoolbag dangling from her hand. I was eight years old. I had just come home from school to find the lock on my bedroom door had been changed. “This is Jason’s room now.” She dropped the bag at my feet. “You’re going to live with your grandma.” I looked at my father. He was staring at the floor, refusing to meet my eyes. “Dad…” “Listen to your mother.” That night, I dragged my suitcase to my grandma’s front door. When she opened it and saw me, she froze for three long seconds, and then she pulled me into her arms and wept. 1 It was 2003. I was eight years old. That summer, my father remarried. My new mother’s name was Brenda. She came with a six-year-old son, Jason. On their wedding day, Brenda wore a red dress and a sweet smile. She patted my head and said, “We’re a family now. You can call me Mom.” So I did. “Mom.” She smiled in response, then turned to sweep Jason into a hug. I thought this was the beginning of a new life. My own mother had died when I was two. Grandma told me that giving birth to me had taken a toll on her body, and she’d never fully recovered. For years, Grandma had helped raise me while my father worked, too busy to manage everything on his own. Now we had a new mom in the house. Things would be different, I thought. And they were. Three days after the wedding, Brenda replaced the family portrait in the living room. The new photo showed my father, her, and Jason. I wasn’t in it. I asked my father, “Why am I not in the picture?” He said, “We’ll add you in next time we take one.” When was next time? I didn’t know. But I did know that things around the house were starting to change, piece by piece. Jason’s collection of toys grew, piling up in the corners of the living room. My toys were packed away into a storage closet, deemed “too messy.” Every day, Brenda cooked Jason’s favorite meals: pot roast, sweet and sour pork, honey-glazed chicken wings. And me? “You’re not a picky eater. You’ll eat anything.” Back then, I didn’t understand what it meant to be treated differently. I only wondered why Jason got two drumsticks, and I only got one. Why Jason could stay up late to watch cartoons, but I had to be in bed by eight. Why, when Jason made a mistake, Brenda would just say, “He’s just a kid, he doesn’t know any better,” but if I broke a single cup, I had to stand in the corner for two hours. I asked my father about it. He just said, “You’re older. You need to be more understanding.” Older? I was only eight. That autumn, things took a turn. Jason was starting elementary school. Brenda said he needed a quiet place to study. My room faced south; it was bright and peaceful. Jason’s room faced north, right next to the busy street. It was too loud. “Let Jason have your room. You can move into the north room.” I didn’t want to. That was the room I had slept in my whole life. The photograph my mom had left me was still taped to the wall. “No,” I said. “That’s my room.” Brenda’s face hardened. “What kind of attitude is that? I’m talking to you.” I looked at my father. He repeated the same line: “Listen to your mother.” That night, I was forced to move into the small room on the north side of the house. Eighty square feet, just enough for a bed and a desk. The window was broken and wouldn’t close properly, letting in a draft of cold winter air. I carefully taped my mother’s photograph to the wall of my new room. It was the only piece of my old life I could hold onto. But it wasn’t over. A month later, Brenda found a new reason. “This house only has three bedrooms. Your father and I have the master, and Jason has your old room… you’re just making things cramped.” She paused, plastering on a look of concern. “I think it would be best if you went to live with your grandma. She’s all alone, it would be nice for her to have some company.” I froze. “What do you mean?” “I mean you’re going to live at your grandma’s,” she said, her voice dripping with self-righteousness. “It’s not like you can’t come back. You can visit on holidays.” I looked at my father. He was sitting on the sofa, his eyes glued to the television, silent. “Dad, say something.” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “Listen to your mother.” That night, I lay in bed, listening to the wind howl outside my broken window. I didn’t sleep at all. When I came home from school the next day, the lock on my bedroom door had been changed. Brenda held the new key. “I’ve packed your things,” she said, pushing a suitcase toward me. “Your grandma is coming to pick you up today.” I stared at the suitcase. It was a twenty-inch pink one that had belonged to my mother. Inside were all my clothes and schoolbooks. I looked at my father. He was standing in the living room, holding a cup of tea, his gaze averted. “Dad.” He didn’t answer. “Dad, don’t you want me anymore?” He finally looked at me. His eyes were filled with guilt and helplessness, but mostly, they were filled with avoidance. “Your grandma will take good care of you,” he said. “I’ll send money for you every month.” I didn’t cry. I was eight years old, standing in the middle of the living room, in the house I had lived in for eight years, and suddenly, it felt like a stranger’s home. Brenda leaned against the doorframe, a faint, triumphant smile on her face. Jason peeked out from my old room, holding my little teddy bear lamp. “Mom, this lamp is so cool!” “If you like it, you can keep it.” My mother had given me that lamp. I wanted to run and snatch it back. But I didn’t. Because I knew, in this house, I no longer had the right to claim anything as my own. Grandma was waiting for me outside. The moment she saw me, her eyes turned red. “Grandma’s here,” she said, kneeling down to hug me. “Let’s go home.” I nodded. Dragging that pink suitcase behind me, I walked out of the house. The door clicked shut behind me. That day was October 15, 2003. I will never forget that date. Because from that day on, I no longer had a home. 2 Grandma lived in an old apartment complex on the south side of town. It was a small two-bedroom, six hundred square feet. The paint was peeling in places, and the heating was weak, but she had cleaned out the larger bedroom just for me. “Sweetheart, this is your room now,” she said, taking my hand. “From now on, this is your home.” I stood in the room, looking at the neatly made bed, the new desk lamp, and the small potted plant on the desk. Grandma lived alone on a pension of nine hundred dollars a month. She had bought all of this just for me. That night, tucked into my new bed, I finally let myself cry. Not because I felt wronged. But because of her. Grandma was old and not in the best health; she took three different kinds of medication every day. She should have been enjoying a quiet retirement. Instead, she had to take care of me. “Grandma, I’m so sorry.” She held me close, patting my back gently. “Silly girl, what are you sorry for? You’re my granddaughter. If I don’t take care of you, who will?” From then on, I lived with my grandma. Life was simple. She walked me to school in the morning, I ate lunch in the cafeteria, and in the evening, she’d have a hot meal waiting for me when I got home. Her cooking was delicious, simple home-cooked meals that were a world away from what Brenda made. At the very least, I always got two drumsticks. My father had promised to send money. The first month, he sent three hundred dollars. The second month, two hundred. The third month, nothing came. Grandma called to ask, but Brenda answered the phone. “It’s not that we don’t want to give it,” she said coolly. “Money is just tight right now. Jason has tutoring, and that’s expensive. You should teach her to be more frugal.” Grandma’s hand trembled with rage. “That is his daughter!” “And you’re the one raising her, aren’t you?” Brenda’s voice was like ice. “The child is living with you, eating your food. Is it really appropriate for you to be asking me for money?” The line went dead. Grandma sat on the sofa, silent for a long time. I came out of my room and saw her wiping away tears. “Grandma, it’s okay,” I said, kneeling and taking her hand. “I don’t need their money.” “Oh, my sweet girl…” “I’m not a little girl,” I said, my own eyes dry. “Grandma, I’m going to make money someday. I’m going to take care of you.” I was eight years old. Even as I said it, I didn’t believe it myself. But I never forgot that promise. After that, the money from my father stopped almost completely. Occasionally, a hundred dollars would show up, but it was never consistent. Grandma never asked for it again. Her pension, combined with the little she made from mending clothes for neighbors, was barely enough for the two of us to get by. I knew how much she scrimped and saved. The clothes she bought for me were new, while hers were a decade old. She made sure I ate meat, while she ate only vegetables. She couldn’t bear to turn on the heat, so she slept under two thick quilts at night. I saw it all. But I was too young to do anything about it. All I could do was study. I knew that was the only way I could give my grandma a better life someday. On holidays, my father would call. “Sarah, come home for dinner.” Home? Was that still my home? I didn’t want to go. But Grandma would say, “You should go. He’s still your father.” So I went. The moment I walked through the door, I saw the new chandelier in the living room, the new sofa, the thick carpet on the floor. Jason, in a new winter jacket, was playing video games on the couch. Brenda poked her head out of the kitchen. “Oh, you’re here. Have a seat, dinner’s almost ready.” She spoke so casually, as if I were just a distant relative dropping by for a visit. I looked down at my own clothes. It was Jason’s old jacket from last year, one Brenda had given me before the holiday. “It’s still in great condition,” she’d said. “Jason outgrew it, it should fit you perfectly.” Standing in that newly decorated house, wearing Jason’s hand-me-downs, I felt like a complete outsider. At dinner, Brenda placed a large plate of pot roast in front of Jason. “Eat up, Jason. It’s your favorite.” In front of me was a small dish of stir-fried cabbage. My father put a single piece of meat in my bowl. “Eat up.” One piece. Just one. Jason ate half the roast, and I got one piece. I kept my head down and ate without a word. After dinner, my father handed me a hundred-dollar bill. “Here. For school supplies.” A hundred dollars. I glanced at the new television in the living room. It was huge, sixty inches, probably worth over a thousand dollars back then. And the game console in Jason’s hands. And his new jacket. And his Nike sneakers. I took the money. Grandma needed it. “Thanks, Dad.” He patted my head. “Study hard.” That holiday, I only stayed for two hours. I left right after dinner. Brenda stood at the door, politely saying, “Come again soon.” Soon? When was soon? I didn’t know. As I walked away, I looked back one last time. The living room light was on, and through the window, I could see Jason jumping on the sofa while Brenda and my father watched him, smiling. A happy family of three. I turned and walked into the cold winter night. That day, for the first time, I understood with absolute clarity: I had been abandoned by that family. This wasn’t a temporary stay at my grandma’s. It was abandonment. 3 And so the years passed. Elementary school, middle school, high school. I lived with my grandma the entire time. She gave me all the love she had, and the only thing I could do in return was to excel in my studies. I was always a good student. In middle school, I was in the top ten of my grade. In high school, I got into the honors program. Every time I brought home a report card, Grandma would beam with pride. “My Sarah is so smart!” It was her greatest joy. She would boast to the neighbors, “My granddaughter is going to a great university one day!” “Does her father help out?” a neighbor might ask. Grandma’s smile would falter for a second. “He does… he does. He comes to see her every year for the holidays.” Every year. Yes, only once a year would I return to that house. The routine was always the same: a meal, a few hundred dollars, and then I would leave. Brenda was always politely distant, like I was a stranger. Jason ignored me completely. My father would look guilty, but that guilt never changed anything. I got used to it. I stopped expecting anything more. In my junior year of high school, I needed a computer. The school had started a computer science class, and every student was required to have one. I didn’t. Grandma had saved up a few hundred dollars over the years. She wanted to buy one for me. I wouldn’t let her. “Grandma, you need that money for yourself. I’ll ask Dad.” It was the first time I had ever called him to ask for something. The phone rang for a long time before he answered. “Sarah? What a surprise to hear from you.” I took a deep breath. “Dad, I need a computer for school. It’s five hundred dollars.” There was a pause on the other end. “Five hundred?” “Yes.” “Things are tight right now, Sarah. Jason’s starting high school, we’re saving up for his tuition…” My hand tightened around the phone. “Can you lend it to me, then? I’ll pay you back.” “Sarah, don’t talk like that. It’s not a loan. It’s not that I won’t give it to you, it’s just… we’re short on cash at the moment.” “So when won’t you be short?” “What kind of tone is that?” His voice turned impatient. “Doesn’t your grandma have her pension? Ask her to cover it for now, and I’ll pay you back later.” Later? When was later? When I was a child, he said “next time.” Now he was saying “later.” I had waited ten years for “next time,” and it had never come. “Never mind,” I said, and hung up. That night, I told my grandma, “I don’t need a computer. I can use the ones at the school library.” She didn’t say anything, just looked at me and sighed. The next day when I came home from school, there was a used computer on my desk. Grandma had found someone to help her buy it. It cost two hundred dollars. “It’s not new, but it works,” she said, wiping sweat from her brow. “It’ll have to do for now.” I looked at the old computer, at my grandma’s graying hair, at her frail, hunched back. Tears welled up in my eyes. “Grandma…” “Don’t cry,” she said, wiping my tears away. “As long as I can see you go off to college, it’s all worth it.” The year I graduated high school, I was third in my class. My scores were good enough for the top state university. Tuition was ten thousand dollars a year. With room and board, it would be at least twenty thousand. Grandma’s savings weren’t enough. I called my father. “Dad, I got into college. Tuition is ten thousand a year.” From the background, I heard Brenda’s sharp voice. “Ten thousand? Your dad only makes five thousand a month, and Jason is still in high school. Where are we supposed to get that kind of money?” “I’m talking to my dad on his phone.” “His money is our money!” she shrieked. “If you want to go to college, ask your grandma! She raised you all these years, is she going to stop now?” I heard my father mumble something, but his voice was too low to understand. Finally, he took the phone. His voice was weary. “Sarah, you should apply for a student loan. I can only do so much…” So much. I hung up. That summer, I applied for a student loan. It covered most of it. For the rest, Grandma emptied out her savings account. “It’s enough,” she said, counting the worn bills. “You go study, Sarah. Grandma will be waiting for you to come back.” The day I left for college, Grandma saw me off at the train station. She stood on the platform, waving and waving. “Study hard, and take care of yourself!” I shouted back, “Grandma, when I graduate, I’m coming back to take care of you!” She smiled and nodded, but tears were brimming in her eyes. I boarded the train. From my window seat, I watched her figure grow smaller and smaller, until she disappeared from view. It was the first time I had ever left her. And it was the last time I ever saw her standing. In my sophomore year of college, Grandma collapsed. A stroke. By the time she got to the hospital, it was too late. She was in a coma for three days. I took a leave of absence and caught the first train back. When I pushed open the hospital room door, I saw her lying in the bed, so thin she was just bones. Her eyes were closed, her skin a waxy yellow. “Grandma…” I fell to my knees beside her bed and held her hand. It was so cold, so frail. The doctor said it didn’t look good. He told me to prepare for the worst. I didn’t believe him. I called my father, begging him to help with the medical bills. On the other end of the line, I heard Brenda’s voice again. “She’s not part of our family. Why should we pay?” “She’s my grandma!” I screamed. “She’s your mother’s mother, not your father’s. It makes no sense for him to pay.” My father took the phone. His voice was a whisper. “Sarah, we really don’t have the money. Jason is starting college soon…” I ended the call. That night, I knelt by her bed, holding her hand, and didn’t sleep. The next morning, just before dawn, Grandma woke up for a few moments. She looked at me, her lips moving, her voice barely a whisper. “Sarah… Grandma is so sorry…” “Grandma, what are you saying?” I cried, clutching her hand, tears streaming down my face. “When Grandma’s gone, you’ll be all alone… you have to take good care of yourself…” “Grandma, you can’t go! You promised me you’d wait for me to graduate so I could take care of you!” The corner of her mouth twitched, as if she was trying to smile. “Grandma… can’t wait that long…” At six o’clock that morning, my grandma passed away. She was still holding my hand. I didn’t scream. I just knelt there, beside her bed, watching the person who had raised me grow colder and colder. My father came to the funeral. He stood in the funeral home, lit a stick of incense, and bowed three times. Then he walked over to me and said, “Sarah, I’m sorry for your loss.” Sorry for your loss. Four words. So empty. He didn’t shed a single tear. After the service, he handed me an envelope. “Here’s two hundred dollars. For your expenses.” I looked at the envelope and didn’t take it. “I don’t need it.” “You’re all alone at school, money must be tight…” “I said, I don’t need it.” I turned and walked out of the funeral home. From that day on, I never contacted him again.

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