A month ago, my girlfriend went on a business trip with the man she’s spent years pining for—her “one who got away.” When they returned, I realized that in their eyes, I’d become a different person entirely. In the past, when she handed my hard-earned projects over to him, I’d be so livid I’d want to resign on the spot. Now? I was proactively drafting his proposals, working late with a smile. When she intentionally sabotaged a design I’d pulled three all-nighters for just so he could secure the year-end bonus, I didn’t fight to prove my innocence like I used to. Instead, I quietly took the fall, accepting whatever “punishment” she deemed fit. I even went as far as staying calm when she proposed a radical promotion to make him the Managing Director. I didn’t just bite my tongue; I handed over my own shares, telling her she could distribute them however she liked. Rachel was baffled by the change. She couldn’t understand why her once-rebellious boyfriend had suddenly become so compliant. Toby, on the other hand, was gloating. I overheard him whispering to her, “See? I told you. Give him the cold shoulder, make him realize he’s about to lose you, and he’ll fall right back into line.” Rachel looked at him like he’d just solved a complex riddle. She laughed, called me a “good boy,” and even mentioned a promotion. Then, she did something unprecedented: she told me I should finally propose to her. But she seemed to have forgotten one tiny detail. During our long cold war, she had already signed my resignation papers. And more importantly, I’d checked out of this relationship a long time ago. That day, Rachel—my soon-to-be-ex—tossed a thick stack of files onto my desk. Her voice was like ice. “This proposal is urgent. I want it finalized before you leave today.” She turned and swept away before I could respond. The moment she disappeared around the corner, my colleagues swarmed my desk like vultures. “Isn’t that Toby’s project?” “That one’s a nightmare. The requirements are impossible, and the data is a mess. There’s no way that gets done by tonight—not even by tomorrow night.” “Rachel is way too biased toward Toby. Why is she letting him pawn his work off on everyone else?” 1 I listened to them, my face a mask of indifference. I knew they weren’t actually on my side. They just enjoyed the drama. Everyone in the office knew that Rachel, the CEO, was my girlfriend, yet she blatantly favored my rival, Toby. She’d broken company protocol to install Toby as a department manager. She’d even taken a multi-million dollar project—one I’d spent a month landing and another month of sleepless nights preparing—and handed it to him on a silver platter. When I’d protested back then, Rachel had insisted on a public vote to “fairly” decide who should lead the project. Those same colleagues now pretending to pity me had all voted for Toby. Later, they’d whispered excuses about being intimidated by Rachel’s authority, telling me I should just “be the bigger person” and help the new guy out. This had happened a dozen times. As they continued to whine on my behalf, I didn’t storm into Rachel’s office to demand an explanation like I usually did. I simply reached out and took the project files. The vultures stared, their mouths hanging open, ready to stir the pot further. But then Rachel stepped back out of her office. The group scattered instantly, scurrying back to their cubicles. Rachel seemed to be in a rare good mood. She ignored the office politics and tapped my desk. “Leave the finished draft on my desk when you’re done.” I nodded. She spun on her designer heels and walked away without a backward glance. She was wearing a meticulously applied face of makeup and a skirt that was just a bit shorter than her usual professional attire. I didn’t need to be a psychic to know she was headed to a “dinner meeting” with Toby. It had been like this for years. It started when I caught her and Toby exchanging “goodnight” texts that felt a little too intimate. When I questioned her, she called me petty and insecure. To spite me, she hired Toby. She claimed it was “exposure therapy” for my jealousy. She’d take him to every social event, sit next to him at company dinners, and even reach over to wipe a stray crumb from his lip in front of everyone. If I got angry, she gave me the silent treatment. If I apologized, she’d use it as an opportunity to lecture me—often in front of others—about how I lacked the “emotional maturity” a man in my position should have. For a long time, I actually believed her. I looked inward, wondering if I was the problem, if I was truly too narrow-minded. Then I discovered the truth: Toby wasn’t just a friend. He was the ghost that had haunted our relationship since day one. He was the “one who got away” from her college years. All that talk about “desensitizing” me was just a smokescreen so she could keep her old flame close without feeling guilty. Even if I hadn’t seen those texts, she would have found another excuse to bring him into our lives. Since they returned from their “business trip,” the air between them had shifted. The lingering glances, the shared drinks, the late-night tennis matches—it was all more blatant now. But the best part? I didn’t care anymore. Five years of devotion was a long time, but I was finally at the end of the script. This farce was over. By the time I finished the proposal, the office was a tomb. I checked my phone and saw Toby had posted a series of photos on Instagram. The background was a high-end steakhouse. Romantic candlelight. A table for two. The photo showed Rachel’s elegant hands using a knife and fork to cut up a steak on Toby’s plate. The caption: “Steak always tastes better when the CEO cuts it for you.” The comments were flooded with coworkers gushing about how “sweet” they were. Toby was leaning into it, bragging in the replies about how Rachel—who usually never drinks—had shared a bottle of red wine with him to “celebrate his success.” Speculation about their relationship status was rampant. Rachel didn’t deny any of it. She just commented: “You deserved it.” One oblivious intern asked when they were getting married. Rachel replied with three dots; Toby replied with a “winking” emoji. A few months ago, this would have sent me into a spiral. I would have called her, she would have screamed at me for being “controlling,” and I would have spent the night on the couch. Instead, I sent her a brief text: Proposal finished. Left it on your desk. Heading home. It wasn’t until I pulled into my driveway that I saw her reply. “Jordan, it’s Toby. Thanks for the hard work on the project, man. I’ll buy you a beer sometime.” Rachel was the kind of person who never let her phone out of her sight. If I even glanced at it to check the time, she’d accuse me of invading her privacy. Now, she was letting Toby read our messages and reply for her. I let out a dry, hollow laugh. The hierarchy of her heart was clear. When you actually matter to someone, the rules are different. Strangely, I felt a profound sense of peace. Things that used to feel like the end of the world now felt like a light breeze. Emotions can change, but hard work and self-respect are the only things that don’t betray you. I opened my calendar. While Rachel and Toby were playing house on their “business trip,” I had quietly submitted my resignation via the company portal. Just as I’d suspected, she was so distracted by him that she’d digitally signed and approved the “administrative batch” without even looking at the names. I had three days of transition left. Then, I’d be a ghost. I pulled up a contact I hadn’t touched in years—my old mentor from a prestigious research institute in Europe. Back when I graduated, I was a rising star in the field of robotics. I had a standing offer at the institute, a high salary, and a brilliant future. But when Rachel told me she wanted to start her own company and needed someone she could trust at her side, I didn’t hesitate. I walked away from my dreams to build hers. My mentor had begged me to stay, but I was “in love.” What a fool I’d been. The call connected. I explained my situation, expecting a lecture. Instead, the old man just sighed. He told me he’d kept tabs on me and had been waiting for this call. “Are you sure this time, Jordan?” he asked. “I’m sure,” I said, my voice steady. “My resignation is already processed.” “Resignation? What resignation?” The sharp voice came from the doorway. I turned around to see Rachel standing there, her face flushed from the wine, her eyes narrowed in confusion.

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I had been married to Declan Pierce—New York’s most elusive billionaire heir—for three years, standing in as the understudy for my own sister. Our daughter was the miracle he had spent those three years desperately praying for. Then, last week, my sister won Best Actress at the Academy Awards. Standing at the podium, gripping her Oscar, she suddenly went off-script and dragged up ancient history. She stared right into the camera and said she and her first love once shared a child, but tragically, he was still entirely in the dark about it. Everyone in our elite circle knew the truth: six years ago, she was the runaway bride who left Declan standing at the altar, humiliated and broken. And everyone knew that when I nearly bled out giving birth to our daughter, Declan had climbed the grueling, icy steps of St. Jude’s Sanctuary upstate—falling to his knees in prayer with every single step, walking thousands of paces just to beg a higher power for my survival. The media, smelling blood and scandal, whipped into a frenzy, digging up the ghosts of Giselle and Declan’s past. When the paparazzi cornered him, Declan just offered a chilling, dismissive smile and muttered, “She’s out of her fucking mind.” He told a reporter she had played too many tragic heroines, couldn’t stand seeing real people happy, and publicly stated he wouldn’t entertain an interview about her until she was in the ground. Anyone who actually knew Declan Pierce knew he was now utterly, hopelessly obsessed with his wife, and that he worshiped the ground our daughter walked on. But no one expected Giselle to actually swallow a lethal handful of pills. And on the night the news of her suicide attempt broke, Declan Pierce—without a single warning sign—slashed his own wrists. 1 The news of Declan’s suicide attempt came from his chief of staff. “Mrs. Pierce, it’s critical. We need you at the hospital to sign the surgical consents.” It seemed the cuts were deep. A Romeo chasing his Juliet into the dark. The summer night was humid, suffocating. Today was my twenty-fourth birthday. Just this afternoon, Declan had sent me a barrage of photos: the massive floral arrangements, the custom jewelry, a wooden music box he’d spent three months carving by hand. And two boxes of strawberry-flavored condoms. Through the screen, his face still held that boyish charm, though fatherhood had sharpened his jawline, giving his devastating good looks a mature edge. He had smiled at the camera, looking absolutely wicked. “Baby, just looking at you makes me weak. You’re going to have to take very, very good care of me tonight. Promise?” I promised. “I booked our favorite place. Do not be late, Joanna.” He had feigned a haughty arrogance. “When have I ever been late?” I replied. On any normal day, I wouldn’t have cared if he was delayed. I would have assumed a board meeting ran long. But earlier that evening, Giselle had sent me a text, dripping with arrogant confidence. He just hasn’t seen me in a while, Jo. Dogs are simple creatures. The Pavlovian response just needs a little trigger. I sat at our reserved table in the Michelin-starred restaurant, watching the dinner crowd cycle through three different turnovers. From romantic fantasy to hollow waiting. I had even, to my own profound shame, prayed to a God I barely believed in. Let me win. Just this once. Please let me win. But I lost. Declan probably didn’t even realize how pathetic his excuse sounded. And Giselle’s tactic of “accidentally” pocket-dialing me? Even more pathetic. Through the line, I heard it with sickening clarity. The wet, rhythmic sounds. The frantic, punishing collisions. Since taking over his family’s empire, very few things could make Declan Pierce lose his iron-clad composure. But over the phone, he sounded like a feral, starving dog, growling low in his chest. “I hate you. God, I fucking hate you, Giselle. Why did you come back?!” Then, I heard my sister murmur my name. Instantly, the audio tightened. Declan’s voice turned lethal, laced with pure rage. “Don’t you ever fucking mention my wife.” “If your mouth is that bored, keep it shut.” 2 At eight o’clock that night, Declan finally called me back. “Baby, the merger is still a mess. It’s probably going to cross midnight. Wait for me? Please wait for me.” I had once told Declan a secret. Whenever I was completely, overwhelmingly heartbroken, I would force myself to stay awake until midnight. Because when the clock struck twelve, it was a new day. And in a new day, the pain of yesterday didn’t have to exist anymore. But at midnight, the carriage turns back into a pumpkin. There are no fairy tales. When I didn’t answer immediately, his tone shifted to a strange, frantic anxiety. Like he was desperate to anchor himself to something. “Joanna, please. Just tonight. I need you to wait for me.” Through the baby monitor, I could hear Poppy blowing soft little milk bubbles in her crib. She had my fingers in her tiny grip. “Is Poppy asleep?” Declan asked, his voice cracking slightly. “Tell her Daddy is coming home soon.” I thought to myself: Even the unluckiest person in the world can’t lose every single bet for decades straight, right? “Okay, Declan,” I whispered. “I’ll wait.” That was eight PM. Now, the antique grandfather clock in our penthouse struck twelve. America’s newly crowned Best Actress had swallowed a bottle of pills in her Hollywood hills mansion. And the ruthless CEO of Pierce Global, Declan Pierce, had “coincidentally” slashed his wrists, rushed to Mt. Sinai in critical condition. The top ten trending topics on Twitter were a bloodbath. Wedged right in the middle was a hashtag bearing my name: #DeclanAndJoannaCenturyOfLove. Century of love. That was what he called it after I survived my hemorrhaging during childbirth. Declan had poured millions into restoring the historical St. Jude’s Cathedral, just to have a massive marble cornerstone engraved with our initials at its entrance. During the year it became a trend to buy celestial bodies, he bought a star and named it after me. It was placed right in the heart of the city, at a massive planetarium exhibit where millions of New Yorkers passed by. Declan had held my hand and said, “I want every person who walks by, and every celestial body in the universe, to know that we are going to spend a century together.” Fuck him. Fuck all of it. 3 Walking from the penthouse down to the private garage, my phone never stopped vibrating. Most were unknown numbers. Journalists, hungry for the bloody details of a high-society tragedy. They wanted to know why, less than an hour after the golden girl of Hollywood took pills, the untouchable Declan Pierce followed suit—especially when his medical records showed zero history of mental illness. It started a year ago. When Giselle won her first major award, a Vanity Fair reporter asked if she had any regrets in life. She smiled tearfully and said, “My first love doesn’t know this, but… we almost had a baby together.” At that time, I was only ten days postpartum, recovering from a massive hemorrhage. Declan had walked miles on his knees up that mountain to pray for me, and practically moved heaven and earth to drag a retired surgical genius out of seclusion to save my life. Declan had a lingering injury in his leg from his youth. The grueling climb ruined it entirely. For a year, he walked with a noticeable, heavy limp. When the media dug up Giselle and Declan’s past, they shoved microphones in his face, desperately trying to spin a narrative of lingering, star-crossed love. Declan didn’t give them the satisfaction. He looked dead into the cameras and smirked. “She’s sick in the head.” “The woman has a rap sheet of exes longer than Fifth Avenue, didn’t you do your research? If she wants PR, she picked the wrong target.” “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go home and kiss my wife and daughter.” The media retreated. The backlash against Giselle was severe. My parents summoned me to their Upper East Side townhouse, and my mother slapped me across the face. “Declan is worth billions now! Your sister has the awards, but she lacks the commercial backing. She needs the PR!” my mother hissed. “A little fake nostalgia doesn’t hurt anyone.” I stood my ground. “I asked Declan. He refuses to play along.” That night, Declan had cried. He had wreaked havoc inside my body, then softly, reverently kissed the faded surgical scar on my lower abdomen, his eyes wet and shining in the dark. “Baby, how could you even think of handing me over to someone else?” he whispered, voice trembling. “We made a daughter together.” My parents, of course, never believed he loved me. “Declan used to treat your sister like she hung the moon,” my father scoffed. “You think he doesn’t know exactly what he’s doing by punishing her publicly?” I used the exact words Declan had drilled into my head to fire back at them: “You said it yourself—that was the past. Declan is my husband now. I come first.” And our daughter comes second. Yet, a year later. The joke was on me. Wow. So this was destiny. I had fought so hard, built so much, but I was still no match for the phantom of his first love. 4 On the drive to the hospital, neon lights blurred through the windshield. Waiting at a red light, my mind was a chaotic static. My ears rang with the unhinged, screaming voicemails my parents had left me. “We never should have brought you back!” “If your sister hadn’t begged us to be kind to you!” “You were missing for years—who knows what kind of trash raised you!” “Declan belonged to Giselle first! You’ve always been a jealous little bitch. If she dies, you better go to hell with her…” The truth was, Giselle couldn’t handle losing. People always romanticize the path they didn’t take. She told me she regretted running away. She begged me to give Declan back. “He only married you because you look like me, Jo,” she texted. “You’re just a knockoff.” Declan saw that text. He was usually so gentle with me, but that day, his fury was terrifying. “Joanna, are you a fucking doormat?!” he yelled. “Someone is trying to steal your husband, and you’re just sitting there!” When it came to fighting for love, I suffered from learned helplessness. I didn’t know how to fight. Declan dragged me into his chest, burying his face in my hair. He snatched my phone. “Watch and learn,” he muttered. He typed out a reply and hit send: Declan says if you have the guts, come for him yourself. Get help. After sending it, he looked down at me with a triumphant, arrogant smirk. Beneath the billionaire suit, I could still see the reckless boy he used to be. “Joanna, remember this. If I just wanted a stand-in, I would have married you the day she ran out on me.” “I wouldn’t have waited until I realized you were the one, and I wouldn’t have spent two whole years chasing you.” It was true. After Giselle bailed on the wedding, Declan drowned in whiskey and self-pity. He looked like a drenched, abandoned stray. When the families decided I would take her place to save the merger, I was secretly thrilled. I had loved him in silence for years. I went to his apartment. He pinned me against the wall, kissing me with a punishing, bruising desperation. But when he pulled back, his eyes were dead. Ice cold. “You want to fuck?” he slurred. “Giselle’s little understudy?” He knew I had too much pride. He knew I’d run. We were engaged, but I retreated into my shell, playing the quiet, obedient fiancée. As time passed, I realized I needed to protect my own heart. I tried to move on. I started dating a guy from my grad program. But that day, Declan snapped. He tracked us down, dragged me out of the hotel, beat the guy to a pulp, and threw me into the back of his Maybach. When the world blurred and we crossed the line in the backseat, he didn’t say Giselle’s name. He groaned my name. In this vast, empty world, the list of people who would firmly, unconditionally choose me was tragically short. I thought Declan was one of them. But right now? Right now, the grief was so heavy it felt like it was crushing my ribs. Tears pooled, making the streetlights refract into blinding stars. The ringing in my ears grew deafening. So much so that when the massive freight truck ran the light and barreled directly toward my driver’s side door… I didn’t even hit the brakes. I just sat there, hands resting lightly on the wheel. Quietly accepting the absurd, pathetic end to my story. 5 I never expected that waking up at eighteen again was something that could actually happen to me. In five days, my sister would run away from her wedding. And then, with the lofty grace of a queen tossing a bone to a peasant, she would hand Declan Pierce over to me. “I’ve seen the way you look at his photos, Jo. You must be losing your damn mind with happiness right now.” I sat in my quiet, cramped bedroom and looked around. From the cheap jewelry on the dresser to the clothes in the closet—every single piece was a hand-me-down from Giselle. She debuted in Hollywood at sixteen. By twenty, she was a rising starlet. Brands threw PR packages at her. Whatever she found ugly or off-season, she tossed into my room. “What are you standing there for?” Giselle’s sharp voice snapped me back to reality. “Are you deaf? I told you to give me back that studded Valentino bag.” She had called it tacky a month ago. But a major pop star just wore it in a paparazzi shot, the price skyrocketed, and suddenly she wanted it back. I should have learned this lesson years ago. Everything she gave me only came with usage rights, never ownership. Once an item belonged to her, it was hers forever. Declan included. “Are you fucking deaf?! I said get the bag!” She shoved me hard. I stumbled backward, my hip slamming into my desk. Actresses who look perfect on camera are usually starving and miserable in real life. Deprived of food, their resentment bleeds out onto everyone around them. A sharp, biting pain flared in my palm. I lifted my hand. Blood. My desk was covered in my crafting tools, and my palm had slammed directly onto the tip of an X-Acto knife. Fresh, bright blood welled up, thick and warm. The color of a poisoned rose. It didn’t hurt. Not really. Not compared to the agonizing, crushing pain of being pinned inside the mangled steel of a car wreck, waiting to die. Suddenly, a gust of wind seemed to sweep into the room. My wrist was seized by a trembling, familiar hand. The scent of cedar and citrus hit me. “Does it hurt? Jo, talk to me. Does it hurt?” Declan’s voice cracked, thick with a frantic, suffocating panic. “Let me… let me fix it.” He was twenty years old right now. In his most arrogant, reckless, foolishly romantic era. I glanced past him to see Giselle rolling her eyes. “I told you not to come over, Declan.” “You hopped the gate and almost broke your leg. Don’t play the victim and cry to me about it.” With that, she spun on her designer heels and marched downstairs. 6 But Declan didn’t run after her. His head remained bowed, his trembling fingers awkwardly trying to press a cotton pad against my palm. The blade had gone deep. Blood kept seeping through the white cotton, refusing to clot. Declan’s hands started to shake violently. Then, his shoulders began to heave. He was so close I could hear his ragged, uneven breaths. “Let me do it,” I said quietly, pulling the soaked cotton away. More blood spilled out. Suddenly, Declan let out a harsh, visceral gag. He slammed one hand against the wall to steady himself, while his other hand gripped my wrist so tightly it bruised, his knuckles turning white. “What’s wrong with you?” I asked, staring at him. He lifted his face. He was deathly pale. He shook his head slowly. “Nothing… just… I’m a little dizzy from the blood.” When our eyes met, his breathtaking face was contorted in absolute agony. A mix of terror, devastating grief, and the violent shock of a near-miss. His eyes were bloodshot and brimming with tears. “You’re alive. You’re alive…” he whispered, like a prayer. He raised both hands, hovering them just an inch away from my cheeks, desperate to touch me but completely terrified I would shatter. Dizzy from blood. Gagging. The twenty-year-old Declan Pierce was ruthless, violent, and loved a street fight. He grew up boxing and throwing punches to establish dominance. He was never afraid of blood. Only the twenty-six-year-old Declan Pierce was afraid of blood. Because in the delivery room, he had watched my heart monitor flatline. He had watched a massive pool of crimson soak through the stark white hospital sheets beneath my lifeless body. Ever since that night, the sight of red sent him into violent panic attacks. He would involuntarily break down in tears. Once, during a major board meeting, a slide showed a massive red pie chart. He suffered a panic attack, abandoned his executives, and drove at a hundred miles an hour just to find me. He buried his face in my lap and sobbed, ensuring I was still breathing. “I can’t do Christmas this year, Joanna,” he had wept. “Everything is red. Every day I wake up terrified I’m going to lose you. I can’t take it anymore.” So. He came back too, didn’t he?

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I had been married to Donovan for almost five years, and tomorrow was our anniversary. To surprise him, I had taken time off from the hospital, boarded a five-hour flight from Boston, and landed in Manhattan where his private equity firm was headquartered. The moment I stepped through the revolving glass doors of his building, my phone buzzed against my palm. I had been pulled into a new iMessage group chat. The screen immediately lit up with a flurry of activity. Row after row of messages flooded in—“Welcome to the inner circle, sister-in-law!”—and a sweet warmth bloomed in my chest. We had been doing long-distance for three years. He always said the firm was bleeding him dry, that the deals were relentless. Our weekends together had dwindled to nothing; the last time I felt his arms around me was five months ago. I hadn’t wanted to spend this anniversary alone in an empty house, so I flew out. I had been terrified he might have forgotten the date entirely in the haze of his work, but looking at my screen, I realized I’d been a fool. He hadn’t forgotten. He had orchestrated all of this. Then, the screenshots started rolling in. His college buddies, the partners at his firm, were dropping massive wire transfer receipts into the chat. But as I squinted at the screen, the breath caught in my throat. The account name wasn’t mine. The money was being wired to an account under the name Sweet Briar. Brad sent the first receipt: $100,000. The memo read: Welcome to the family. Tyler followed with a $200,000 transfer. Welcome to the club. Jax blew them out of the water with half a million. Welcome, sister-in-law. … 1 The final notification was a transfer from Donovan. He had wired this Sweet Briar an even one million dollars. Time fractured. The air in the lobby turned to glass in my lungs. My hands shaking, I tapped on Donovan’s contact, my thumbs hovering over the keyboard to demand who the hell this woman was. But before I could type a single letter, the screen shifted. I had been removed from the group. It happened so fast it felt like a hallucination. “Miss Gwendolyn? What are you doing down here?” The voice jerked me out of my paralysis. The receptionist, who had been aggressively ignoring me a moment ago, was now practically glowing with deference as she rushed toward a woman standing just a few feet to my left. “Mr. Warner was very clear,” the receptionist cooed. “You’re five months along now. You really shouldn’t be on your feet.” I turned my head. Standing near the sleek marble front desk was a young woman in a flowing, cream-colored silk dress. Her baby bump pushed gently against the fabric. She was impossibly young, her profile soft and delicate, her eyes crinkling into crescents when she smiled. She was beautiful. And she looked exactly like me, back when I was twenty-two. “Where’s Donny? Is he still locked in that boardroom?” The young woman laughed, a light, musical sound, as she moved toward the plush leather waiting sofas. “It’s fine, I’ll just wait for him here. Don’t tell him I’m downstairs, I don’t want to break his concentration.” The receptionist practically fluttered around her, easing her onto the cushions. “Of course. Let me have the kitchen send down some of those macarons you like.” As the receptionist scurried away, the girl’s gaze landed on me. “Oh, hi! Are you here to see Donovan too? He’s tied up in a meeting, so you might be waiting a while.” I heard my own voice, brittle and thin, drifting out of my mouth. “Who are you to Donovan?” “I’m his girlfriend,” she said, her smile widening into something radiant and bulletproof. “Though, we’re getting married soon.” She was practically glowing, suffocated by her own happiness. “You wouldn’t believe it, but he just added me to this group chat with all his oldest friends. They sent me the craziest gifts! Like, actual money. Just to welcome me.” She leaned in, adopting a conspiratorial, friendly tone. “Listen, if you’re here to pitch him a deal, you should really push for it. He’s an incredible man. He works so hard, and every dollar he makes is blood, sweat, and tears.” Her hand drifted up to her collarbone. “But with me? He’s a total softie. We’ve been together three years, and whatever I want, he gets it for me. No questions asked.” She tapped a massive, staggering diamond pendant resting against her skin. “I saw this at a Sotheby’s auction. He didn’t even blink. Just bought it.” She let out a soft sigh, resting a hand on her stomach. “And last month, I just made an offhand comment about his penthouse feeling a little tight for a baby. The next day, he bought a multi-million dollar brownstone. Put the deed entirely in my name.” She clamped a hand over her mouth, giggling. “Oh my god, I am so sorry. Listen to me babbling. Are you a client? I don’t think I’ve seen you at the corporate parties. I’m Megan, by the way. What’s your name?” Now I knew who she was. She was Sweet Briar. And in that sterile, air-conditioned lobby, the remaining illusions of my life quietly bled out on the marble floor. The man I had loved for ten years. The man I had been married to for five. The man I commuted across state lines for, who I rearranged my entire existence for, had been sleeping with someone else. A girl barely out of college. And she was pregnant. I stood there, a bone-deep frost spreading through my veins. Donovan had sworn, on his own life, that he would never betray me. We had met in the wreckage of a car crash. I was a surgical resident on my way home; I had sprinted out of my car in the rain to stabilize a bleeding driver on the asphalt. He had been in town on a business trip, stuck in the traffic jam, watching me from the window of his town car. He told me later that it only took one look. He spent the next year relentlessly pursuing me. The flowers, the cars, the real estate deeds left on my doorstep—none of it moved me. I was exhausted, married to my hospital. It wasn’t until I collapsed in the OR hallway after a twenty-hour surgical rotation that he finally broke through. When I woke up, he was sitting by my hospital bed, his eyes red-rimmed and bloodshot. “Camille, if you die, I’m following you right into the dirt,” he had whispered, his voice cracking. I had pressed my ear to his chest, listened to the frantic, terrified beating of his heart, and finally surrendered. I said yes. After the wedding, my career kept me in Boston, while his empire kept him in New York. Even when he was running on three hours of sleep, he would charter a flight to my city every single weekend just to wake up next to me. How could the man who cried at my hospital bed, who promised me forever on his knees, do this? “Hey, are you okay?” Megan reached out, her soft hand patting my shoulder. Her brow furrowed in genuine concern. “I’m fine.” The ambient noise of the lobby vanished. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. I shook my head, feeling as though someone had taken a hunting knife, slid it neatly between my ribs, and twisted it until I was entirely numb. “Megan? What did I tell you about wandering around the city by yourself? You’re going to give me a heart attack.” The voice was a low, familiar rumble. I turned my head. My eyes locked onto Donovan’s. The indulgent, adoring smile on his face instantly crystallized into something horrified. “Camille,” the name slipped from his lips, breathless. “What are you doing here?” 2 “Donny!” Before I could even open my mouth, Megan threw herself into his arms. “This woman has been waiting for you forever! Is she a client?” “Yeah.” Donovan swallowed hard, his throat bobbing. His arms wrapped instinctively around her waist. “Just a client.” He gently pivoted her toward the exit. “Let’s get you to lunch. I can starve, but my girls need to eat.” “But she’s been waiting so long,” Megan protested softly, looking over her shoulder at me. “Talk to her first. I don’t mind.” Donovan’s jaw tightened. He gently guided Megan back to the sofa. “Give me five minutes. I’ll be right out.” Only then did he look at me. The warmth in his eyes was completely gone, replaced by a cold, panicked calculation. “My private office. Now.” I followed him into his inner sanctum. I hadn’t been here in two years. The last time I visited, the room was a masterclass in aggressive minimalism—black leather, steel, and dark walnut. Now, the space was littered with soft blushes, a pastel throw blanket over the couch, a ridiculous plush bunny on his desk. It was the aesthetic of a college girl playing house. “Why didn’t you call me to say you were flying in?” He dropped onto the sofa, pulled a cigarette from a silver case, lit it, took one drag, and immediately crushed it out in the ashtray. “Megan’s pregnant,” he muttered, staring at the crushed tobacco. “I’m trying to quit.” Donovan was a chain-smoker. During high-stakes mergers, he could kill a pack a day. He was quitting. For her. “Donovan,” I choked out, the word scraping against my throat. “Do you have absolutely nothing to say to me?” I didn’t want to cry. I swore to myself I wouldn’t. But the tears spilled over, hot and humiliating. Seeing me cry, Donovan dragged a hand down his face and exhaled a heavy sigh. “She was an intern at the clinic. I collapsed from a stress ulcer a few years ago, and she took care of me. She’s… she’s not like you, Camille. You’re brilliant. You’re independent. If I walked out that door today, you would survive. You would thrive. But Megan? Megan can’t even make toast without burning it if I’m not there.” He paused, looking up at me with an infuriating sense of martyrdom. “The distance was killing me. If I didn’t have her keeping me sane, the stress of this firm would have put me in the ground.” I stood there, letting the tears fall, absorbing the sheer audacity of his defense. Without a word, I closed the distance between us, raised my hand, and slapped him across the face as hard as I physically could. The sound cracked through the quiet office like a gunshot. “I want a divorce, Donovan. You can have her.” He didn’t flinch. He reached out, wrapping his large hand around my trembling wrist, and pressed his lips to my palm. “I told you on our wedding day. The only way you leave me is in a body bag,” he said, his voice dropping into a dark, calm register. “You are the love of my life, Camille. Nothing changes that. Look, I know my mother has been down your throat for years about you not wanting kids. Once Megan has the baby, I’ll have the legal documents drawn up. We’ll adopt it. We’ll raise it as ours. I’m doing this to take the pressure off you. You need to look at the bigger picture here.” I stared down at the man kneeling in front of me. I realized, with a sickening drop in my stomach, that I had never actually known him at all. He entirely missed the horror in my eyes. “She’s due soon. I’m going to throw her a wedding. Just a ceremony to make her happy, to make things right for her before the birth. Since you’re already in town, stay at the penthouse for a few days. I’ll have the driver take you there now. Once I drop Megan off, I’ll come home to you.” The penthouse. The home we had bought together. Because his mother—a terrifying, old-money matriarch who thought a surgeon was essentially blue-collar labor—refused to let me stay at the family estate. “Be a good girl, Camille. Megan is heavily pregnant. Her blood pressure is fragile. If you’re going to stay in my city, you need to understand what is and isn’t acceptable behavior.” With that, he stood up, straightened his custom suit, and walked out of the room. I lunged toward the door, desperate to scream, to tear the room apart, but two massive security guards materialized in the doorway, blocking my path. “Apologies, Mrs. Donovan,” one of them said, his face a stone wall. “Mr. Donovan requested that you remain here until he and Miss Gwendolyn have left the premises.” I watched Donovan’s broad back disappear down the hallway. My hands shook so violently I could barely pull my phone from my purse. I dialed Evelyn, my mother-in-law. “Evelyn,” I breathed, my voice hollow. “You’ve spent five years praying I’d leave your son. You win. I want a divorce.” There was a pause on the line. The clinking of a porcelain teacup. “You finally woke up. What’s your price? Name the figure.” “Nothing. I don’t want a single dime of his money. Just make him sign the papers. Fast.” “Consider it done.” The guards eventually escorted me to a black SUV, which dropped me at the penthouse. I hadn’t been here in five months. It looked exactly the same. I had picked out the rugs, the art, the linen drapes. This was supposed to be our sanctuary. Now, it felt like a tomb. I spent three hours moving methodically through the rooms, pulling every piece of clothing, every book, every photograph that belonged to me, and shoving them into garbage bags. I was halfway through emptying the bathroom cabinet when the front door banged open. Donovan stormed down the hallway, his face twisted in a murderous rage. He grabbed my arm so hard my shoulder popped. “Did you tell my mother? Did you run your mouth about Megan?!” he roared, spittle flying from his lips. “You know damn well my mother will destroy her! Why would you do that!” 3 The pain in my wrist made me gasp, but I shook my head violently. “I don’t know what you’re talking about! I didn’t say a word to Evelyn about your mistress!” “Liar!” he spat. “You’re coming with me right now! If anything happens to Megan or the baby, I swear to God, Camille, I will make you pay.” He dragged me out of the penthouse, half-carrying, half-pulling me down the hall. I didn’t even have time to put on my shoes. “Let go of me! Donovan, you’re hurting me!” I stumbled after him into the private elevator. I thought he was taking me across town. Instead, the elevator doors opened one floor down. He had bought her the penthouse directly beneath ours. He kicked the door open. Inside, Megan was on her knees on the hardwood floor, sobbing hysterically, her body trembling. Evelyn sat on the velvet sofa, looking down at her like she was scraping something foul off her shoe. “Let’s skip the theatrics,” Evelyn said coldly. “How much will it take for you to abort it and disappear?” “Mrs. Donovan, please!” Megan wailed, clutching her stomach. “Donny and I love each other! I know I’m not from your world, I know I don’t have a pedigree, but I didn’t choose how I was born!” “Love?” Evelyn let out a sharp, aristocratic laugh. “You’re a parasite playing house, and you dare invoke the word love? That’s exactly what my idiot son said when he begged me to let him marry Camille. Five years later, he’s slumming it with you. How deep could that love possibly be?” “What?” Megan froze. The tears suspended on her lashes. “What do you mean, slumming it? What do you mean, married?” “Mom!” Donovan shoved past me, dropped to his knees, and pulled Megan into his chest. “Why the hell would you say that to her! She’s pregnant! Her heart can’t take this!” He whipped his head around to glare at me. “Is this your doing, Camille? Did you sick my mother on her?” I stared at him, exhausted to my marrow. “How is this my fault?” “If you hadn’t called her, how would she have found out?!” he yelled, his face red with veins. “You were terrified Megan was going to steal your title. You used my own mother as a weapon against a pregnant girl. How could you be so vicious, Camille?!” “You’re the one who cheated on your wife!” I fired back, my voice echoing off the high ceilings. “If you could keep your pants zipped, she wouldn’t have anything to find out!” A loud gasp cut through the room. Megan’s eyes rolled back in her head, and she collapsed limp against Donovan’s chest. “Megan! Baby, wake up! Megan!” Panic hijacked his face. He scooped her up in his arms and sprinted out the door toward the elevator, screaming for his driver. I stood alone in the entryway with Evelyn. She watched her son disappear, letting out a long, weary sigh. “There’s nothing quite as pathetic as a man panicking over a bastard child,” Evelyn muttered. She turned her sharp gaze to me. “I’ve never liked you, Camille. I still don’t. But compared to that weeping gold-digger, you at least have a spine. I was going to leverage this to force him back in line with you. But looking at you now… I see you’re done.” “Thank you, Evelyn. But you’re right. I’m done.” I reached into my pocket, pulled out the heavy, vintage Cartier emerald ring—the Donovan family heirloom she had bitterly handed over on my wedding day—and placed it on the console table. Evelyn looked at the ring, then at me. Something resembling respect flickered in her eyes. “Seven days,” she said quietly. “The finalized divorce decree will be in your hands.” After Evelyn left, the silence in the apartment was suffocating. I finally looked around. Above the fireplace hung a massive, custom-framed photograph. Donovan and Megan at a carnival. He had his arms wrapped tight around her waist, his head thrown back in a booming, uninhibited laugh. It was a look of pure, unadulterated joy. I hadn’t seen him look like that in years. I walked slowly up the floating staircase to the master bedroom. A sheer, ridiculously expensive La Perla nightgown was tossed carelessly across the unmade bed. It was provocative, loud. Something I would never wear. The nightstand drawer was cracked open. Inside was a box of condoms. Only one left. The vivid, sickening image of my husband sweating and writhing on these sheets with a twenty-two-year-old made the bile rise in my throat. I don’t know how long I stood there, trapped in a dissociative daze, before heavy footsteps thundered up the stairs. Two of Donovan’s private security men stormed into the room. “Mrs. Donovan. You need to come with us.” “Excuse me? Where are you taking me?” One of them grabbed my arm, his grip bruising. Pure terror spiked in my chest. I fought, kicking and scratching, but they hauled me out of the building and shoved me into the back of a Suburban like a criminal. When we pulled up to the private wing of Mt. Sinai Hospital, I saw Donovan slumped on a bench in the hallway, his head buried in his hands. Hearing our footsteps, he looked up. His face was gray. Dead. “You’re here,” he said, his voice terrifyingly flat. “Megan terminated the pregnancy.” 4 I froze. The floor seemed to tilt beneath my feet. Terminated? How could she? She was five months along. “Donovan…” I opened my mouth, searching for something, anything to say. But before a sound could escape, he crossed the hallway in two massive strides and wrapped his hands around my throat. The force of it slammed me against the plaster wall. The air was violently crushed from my windpipe. “Camille! Are you happy now?! Is this what you wanted?!” he roared, his spit hitting my face. “Why did you drag my mother into this! You take an oath as a doctor to save lives, and you drove a girl to murder her own baby!” Black spots danced in the corners of my vision. The hatred radiating from his eyes was blinding. I clawed at his wrists, my feet kicking weakly off the floor, suffocating under his iron grip. “Do you have any idea how much I wanted that child? I loved you so much, Camille! Why would you destroy me like this?!” With a feral yell, he threw me to the ground. I hit the linoleum hard, instantly curling into a ball, hacking and gasping desperately for oxygen, my lungs burning like fire. “I didn’t… cough… Donovan, I swear to God I didn’t tell her! She runs your trust funds, she probably saw the money moving!” “Stop lying to my face!” he screamed. “Get inside! You’re going to get on your knees and beg for Megan’s forgiveness. You’re going to apologize to my dead child!” He grabbed a handful of my hair and dragged me across the floor, kicking the door to the VIP suite open. Megan was in the hospital bed, pale and weeping. When she saw me, her face contorted into absolute hysteria. “Get her out of here! I don’t want to look at her! Donny, make her leave!” She snatched a heavy crystal vase from her bedside table and hurled it directly at me. Crash. The heavy glass slammed into my forehead and shattered. A blinding spike of pain shot through my skull, followed immediately by the warm, thick slide of blood running down into my eye. The metallic smell of blood hit the sterilized air. Megan pointed a trembling finger at the door. “Get out! Both of you! Leave me alone!” Donovan didn’t look at my bleeding head. He snapped his fingers. The two guards stepped into the room. Before my brain could even register the threat, they forced me to the ground, shoving me face-first into the carpet. Straight into the shards of the shattered vase. The jagged glass sliced deep into my bare knees. A raw, animalistic scream ripped from my throat as the pain flared hot and white. “I brought her to apologize, Megan. To make amends for our baby,” Donovan said, his voice chillingly calm as he stood over me. He nodded at the guards. “Make her bow. Keep her down until Megan says it’s enough.” “Donovan! You are the one who cheated! This is your fault!” I shrieked, blood pouring from my forehead, blinding my left eye. The guards forced a hand onto the back of my neck, shoving my face inches from the bloody glass. “Megan is my entire world. If you hadn’t intervened, she would be holding my baby right now,” Donovan said, his voice entirely devoid of reason. He was lost in his own twisted narrative. “Stop playing the victim!” Megan shrieked from the bed, covering her ears. “I’ll never forgive either of you!” With a dramatic gasp, her eyes rolled back and she slumped into the pillows, unconscious again. Nurses rushed in, followed by the attending doctor, who physically pushed Donovan toward the door. “Mr. Donovan, she just underwent a late-term surgical procedure. Her heart rate is erratic. You need to leave the room immediately.” Donovan backed out into the hallway. The guards finally released me. I dragged myself up, my knees leaving bloody smears on the floor. My purse and phone were back at the penthouse. I had no money, no ID, and I was bleeding profusely in a city where the only person I knew was the man trying to destroy me. I had no choice but to limp after him to his car. He took me back to his penthouse and called his private concierge doctor to stitch my forehead and bandage my knees. “Don’t blame me, Camille. You know how this works. If I didn’t make you bleed, she wouldn’t believe I was punishing you. She wouldn’t forgive me,” he said, pouring himself a scotch as the doctor packed up his bags. I stared at the wall, nodding slowly. The cold inside me had finally crystallized into something solid and unbreakable. I didn’t want to fight anymore. Seeing my quiet submission, his shoulders relaxed. “You’re the only woman who will ever be my wife,” he murmured, crouching in front of me and resting his hand on my bandaged knee. “Once Megan recovers, we’ll try for another baby. Don’t worry. As long as you play nice and let her have her moment, you’ll always be taken care of.” “Okay,” I whispered, my voice completely hollow. “I’m going to give her the wedding next weekend. If she wants you there…” “I’ll go.” “Good girl. There’s my Camille.” He smiled, stroking my cheek. He didn’t notice that the light in my eyes was completely, irreversibly dead. I didn’t sleep that night. Around 3 A.M., hovering in a feverish, pain-medicated haze, I heard the faint click of my bedroom door opening. Before I could sit up, a heavy cloth was shoved over my head. Strong hands yanked my arms behind my back, binding my wrists with industrial zip-ties, then my ankles. I was shoved violently into a heavy burlap sack, suffocating in darkness, completely paralyzed. 5 Blind panic seized my chest. I tried to scream, but a thick layer of duct tape had been crushed over my mouth. Only muffled, pathetic whimpers escaped. I was dragged down a flight of stairs—the service stairs to the basement of the building, where the climate-controlled storage units were. Above me, a voice broke the damp silence. “I know you’re grieving, Megan. I know the baby dying broke you. I brought her down here for you. Take it out on her. Bleed her out until you feel better. Then… will you forgive me?” “If I kill her, does it bring my baby back? Will you actually marry me?!” Megan’s voice was shrill, echoing off the concrete walls. “I will!” Donovan cried, pulling her into what sounded like a desperate embrace. “I’ll give you the wedding of the century. You’ll be the only Mrs. Donovan!” Megan sniffled loudly. “You promise you aren’t lying to me?” “I swear it on my life! I will never lie to you again!” I heard the scrape of something heavy being dragged across the floor. “Camille killed our child,” Donovan said, his voice mutating into something sinister. “Do whatever you want to her. I won’t stop you.” “Are you sure you can stomach it?” Megan asked. The moment the words left her mouth, a deafening CRACK exploded against my ribs. Donovan had swung first. My spine arched off the concrete, an involuntary, muffled scream tearing through the duct tape as tears instantly flooded my eyes. That was why he hadn’t yelled at me when we got back from the hospital. That was why he played the gentle husband. He hadn’t spared me. He was just saving me for the slaughter. Crack! CRACK! The second and third blows landed with the sickening thud of wood against bone. It wasn’t a warning strike. He was swinging a baseball bat with the full, terrifying momentum of a grown man. Pain arced through my nervous system like lightning. I curled into a tight, trembling ball, my brain short-circuiting as the agony drowned out all rational thought. Then came the fourth blow. The fifth. The coarse burlap grew wet and heavy against my skin, sticking to the open wounds on my back. Blood pooled on the cold concrete beneath me. Through the roaring in my ears, I heard nothing but the relentless, rhythmic thud of the bat and my own pathetic, muffled sobbing. I don’t know how long it lasted. Hours, minutes—time no longer existed. Finally, the swinging stopped. “Are you tired, baby?” Donovan’s voice drifted down from above, soft, tender, dripping with devotion. “Let’s get you upstairs to bed. Once you’re healed, we’re doing the wedding.” “I want Camille to be my bridesmaid!” Megan demanded, breathless. Donovan hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Okay. Whatever you want.” Their footsteps echoed up the concrete stairs, growing fainter until the heavy metal door slammed shut. Alone in the dark, my body finally gave out, and I slipped into the merciful black void of unconsciousness. Just before he reached the penthouse, Donovan’s phone buzzed in his pocket. A text from his head of security. Sir, what do we do with the girl in the bag? Donovan typed back without breaking stride: Write her a check. Tell her to get lost. Make sure Megan never finds out the girl in the sack wasn’t actually Camille. 6 When I regained consciousness, the smell of damp concrete and dried blood filled my nostrils. The duct tape was gone. The burlap sack was gone. I was curled on the floor of one of the basement storage units. The icy chill of the concrete seeping into my battered skin was the only thing keeping me awake. I was freezing. My throat was sandpaper. Every millimeter of my body screamed in agony. I tried to drag myself toward the steel door, but my legs refused to obey. I couldn’t move an inch. I never could have imagined the depths of Donovan’s cruelty. It wasn’t enough to let his mistress break a vase over my head. He had bound me, beaten me into a bloody pulp in the dark, and locked me in a cellar. A brutal fever spiked that evening. Through the delirium, I heard the heavy deadbolt slide open. Someone set a plastic cup of water and a styrofoam container of food on the ground. A small blister pack of Tylenol dropped next to it. “Poor thing,” a woman whispered. The housekeeper. “She doesn’t even know Mr. Donovan is marrying that girl tomorrow.” “Yeah, they’re pulling out all the stops. Rented out an entire estate in the Hamptons. Even Evelyn is going,” a second voice muttered. “What the hell are we supposed to do with the wife?” “Who knows. That Megan girl is a psycho. She demanded the wife be brought up as her bridesmaid. It’s a total power trip.” Despair washed over me like a rising tide, but beneath it, a tiny, stubborn ember of survival sparked. I knew I couldn’t die down here. Trembling, gritting my teeth against the blinding pain in my fractured ribs, I dragged myself toward the styrofoam box. I picked up the plastic fork with bloody fingers and forced the cold rice down my throat, choking on every bite. It’s almost over, I told myself, staring at the concrete wall. Just a little longer, and I’ll never have to look at him again. A memory, unbidden and agonizing, drifted into my mind. Our wedding day. Donovan, flushed with champagne and overwhelming joy, spinning me around the dance floor like he had conquered the earth. “Camille! You’re my wife now! You’re mine! Don’t you ever think you can leave me, because I won’t let you!” He had been so young, so fiercely alive with love. And now, he was standing at an altar with someone else. I don’t know how many days passed in that basement. Slowly, the fever broke. I could finally stand, leaning heavily against the wall. Faint sounds drifted down from the street grates. Traffic. Horns. Life moving on. Three days had passed. Today was the wedding. The steel door swung open, blinding me with the harsh fluorescent hallway lights. A maid stood in the doorway, holding a garment bag. “Mrs. Donovan. The boss and Miss Gwendolyn already left for the estate. You need to wash up and put on the dress. A car is waiting to take you.” I limped out of the cell, my body stiff and aching. The penthouse above was eerily quiet, though remnants of floral arrangements littered the foyer. “Oh, right. Evelyn sent this via courier this morning.” The maid handed me a thick manila envelope. My heart hammered against my bruised ribs. I ripped the seal open with shaking hands. Inside, embossed with the state seal, was the finalized decree of absolute divorce. It was done. I was divorced. I was free. “Ma’am, please hurry. The driver is getting impatient,” the maid urged. I folded the decree, slid it carefully into my purse, and grabbed the garment bag containing the bridesmaid dress. “I’ll head down now. I don’t want to ruin the dress on the ride over, I’ll change at the venue.” My voice was raspy, hollowed out, yet thrumming with a bizarre, electric calm. The maid watched me limp toward the elevator. “Be careful out there, ma’am.” Before the elevator doors closed, I took one last look at the penthouse. The soaring ceilings, the art we bought in Paris, the life I had built. I turned around and never looked back. I walked straight past the idling black town car waiting to take me to the Hamptons, and flagged down a yellow taxi on the avenue. “Penn Station,” I told the driver, staring out the window. “And step on it, please.” It was over. Have a beautiful life, Donovan.

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I’m alive again. After being left to wither away and starve in that godforsaken psychiatric ward, the universe has somehow pulled me back through the veil. Today is the day. The opening of the National Steinway Invitational. My twin sister, Brianna, is currently preparing to step onto that stage, clutching the sheet music she stole from my desk. In my previous life, I made the mistake of confronting her. I screamed the truth. I demanded my credit. The reward for my honesty? My own parents committed me. They told the world I was suffering from a “persecution complex,” that I was a jealous, delusional girl who couldn’t handle her sister’s brilliance. Brianna used my soul, note by note, to become the “Darling of the Classical World.” And when she no longer needed me, she let me rot. She forgot I existed while I clawed at the padded walls, my stomach a hollow pit of agony until the lights finally went out. If a “prodigy” requires blood to stay in the spotlight, then so be it. This time, I won’t fight her. I’m going to personally build her pedestal. I will lift her so high that when she eventually falls—and she will fall—there won’t be enough of her left to bury. I’m not crying to Mom and Dad this time. I’m playing a much longer game. 1 “Callie? I’m finished practicing. Can you come take a listen?” Brianna’s voice jolted me awake. I snapped my eyes open, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I was in my room. There was my black baby grand, the finish gleaming under the morning sun. Resting on the music stand were the handwritten scores I’d spent three sleepless nights perfecting. I wasn’t dead. I was back. The memory of the hunger still lingered—a phantom iron chain tightening around my stomach. I could still smell the rot of the institution and feel the cold weight of the steel door. Before I died, I had screamed until my vocal cords shredded, leaving nothing but the metallic taste of blood in my throat. I had watched my life drain away while, outside those walls, the radio played Brianna’s latest hit, Radiance. My life, transcribed into her glory. I quickly shut my eyes and curled into a ball under the duvet, pretending to be asleep. Brianna’s footsteps were light, hesitant. She crept toward the piano and, without a second’s hesitation, snatched the manuscript that held my entire heart: The Leviathan’s Descent. Under the covers, my fingernails dug into my palms until I drew blood. That piece was the spark that ignited her career. In my last life, it was my death warrant. Soon, the muffled sound of my parents’ excited voices drifted in from the living room. “Brianna, you wrote this? The melody… it’s so haunting. It tells such a story!” My mother’s voice was thick with pride. “I always knew our girl was born for the stage,” my father added with a booming laugh. “This kind of talent? You can’t teach that.” “Of course, Dad,” Brianna chirped, her voice dripping with that practiced, sugary modesty. “I am your daughter, after all.” My father paused, a hint of confusion in his tone. “But your scales lately, and the technical exercises…” “Oh, stop! I was just holding back, saving the best for the competition. This is my secret weapon!” Listening to her shameless lies, I bit my tongue until I tasted copper. The door to my room creaked open. My mother walked in, and seeing me awake, a flicker of awkwardness crossed her face. “Callie, you’re up? Sorry, your sister got a bit… excited. Did we wake you?” I rubbed my eyes, feigning a dazed, sleepy fog. “What’s going on? I was out cold. I didn’t hear a thing.” Mom visibly relaxed. She walked over and tucked the edge of my blanket in, a gesture that felt more like a dismissal than an act of love. “Nothing important. Your sister is entering a major competition, and we’re just celebrating the good news.” She hesitated, her tone turning cautious. “You should try to practice more too, Callie. I know you don’t have Brianna’s natural spark, but hard work can make up for a lack of talent. Don’t waste your time dreaming about things that aren’t realistic.” I looked down, hiding the ice in my eyes. “I know, Mom. I understand.” She gave my head a pitying pat and turned to leave, eager to get back to the living room to toast her “genius” daughter. I listened to their laughter and smiled into the shadows. This time, I’m going to build Brianna the most magnificent scaffold the world has ever seen. 2 A week later, the inevitable happened. Brianna won the gold medal with The Leviathan’s Descent. The local papers and TV stations swarmed our house. She sat at the piano in a white silk dress, bathed in the glow of the cameras, looking like some ethereal creature untouched by the grime of reality. She spoke to the reporters with a rehearsed grace. “My inspiration? It came from a documentary about the ocean. Watching a great whale die in the deep… how its body sinks and nourishes an entire ecosystem for decades. That kind of grand, tragic sacrifice… it moved me deeply.” She recited my words, my soul-searching, my private thoughts, word for word. It became her “inspiration.” My parents stood behind her, beaming, as if they were admiring a flawless diamond they had personally cut and polished. I, meanwhile, was ordered to stay in my room. “We don’t want the press getting the wrong idea,” Dad had told me earlier. “If they see two sisters and only one with talent, they might write something nasty about favoritism. It’s better for Brianna’s brand if you stay out of the shot.” I became the “extra” that didn’t fit the frame. When Brianna returned from the awards ceremony, the house was packed for a victory party. Our villa was teeming with socialites and relatives, all clamoring to touch the hem of the new prodigy’s dress. “The Voss family must be so proud! A world-class pianist in the making!” “She’s always been special. You can just see it in her eyes.” I stood in the corner with a glass of orange juice, a shadow in the periphery, watching the coronation. Brianna eventually spotted me. Clutching a glass of champagne, she navigated the crowd and cornered me. She lifted the heavy gold trophy, leaning in so only I could hear her. “See this, Callie? This is where I belong.” Her eyes were cold, predatory. “Stop daydreaming. People like you? You’re just the dirt that makes the flowers look brighter.” I looked up at her. I didn’t show the rage she expected. Instead, I gave her a dazzling, supportive smile. “Brianna, you were amazing,” I whispered. “You really are the greatest musician I know.” She froze. The sneer she had ready died on her lips. She had expected me to scream, to try and claw the trophy out of her hands like I did in the other life. She didn’t know that I wanted her this high. I wanted her at the very peak. From that day on, I became Brianna’s most devoted shadow. When she went to the studio, I had hot tea and pastries waiting. When she “ran out of inspiration,” I played her my “discarded” sketches and fragments, letting her take her pick. I spent every cent of my allowance on rare sheet music and concert tickets for her. At first, she was suspicious. She watched me like a hawk, looking for the trap. But eventually, she decided I had simply “broken.” She began to accept my service as her birthright, treating me as her personal muse and maid. My parents were thrilled by my “maturity.” “Callie’s finally growing up,” I heard Dad say one night. “She knows Brianna is our hope. She’s stopped being so difficult.” “It’s how it should be,” Mom agreed. “One sister in the light, one in the wings. It’s for the good of the family.” They cut my music budget and poured everything into Brianna. “Callie, your playing is just a hobby,” Dad told me. “Let’s not waste money on elite tutors for you anymore. Your job is to make sure Brianna has everything she needs. That’s how you contribute.” I nodded submissively. “I understand, Dad. Brianna needs it more.” Of course they felt that way. They didn’t need two stars. They needed one goddess and one servant to keep the temple clean. Perfect. 3 Three years vanished in a blur of fake smiles and stolen melodies. Brianna was now a national sensation—the “It Girl” of the American classical scene. Her repertoire was stunningly diverse—Baroque one day, avant-garde the next. The critics called her range “miraculous.” Only I knew that every “shift in style” came from the crates under my bed, filled with manuscripts the world had never seen. By day, I was the dutiful sister. By night, I was a ghost at my piano, teaching myself composition software and complex orchestration, pushing my soul into territories Brianna couldn’t even imagine. My technical skill far surpassed what I had achieved in my previous life. Brianna, meanwhile, had gotten very good at signing autographs and wearing couture, but her understanding of music was still stuck in high school. Soon, the whispers started in the industry. “Don’t you think Brianna’s work feels… disjointed? Like it’s missing a core identity?” “Yeah, her style is all over the place. There’s no signature Voss sound.” “I tried to talk to her about the counterpoint in her latest sonata backstage,” one critic whispered at a gala, “and she looked at me like I was speaking Greek. She’s remarkably vapid for a genius.” The rumors eventually reached Brianna. She became erratic, paranoid. One afternoon, after a critic wrote that her performance was “technically brilliant but emotionally hollow,” she lost it. “He doesn’t know anything! He’s just jealous!” she screamed, tearing my latest scores into confetti. The paper drifted down like snow. “Everyone is just a hack! They want to tear me down!” Mom rushed to comfort her, cradling her like a wounded child. “Don’t listen to them, honey. They’re just commoners. They can’t comprehend your level of art.” Dad, looking for a scapegoat, turned on me. “Callie! Have you been saying something to your sister? You’re always lurking around with that gloomy face, dragging down the energy in this house!” I looked down, my shoulders trembling as I put on my best “victim” face. “I didn’t do anything. I was just trying to help.” “Help? You’re probably praying for her to fail!” Dad spat. Brianna sobbed harder, burying her face in Mom’s chest. “They’re all against me, Mom! They want to take it away!” I watched the performance with a cold heart. The play was reaching its second act. I stepped forward, putting a gentle hand on Brianna’s back, my voice a soothing silk. “Brianna, ignore them. In my eyes, you’re the only one who matters. You’re a once-in-a-generation talent. No one can ever take that title from you.” Her sobbing slowed. She looked at me with red, puffy eyes—eyes filled with a desperate, frantic dependency. She was hooked. She couldn’t breathe without my music. From that day on, she demanded more. “Callie, I have a charity gala next week. I need something ‘healing’ and ‘warm.’ You get me?” “Callie, the theme for the festival is ‘Fracture.’ Give me something that sounds like glass breaking.” “Callie, I’m over my credit limit. Give me your card.” She stole my thoughts, my work, my identity. She even found my old childhood journals once and ripped them up in front of me. “Why keep this trash?” she’d sneered. I gave her everything. I even helped her craft her “musical philosophy” for interviews, teaching her the hollow, flowery words she needed to mask her empty soul. My parents saw her becoming more “professional” and felt more confident than ever. They were already dreaming of Carnegie Hall. And I stayed in the dark. Even the housemaid pulled me aside once. “Callie, dear, you’re so good to her. Why is she so cruel to you?” They didn’t understand. My “kindness” was just arsenic dipped in honey. 4 For Brianna’s eighteenth birthday, my parents rented out the city’s premier concert hall for a massive debut recital. It was a coming-of-age celebration and a launchpad for her international career. The program featured ten original compositions, every single one credited to: Brianna Voss. Every single one was a piece of my marrow. The night was a gala event. The titans of the music world were there—critics, scouts from the top conservatories, and the man everyone feared: Alister Crowne. Crowne was a world-renowned conductor with an ear that could detect a lie in a single note. In my last life, he had been the one to dismiss Brianna with four words: “Great hands, no soul.” It had ruined her career, but by then, I was already locked away, and no one believed the “crazy girl’s” claims of plagiarism. This time, I had been waiting for him. Brianna was wearing a custom gown that looked like a night sky, strutting through the backstage area like a peacock. “The sonata Breaking Light is a masterpiece, Brianna!” a donor gushed. “The way the harmony builds… I could actually see the sun rising!” Brianna smiled gracefully, basking in the stolen warmth. I stood in the shadows of the stage wing. A young journalist noticed me and walked over. “Are you Brianna’s sister? You look so much like her.” I nodded. “You must be musical too. What do you think of your sister’s work?” Before I could open my mouth, Brianna’s sharp voice cut through the air. “She doesn’t know the first thing about music!” She marched over, grabbing my arm and pulling me behind her, eyeing the reporter with suspicion. “My sister has… health issues. She lives a very sheltered life. She’s completely tone-deaf. Please don’t bother her.” She was terrified I’d steal even a second of her spotlight. The reporter looked embarrassed and shuffled away. Brianna leaned into my ear, her voice a frozen blade. “Callie, I told you. Stay in your lane. Do not embarrass me tonight, or you’ll find out exactly how far I can push you.” I bowed my head. “I understand, Brianna.” Suddenly, the room went silent. Alister Crowne had arrived. He was in a charcoal suit, his hair perfectly silver, radiating an aura of absolute authority. He didn’t mingle. He walked straight to the large promotional poster of the program pinned to the wall. His eyes lingered on the final piece of the night, a world premiere: Scorched Sun. He stared at the title, his gaze deepening. Brianna’s breathing became ragged. My parents rushed over, wearing their most sycophantic smiles. “Mr. Crowne, what an honor. Our daughter is a bit shy, please excuse her if she’s nervous.” Crowne didn’t look back. He kept his eyes on the title. After a long silence, he spoke. “This piece. Scorched Sun.” Dad nodded eagerly. “Yes, yes, it’s Brianna’s latest. The inspiration came from—” Crowne held up a hand. His voice was calm, but it carried to every corner of the room. “There is a problem with this song.”

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For six years, I hauled the dead out of city basements and off hot asphalt. I worked the night shift for a body removal service, letting the stench of decay settle so deep into my pores that no amount of bleach could scrub it away. I did it for one reason: to pay for my sister’s leukemia treatments. Today, I finally had the last of the money. But as I stood in the hospital hallway, my sister, Hedy, looked at me with a chilling nonchalance. She didn’t need the surgery, she said. She wasn’t sick. Our parents weren’t dead. The car accident six years ago? She’d orchestrated the whole thing. I was the only one who actually bled that day, the only one left permanently mangled while they watched from the sidelines. Then came the second blow. My wife, Isla, stepped forward. She wasn’t bankrupt, and those late nights at the “office” weren’t for overtime. She’d been retreating to her private estate because she couldn’t stand the sight of our cramped, moldy basement apartment—or me. “We were going to keep the game going for another three years,” Isla said, waving a hand in front of her nose as if I were a piece of rotting meat. “But the smell of the morgue on you… it’s nauseating. Neither of us can take it anymore.” I stood there, my hand frozen over the check meant for her life-saving surgery. A wave of pure, concentrated absurdity washed over me, so cold it burned. Hedy snatched the check from my numb fingers and tossed it into a nearby trash can. “There’s no money left in your accounts anyway, Wayne. I’ve been rerouting your ‘death money’ to the homeless for years. Think of it as karma for your dead child. You earn a living off the dead—it’s bad luck. We wouldn’t touch a cent of it.” My blood turned to ice. I didn’t understand. I couldn’t wrap my head around the why. Then my parents appeared. They stood at the end of the hall, huddled together as if I were a leper. My father spoke first, his voice hard. “It was the only way, Wayne. You were a spoiled brat, always picking on Landon. We had to break you. We had to make you humble.” My mother nodded, her eyes devoid of warmth. “If you swear to never lay a finger on Landon again, you can be our son. Otherwise, we’re done.” As the world blurred and my heart gave its final, jagged beat of hope, a cold, mechanical voice echoed in my mind. It was the System, sounding almost… pitying. Do you wish to abandon the mission? Do you wish to leave this world behind? … 1 “Take me out.” I bit down on the inside of my cheek until I tasted copper. The pain was the only thing keeping me upright. [Confirmed. Departure in T-minus twenty-four hours.] Isla, seeing my silence, reached out to brush a tear from my eye. Her touch felt like a centipede crawling on my skin. “Do you finally get it? If you hadn’t fought Landon for our parents’ love, if you hadn’t tried to hurt him over and over, we could have been a happy family of three.” I shoved her hand away, a raw, guttural scream tearing from my throat. “You don’t get to talk about a ‘family of three’! Landon cut the brake lines! My son died because of him!” Isla’s expression remained terrifyingly placid. “The baby didn’t die, Wayne. I gave him to Landon the second he was born. Stop blaming him for your delusions.” The air left my lungs. It took seconds for my brain to process the words. “You… what did you say?” Isla looked at me as if I were a slow child. “He’s my heir. You didn’t honestly think I’d let him grow up in a basement with a man who hauls corpses? Landon is kind. Our son is better off with him.” I stood paralyzed. The cold was absolute now. Six years ago, I woke up from that crash with a shattered body and a broken spirit. Isla had been there, eyes red, telling me it was my fault we were out that night. She told me the baby was stillborn, that our parents were gone. Hedy had played the grieving sister, drowning her “sorrow” in booze until she “developed” cancer. The System had asked me then if I wanted to leave. The mission—to gain their love—was technically a failure. But I stayed. I dragged my broken body to the darkest jobs in the city, enduring the stares and the smell, all to save a sister who wasn’t dying and support a wife who was secretly laughing at me. It was all a joke. My chest ached so hard I thought my ribs might snap. “Why?” I whispered, tears leaking out. “Why not just lie to me until the day I died?” “Because Landon wants a daughter now,” Hedy said, her voice dripping with a terrifying maternal fondness for a man who wasn’t her brother. “The procedure for him is too invasive. He shouldn’t have to suffer. So, we need you one last time.” 2 I stared at them, my vision swimming. They weren’t people. They were monsters wearing the faces of those I loved. “Landon has suffered enough, Wayne. We just want to give him what he wants. Be a good boy. We can always have more children later.” Isla ruffled my hair, the gesture so patronizing it made me want to retch. “And this is your chance to prove to Mom and Dad that you’ve changed. Show them you won’t bully Landon anymore.” Landon had suffered? I thought of the dark closet in my foster home. I thought of the red-hot fire poker the woman used on me while she screamed that her son—the real Landon—was living my high-society life while I rotted. I yanked up my sleeves, exposing the jagged, silver scars that mapped my forearms. “Who suffered? You told me you’d make them pay! You said you’d never let me be hurt again—” “Wayne, stop lying!” Hedy snapped, slapping my arm away. I was malnourished and weak; the force sent me stumbling back until my hip collided with the sharp edge of a table. “Landon’s birth mother said no one ever laid a finger on you,” Hedy sneered. “Those scars? You got those fighting in alleys with delinquents when you were a teenager. You were always a rebel.” My parents scoffed in the background. “Nature over nurture,” my father muttered. “We didn’t raise him, and it shows. He’s a born liar. He’s not fit to be a father.” I stared at them, the metallic taste of blood rising in my throat. “I’m not fit? But the son of a human trafficker is a saint?” “Shut up!” Hedy’s eyes turned predatory. “How dare you? If Landon heard that, he’d be devastated.” She lunged forward, grabbing my arm with a grip like a vice. “Clearly, these six years haven’t taught you enough.” She forced my head down, her strength surprising me, and shoved me toward a large wooden shipping crate in the corner of the room. The moment the lid slammed shut, my breath died. Four years ago, while on a job, a grieving family had played a sick prank. They’d locked me in a casket with a fresh cadaver for three days. I had spent seventy-two hours nose-to-nose with the scent of rotting meat and silence. I’d developed a paralyzing, screaming case of claustrophobia that day. “Let me out! Please! I’m sorry! Help me!” I clawed at the wood, my words dissolving into frantic whimpers. I scraped my fingers against the seams until all ten of my fingernails were torn to the quick, the wood slick with my blood. Finally, the latch clicked. The lid opened. I spilled out, sobbing, clutching at Hedy’s ankles. “Please, don’t put me back. I’ll die, I’ll die—” Hedy retracted her foot as if I were a stray dog. “Stop the drama, Wayne. It’s pathetic.” She looked down at me, her expression bored. “Every client you worked for these last few years? I hand-picked them. I told them to be tough on you to build your character. Nobody actually hurt you.” The room tilted. “You… you arranged them?” Memories flashed: “Kneel. Crawl between my legs and bark like a dog, or you don’t get paid.” “Drink these ten shots of rotgut, and I might give you an extra hundred.” 3 The insults. The bottles smashed over my head. The most degrading moments of my life—all choreographed by my sister. “So what?” Hedy said. “I wanted you to learn empathy. To walk a mile in someone else’s shoes. Without my ‘training,’ you wouldn’t be ready to come home.” Isla stepped forward, her voice like silk. “Tonight, Landon is hosting a charity gala. You’re coming. We need you there so the world finally stops whispering that Landon is the son of a kidnapper. If they see you two together, the rumors die.” She looked at me with a spark of something that might have been pity, if she were human. “You always wanted a real wedding, didn’t you, Wayne? Give Landon a daughter, and I’ll give you a wedding that will be the talk of the Hamptons.” It was the same promise she’d made me under the moonlight years ago. Now, it was just the bait on a hook. A neon countdown flickered in my peripheral vision: [12 hours remaining.] I lowered my head, burying the white-hot rage deep in my gut. When I looked up, the brokenness was gone, replaced by a hollow, terrifying calm. “Fine. I’ll go.” The gala was a sea of black ties and silk. The second I stepped in, the press swarmed. “Mr. Callahan, you’ve been underground for years. What’s the status of the ‘True Heir’ vs. ‘The Imposter’? Have you made peace?” My mother shoved a piece of paper into my hand, whispering harshly, “Read it. Word for word.” I looked down. [I was never kidnapped. I was a rebellious child who ran away. Landon’s mother was a saint who took me in. I’ve spent these years in seclusion, reflecting on my cruelty toward Landon. I am the one who is unworthy.] “Read it,” my father hissed. “Peace?” I whispered. My hands tightened on the paper. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, I ripped it into shreds and let them fall like snow. “Why would I make peace with the son of the woman who tortured me?” The room went dead silent. The flashbulbs stopped. I locked eyes with Landon, who was standing center-stage, looking like the golden boy they all thought he was. “Why don’t you tell them, Landon? You stole my name for twenty years. Now you’ve stolen my wife and my son. Is there anything left of mine you don’t want?” Gasps rippled through the hall. Landon didn’t even flinch. He waited exactly one second, then his eyes welled with tears. He looked like the victim of a grand tragedy. “Wayne… why do you keep doing this to me?” He reached into his tuxedo jacket and pulled out a small, navy-blue book. “I am Isla’s legal husband,” he said, his voice trembling. “You’re the one who’s been the interloper.” My brain shrieked. I lunged forward, snatching the marriage license. There it was, in elegant calligraphy: Isla Sterling and Landon Callahan. The reason she never showed me our certificate. The “safe deposit box” lie. The blood drained from my face. I turned to Isla. “Names don’t matter, Wayne,” she said, her voice loud enough for the room to hear. “I loved you in my own way, but Landon needed a legacy. You stole his birthright; we just gave him back a life in this city.” Hedy stepped up, her face a mask of disappointment. “I’m sorry, everyone. My brother has struggled with his mental health for years. Delusions of grandeur. Please, ignore him.” The pity in the room turned to disgust. 4 “He’s a psycho,” someone whispered. “Imagine trying to ruin a man like Landon.” “You’re a bad man! Stop hurting my daddy!” A small boy, no older than five, burst from the crowd. He charged at me, headbutting me with enough force to send me sprawling to the marble floor. One look at his eyes, and I knew. He was mine. My son. I reached out, my hands shaking, wanting to hold him just once. Hedy stepped between us, her heel narrowly missing my fingers. She leaned down, whispering in my ear. “He’s Landon’s now, Wayne. And if you try to take him, I’ll show him the video.” My voice was a thready rasp. “But he’s my son.” She pulled out her phone and hit play. The screen blurred, but I recognized the alleyway. It was three years ago, a night I’d tried to come home early from the morgue. A group of men had dragged me into the shadows. I’d screamed for Hedy, hoping she’d come for me. The video showed the nightmare. My dignity being shredded in the dirt. A sob broke out of me, a spray of blood hitting the floor. “You knew… you knew they actually did it? It wasn’t just ‘acting’!” “Stop it,” Hedy said, her voice cold. “I hired those men to scare you. They wouldn’t have actually touched a Callahan. You’re just making up stories to make us feel guilty so we’ll get rid of Landon. I don’t know why you hate him so much.” My heart hammered against my ribs. Who hated whom? The System countdown flashed: [5 hours.] There was no point in arguing. The exit was close. Suddenly, a fist slammed into my jaw. Then another. “Home-wrecker!” someone yelled. It started with one man, then a surge. Men whose wives had cheated, people looking for a scapegoat, all fueled by the “delusional psycho” narrative Hedy had spun. I curled into a ball as the kicks rained down. My lip split. My ribs cracked. Hedy’s face flickered with a brief moment of alarm. She started to move toward me, but Landon suddenly gasped, clutching his chest. “Hedy… too many people… I can’t breathe…” The tide turned instantly. “Oh honey, don’t look,” my mother cried, rushing to Landon. “Isla, help him!” Isla glanced at me, then at the trembling Landon. She hesitated for a heartbeat. “Wayne, they’re just venting. You’ll be fine.” She turned her back on me to follow Landon. Hedy lingered for a second, then scooped Landon up in her arms and walked away. The crowd closed in. “Scum! Did you sleep with my wife too? Let’s see how pretty you are after this!” A heavy boot landed between my legs, a sickening crunch echoing in my ears. I felt a hot, wet explosion of pain. Blood began to pool under me, staining the white marble. I vomited blood, my vision fading into a hazy grey. By the time I crawled back to the “family” estate, my parents were fussing over Landon on the sofa. When they saw me, their faces soured. 5 “Are you still doing this?” my father sighed. “Looking like a mess just to get attention?” Isla’s eyes were full of irritation. “Don’t look at us like that. If you hadn’t tried to embarrass Landon, he wouldn’t have had to go public with the marriage. He’s always thinking of you, Wayne. Be a man and apologize.” Every step I took felt like treading on broken glass. My internal organs were a symphony of agony. I didn’t have the breath to fight her. Landon reached out, grabbing my hand, his grip surprisingly strong. “Wayne, look at you. You’re a mess.” He leaned in, his voice a whisper only I could hear. “I’m bored with your son. Give me a daughter. I need something new to play with. If I’m in a good mood, I might give the boy back before I break him.” Something snapped. The last tether of my sanity ignited. I swung my fist at his smug, beautiful face. SLAP! My head whipped to the side. The taste of iron filled my mouth. Hedy stood over me, her eyes like chips of ice. “Have you no shame? Attacking him right in front of us? When will you stop being so selfish?” “Don’t hurt my daddy!” My son—Toby—lunged forward. He was holding a silver appetizer fork. He slammed it into my abdomen. He didn’t expect it to actually go in. His face went pale as the silver tines disappeared into my sweater. But he held his ground, glaring at me with Landon’s taught hatred. The world went dark for a second. The pain in my stomach was nothing compared to the hole in my chest. “You protect him because you think he’s your father,” I wheezed. “But Toby… what if I told you that I’m—” “Shut up!” My father threw his crystal whiskey glass. It shattered against my temple, blood instantly blinding my left eye. “Don’t you dare fill the boy’s head with your lies!” Toby sneered, his voice high and cruel. “You? My dad? You’re a body-hauler. You smell like death. If you were my dad, I’d rather be dead.” Hedy pulled out her phone, the screen showing the video of my assault in the alley. “Apologize, Wayne. Record a video recanting everything. Or I’ll post this on every social media platform in the world. You’ll be a joke forever.” I started to laugh. It was a wet, ragged sound that turned into a cough of blood. “Don’t bother threatening me anymore, Hedy. I’ll do it for you.” I took the phone. My thumb hovered over the screen. Send to all. Hedy froze, confused. Before she could react, I turned and scrambled onto the windowsill of the sixteenth-floor study. Behind me, the room finally erupted in panic. “Wayne, what are you doing?” my mother screamed. “Get down! This isn’t funny!” Isla’s face was white. “We won’t give the daughter away, Wayne! We’ll keep her! Just… don’t do this!” I smiled, shaking my head. There won’t be a daughter. Hedy, ever the cynic, crossed her arms. “He’s bluffing. He wants us to beg. He knows we care, so he’s using suicide to manipulate us.” She took a step forward. “Get down, Wayne. No matter how much you scream, you’re apologizing to Landon today.” The cold night air rushed in, whipping my hair. The System’s voice chimed in my skull. [Host, time is up. You may leave.] I looked at the four people who had systematically dismantled my life and gave them a hollow, empty smile. “I don’t know what I did to deserve this. But if my child and six years of my life weren’t enough to pay my ‘debt’ to Landon, then maybe my life will cover the rest.” As they lunged toward me, faces twisted in sudden, genuine horror, I let go. I leaned back into the dark.

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I was the protagonist of a story written in blood and bitterness. The System forced me into this role, a celestial architect whispering that if I played my part—if I followed the script of my own destruction to the letter—I would receive the only thing I ever wanted. I just wanted to know if Matt could come back. If there was a version of the universe where he wasn’t a ghost. The System’s answer was a riddle, a vague promise that it all depended on my “performance.” And so, I stepped onto a path of orchestrated agony. Ninety-nine chapters of slander, physical torment, and betrayal, all to earn the “love” of the leading man, Beckett. But I didn’t want his love. I wanted the nightmare to end. The System was a cold, silent observer, indifferent to my breaking bones and shattered heart. It only prodded me to suffer more, to bleed more beautifully for the plot. Until the day I held my son’s cold, lifeless body and coughed up a spray of crimson despair. Then, the machine glitched. The voice that had been metallic and merciless for years suddenly softened. It used the secret name only Matt had ever known. “Mona,” it whispered. It told me to let go. It told me to finally live a life that wasn’t a tragedy. … It took four years of marriage to Beckett to finally have a son. Jamie was only ten months old. Yesterday morning, he had opened his mouth—showing off those two tiny, pearl-like front teeth—and babbled his very first word: “Mama.” So, when I was standing in the waist-deep, freezing currents of the river at dusk, scavenging for a diamond hairpin that belonged to Cynthia—Beckett’s favorite mistress—I thought of that one word. It made the ice in my veins bearable. I even found the strength to whisper to the System, “I never recovered from the birth. I’ve been in this water for an hour. My body is numb. The cold is settling in my womb; I’ll never be able to carry another child. Is this enough? Is this tragic enough for you?” The System paused. When it spoke, it was only three words: “Not quite yet.” I was shaking so hard my jaw ached. My skin was a ghostly blue. “Not enough? Beckett took my blood to ‘cure’ Cynthia’s feigned illness. I was bedridden for months. When the assassins came, you made me jump in front of him. I was blinded by that caustic powder for half a year. And while I sat in the dark, he took every servant from my wing to throw a gala for Cynthia’s birthday. I tripped and cracked my skull on the marble, and I lay there for twenty-four hours before anyone noticed I was missing.” My voice broke, a ragged sob catching in my throat. “When Jamie was born, I nearly bled out. Beckett was away on a weekend retreat with her. He didn’t even send for the specialist until it was too late. I live in constant pain now. Every rainy day feels like my bones are being crushed. Is that still not enough?” The System remained unmoved. It was mechanical, chillingly calm. “We need to turn up the heat,” it said. “If you won’t lean into the role, Mona, I’ll have to intervene.” A jolt of pure terror spiked through my chest. “What are you going to do?” Before the words left my lips, a scream tore through the air from the riverbank. “Help! The hunting hounds! Cynthia’s dogs have broken out of their enclosure!” A servant pointed, his hand trembling, toward the nursery wing. Cynthia was standing on the bank, looking down at me with a sharp, indecipherable smile. “Oh dear,” she purred. “It looks like they’re heading straight for your quarters, darling.” Jamie didn’t survive the night. I never heard him say “Mama” a second time. The night was a frozen tomb. My wet clothes were a shroud of ice against my skin, but Jamie’s small body was colder. I sat in the dark, cradling him, my world reduced to a singular, agonizing void. Beckett came in late. He knelt beside me, his eyes flickering with something that might have been pity, or perhaps just irritation at the mess. “Mona, don’t blame Cynthia,” he said, his voice smooth and maddeningly reasonable. “It was an accident. She’s devastated.” He draped his heavy wool coat over my shoulders. “We’re young. We’ll have another.” I didn’t look at him. I whispered to the void: “Wasn’t I supposed to be the only one who suffered? Why the baby? Why him?” The System chuckled—a sound of pure, satisfied malice. “Pain in the child is a dagger in the mother’s heart. Physical torture is nothing compared to this. Look, the hero is actually showing you affection now. Objective achieved.” The coat was thick, but it brought no warmth. Beckett reached down to take the boy from my arms. “Let him go, Mona. You can’t keep holding him. You’re shivering, and frankly, you’re scaring Cynthia. She can’t sleep with you looking like this.” “No!” I pulled back, clutching Jamie to my chest. But I was weak, and he was strong. I watched, paralyzed, as Beckett handed my son to a servant. “Bury him tonight,” Beckett ordered. “Deep. Cynthia is early in her pregnancy; I don’t want the gloom of this house affecting her or the baby.” I screamed then. A raw, primal sound until my lungs burned and my vision went black. My heart felt like it was physically tearing. I tasted iron, spat a mouthful of blood onto the floor, and felt the world slip away. In the haze of my collapsing consciousness, I heard a voice. It wasn’t the System’s metallic drone. It was a ghost. “Mona.” How many years had it been since I heard that? Six? Only Matt called me Mona. Growing up, I never understood why my parents looked through me as if I were a ghost while they doted on my cousin, Lola. They called her their “Little Moonlight.” To them, I was just “Mona” when they were in a good mood, and a “curse on the family” when they weren’t. Lola got the silk dresses, the French pastries, the front-row seats. I got the scraps, if there were any left. My parents would rather give my hand-me-downs to the maids than see me in something nice. Then, when I was twelve, I met Matt. There was a garden party at our estate. As usual, I was forbidden from leaving my room. The staff was too busy to bring me food, and the hunger became a physical ache. I snuck down to the kitchens to steal a piece of bread, but the new cook caught me. She didn’t know who I was. She screamed at the top of her lungs about a “filthy little thief.” I begged her to be quiet, telling her I was the daughter of the house. She laughed in my face. “I know Miss Lola. You? You look like you crawled out of a coal chute. No lady steals bread like a rat.” The commotion brought Lola out. She looked radiant in her lace and ribbons. She looked at me with a theatrical sort of disappointment. “How could my aunt and uncle raise such a dishonest girl? You’re a disgrace, Mona. Do you want to humiliate us in front of the Governor?” She turned to the stable hands. “Teach her a lesson. Use the switch. Hard. I’m doing this for her own good.” The switch didn’t just hit my hands. It hit everywhere. I was a scrawny kid, and every blow felt like it was striking bone. That’s when Matt appeared. He was a twelve-year-old boy with a sense of justice that burned like a sun. He didn’t say a word; he just kicked the stable hands away from me. “Lola,” he said, his voice cold as a winter snap. “Do you actually think anyone believes you’re the lady of this house? You’re a guest. A parasite. You’ve got a thick skin and a black heart.” He looked at my swollen, bleeding hands. “I heard my father was considering a marriage alliance between you and my older brother. I’m going home to make sure that never happens.” Lola fled in tears. Matt sat with me and cleaned my wounds. “The more you shrink, the more they’ll step on you,” he told me. “You have to stand up, Mona. Make them look at you.” The spring sun caught the gold in his hair. I stared at him, thinking he looked like a young god who had accidentally wandered into my miserable life. From that day on, Matt was my shield. His family was legendary—old money, political power—and everyone wanted a piece of him. But he only wanted to be near me. He was the only anomaly in my “tragedy.” He fought my parents until they moved me out of the damp servant’s room and into a sunlit bedroom. He hired a world-class pianist to tutor me and me alone. When Lola tried to join the lessons, he told her, “Music requires a soul. You’re unqualified.” I blossomed. I became a woman of talent and repute, no longer a shadow. And then, at seventeen, Matt enlisted. My father’s career had tanked, and Matt’s family refused to let him marry “beneath” him. He told me, “Mona, wait for me. I’m going to earn my own name. I’ll come back with enough medals that no one can say no to us.” He never came back. He took a bullet meant for the President’s son during an extraction mission. It was a messy, poisoned end. The man he saved held his hand as he died and asked for his final wish. Matt used his last breath to secure a legacy for me. Not a marriage, but a title and a trust—something my parents could never touch. “Make her a Lady,” he whispered. “Don’t let them hurt her anymore.” “Anything else?” the man asked. Matt closed his eyes. “Find her someone good… someone to… take care of her…” The dream shattered. I woke up drenched in sweat. Beckett was sitting by my bed, his eyes bloodshot. A wave of pure exhaustion and revulsion washed over me. I turned my head away. He was the “good man” the government had chosen for me. The Governor’s younger brother. Handsome, powerful, prestigious. To the world, he was the ultimate catch. “You’re finally awake,” he said. “You’ve been out for three days.” My maid chimed in from the corner, trying to score points for him. “The Senator hasn’t left your side, ma’am. He’s been devastated.” I didn’t ask about Jamie. I already knew the answer. The System whispered that I was the heroine of a tragedy, and this was simply my tax to pay. Beckett watched my numb face, searching for a spark of gratitude. “Mona, word of what happened to the boy reached the Governor’s office. He’s furious. He’s demanding I send Cynthia away.” He sighed and took my hand. “You’ve always been the bigger person. You wouldn’t want to see a pregnant woman out on the streets with nowhere to go, would you?” I pulled my hand back. “What do you want me to do, Beckett?” “Go to the Governor’s wife. Tell her the baby’s death was an accident caused by your own negligence. Tell her it had nothing to do with Cynthia’s dogs. They’re close; she’ll listen to you.” I wanted to scream. I wanted to claw his eyes out. But I felt like I was wearing a lead mask. My emotions were trapped behind a wall of scripted compliance. If I refused, the System would find a new way to break me. “I—” I was about to say, I’ll do it. But a voice in my head—silent for days—suddenly spoke. It wasn’t the usual robotic chime. It was a low, vibrating growl. “Refuse him.” I froze. “Refuse him,” the voice repeated. “You are the victim. Why the hell are you looking out for him?” I wondered if I had finally lost my mind. The System had first appeared on the anniversary of Matt’s death. I had been sitting at his grave with a bottle of pills, ready to follow him. “If the lead dies, the story collapses,” the System had said then. “This Matt person wasn’t in the script. He ruined your trajectory. I won’t allow it. You have to suffer until the end.” I had tried to swallow the pills anyway. “Stop!” it had yelled. “If you cooperate, I’ll give you a reward. Your deepest wish.” “Can you bring Matt back?” “Perform well, and we’ll see,” it had replied. For four years, I had been its puppet. It had never told me to disobey. “Come on,” the voice urged, sounding almost like a coach. “Repeat after me: Go to hell, you spineless, pathetic bastard. You think I’m going to help you? In your dreams.” I opened my mouth. “Go to—” Beckett smiled, relieved. “—hell,” I finished. “You spineless, pathetic bastard.” His smile died. He looked at me as if I’d sprouted a second head. “What did you just say?” I looked him in the eye, the lead mask finally cracking. “I said, go to hell. You think I’m going to cover for you? In your dreams.” I felt the hot sting of tears—real tears—for the first time in years. “Think of Jamie, Beckett. You know he was murdered by her negligence, and you don’t even care. You aren’t a father. You aren’t even a man. I hope when you close your eyes at night, you see his ghost standing at the foot of your bed.” Beckett’s face turned a violent shade of purple. He tried to speak, sputtered, and finally stormed out of the room. I sat there, stunned. “Now what?” I asked the System. “What’s the next ‘tragedy’ task?” “The sun is out,” the voice said. “Go for a walk in the garden. The hydrangeas are blooming.” “That’s it?” “That’s it. Go. I’m right here with you.” Usually, it would have snapped at me for being lazy. It would have reminded me that my wounds were healed enough to start the next round of misery. I went to the garden. The hydrangeas were a vibrant, defiant blue. They reminded me of the little sweater I’d been knitting for Jamie. I had embroidered tiny flowers on the sleeves. He never got to see the real ones. Cynthia blocked my path. She had a trail of servants behind her, her chin tilted high. “Mona, it doesn’t matter if you won’t talk to the Governor’s wife,” she sneered. “Beckett went himself. He’s currently groveling in the office, doing whatever it takes to keep me here.” She plucked a blue bloom and stepped closer. “And just so you know… Beckett knows the dogs weren’t an accident. But he can’t bring himself to punish me. He saw me cry for two minutes and promised me that our child—my child—will inherit everything. You might be the wife on paper, but you have nothing. My baby is worth a hundred of your dead brat.” My hands curled into fists. This was the script. This was the “heartbreak” the System lived for. “Kill her.” The voice in my head was a cold blade of steel. “I’m tired of her,” it said. “A glorified social climber who thinks she’s a queen because a coward sleeps with her? She’s disgusting. You have a title, Mona. You have power she can’t touch. Kill her.” I gasped. “I… I can?” “…Matt taught you how to defend yourself, didn’t he?” the voice softened. “Mona, use what he gave you.” He called me Mona again. Matt had taught me how to use a knife. He said a girl like me needed a “bite.” I had practiced for hours, over and over, until Matt would look at me with that proud, lopsided grin. “You’re a natural, Mona.” When Lola had tried to corner me one last time, Matt had sat on the garden wall, the wind catching his hair. “Use it, Mona,” he’d shouted. I had cut her hair off in one clean swipe. She never touched me again. I had forgotten I was that girl. I didn’t have a knife, but I had a heavy, sharpened silver hairpin—the one Matt had given me years ago. “Now,” the System whispered. I moved with a speed I didn’t know I still possessed. I drove the pin into the soft, vulnerable space of Cynthia’s throat. The look in her eyes as she fell was one of pure, unadulterated shock. Do you see this, Jamie? I thought. Matt, are you watching? I didn’t cry for long. The System nudged me again. “Go to the Governor’s residence. Now.” When Beckett found out, he would lose his mind. I couldn’t kill him yet—not in broad daylight. I needed a sanctuary. I wiped the blood off the silver pin using Cynthia’s expensive silk dress. I couldn’t lose the pin. It was all I had left of him. The servants were frozen in terror. It took me walking halfway across the estate before I heard the first scream. I ran into Beckett at the gates. When he saw me, a flicker of relief crossed his face before he masked it with his usual stoicism. “I knew you’d come around, Mona. You’re doing the right thing for the family. The Governor has dropped the inquiry.” I didn’t say a word. I just walked past him. “Mona!” he called out. “About this morning… I’ll overlook the things you said. You were grieving. You weren’t yourself. But from now on, you will be the dignified wife I married. I’ve already spoken to a specialist… we’ll have another child soon. I promise.” The iron gates groaned shut behind me, separating his world from mine. In this story, the heroine had no friends. But I had one ally: Katherine, the Governor’s wife. Years ago, I had helped her with a musical composition, and she had never forgotten it. She had always looked at my marriage to Beckett with a sadness she couldn’t quite voice. When I found her, she was playing the piano. A melancholic, beautiful piece meant to soothe a grieving mother. I waited for the last note to fade. “Katherine,” I said. “I killed Cynthia.” Her hand slipped, a discordant clash of keys echoing through the room. She sat in silence for a long moment, then turned to me. “You’ll stay here tonight. Beckett won’t set foot in this house.” I nodded. “I need one more thing. A legal separation. An ironclad divorce. I want out.” The silence stretched. Then, she began to play again—a soft, hopeful melody. “Consider it done,” she whispered.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “453334”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The bridal suite was a hurricane of hairspray, half-empty champagne flutes, and the shrill, joyful chatter of my bridesmaids. Through the chaos, my foster sister, Molly, suddenly stepped forward. She pulled a small foil packet of condoms from her clutch, a teasing, wicked smile playing on her lips as she looked at Colin. “So, Colin,” she purred, drawing out the syllables. “When was the last time you got lucky?” I opened my mouth, about to shoot her a warning look to dial back the raunchy jokes. But Colin didn’t even blink. “Last night,” he answered smoothly. I let out a soft breath of laughter, assuming he was playing along. After all, tradition dictated we spend the night before the wedding apart; he wasn’t even supposed to see me until I walked down the aisle. But then, he reached into the breast pocket of his tailored tuxedo. He pulled out a crisp, embossed piece of paper—a marriage certificate from the County Clerk’s office—and held it right in front of my face. “We spent all night in the bridal suite you set up,” he said, his voice casual, as if he were discussing the weather. “Used up half that box. We even squeezed in a trip to City Hall this morning to make it official. That’s why I was a little late getting here.” The room went dead silent. My fingers went numb. I hurled my bridal bouquet directly at his chest, my eyes burning. “Who the hell is she?” I demanded, my voice cracking. He just smiled, a small, patronizing upward curve of his lips, and flipped the certificate open. “See for yourself.” When my eyes finally focused on the names and the attached photo, the bottom dropped out of my stomach. The blood in my veins turned to ice. Molly leaned in, her breath warm against my ear, her voice a triumphant whisper. “It’s your choice, sis. Do you want to be the other woman, just like your mother? Or are you going to be a good girl and step aside?” … For a second, the entire world simply ceased to exist. My gaze shifted mechanically from Colin’s handsome, familiar face to Molly’s. These two people standing in front of me. One was the man I had loved fiercely for eight years. The other was the girl I had pulled out of a backwoods nightmare, the foster sister I had practically raised with my own two hands. And last night, they had tangled the sheets in the very room I had painstakingly decorated for my wedding night. They had gone to City Hall and gotten legally married on the morning of my wedding. The sheer, suffocating weight of the betrayal pressed down on my chest until I couldn’t breathe. “Do you have any idea what today is?” I asked, a violent tremor in my voice. He nodded, entirely unbothered. “Of course. It’s our wedding day. And our eight-year anniversary.” He knew. He knew all of it. I had fantasized about my wedding with Colin a thousand times, playing it over in my head like a beloved movie. But I never imagined an opening scene this humiliating. He dropped to one knee in front of me. It was the exact same posture he had taken eight years ago when he shyly asked me to be his girlfriend. But the fervent, burning devotion that had once lit up his eyes was entirely gone. “Why today?” I whispered. “Why did it have to be today?” He carefully folded the marriage certificate and slid it back into his pocket, right beneath his custom boutonnière. The sight was blindingly absurd. “No real reason,” he said softly. “Molly wanted it. That’s all.” A jagged, broken breath escaped my lips. Tears slipped down my cheeks, landing in dark, heavy drops on the bodice of my custom ivory gown. Just because Molly wanted it. For a fleeting whim, Colin was willing to take our eight years of history and grind it into the dirt on my wedding day, offering up my dignity just to see her smile. He pulled a tissue from the vanity and reached out to dab at my face. “Don’t cry. You’ll ruin your makeup, Clara. Didn’t you say you wanted to be the most beautiful bride?” There was a flicker of helplessness in his eyes, a familiar look that sent a sharp ache through my ribs. In a flash, I remembered our college years. I had taken on extra shifts modeling bridal wear just to afford a nice watch for his birthday. Every time he picked me up from work, he would kiss my forehead and tell me I was the most beautiful bride in the world. I had worn dozens of wedding dresses for money, but I had never looked forward to wearing one more than I did today. And now, he had turned the day I had waited nearly a decade for into a grotesque punchline. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. Hard. “You bastard,” I spat. He ground his jaw, the muscle ticking, but he didn’t argue. Suddenly, Molly dropped to her knees in front of me, huge crocodile tears welling in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Clara. I’m sorry for ruining your day. But when true love happens, you just… you can’t fight it.” She looked the picture of fragile innocence. But the smug glint buried deep in her pupils was a glaring reminder of how utterly blind I had been. “I took care of you for ten years, Molly. I was a mother to you,” I said, my voice shaking with a rage so pure it felt holy. “When you graduated and couldn’t find a job, I begged my boss to hire you. I trained you myself. When your deadbeat family tried to sell you off to that older guy to pay for your brother’s debts, I was the one who paid them off…” “Clara, that’s enough!” Colin barked, cutting me off. A flash of protective anger crossed his face. He didn’t even try to hide how much he cared for her. “She’s sensitive. Do you really need to traumatize her by dragging up ancient history?” “Sensitive?” I barked a manic laugh. “She was sensitive enough to climb into your bed!” Colin stiffened. He instinctively shifted his body to shield hers. “She’s innocent in this. I was drunk. I slipped up and pulled her into bed. I took her virginity, Clara. I have to take responsibility. I couldn’t just let her be my dirty secret.” His words poured over me like a bucket of ice water. I stared at him for two agonizing seconds before a hollow laugh tore from my throat. “And when you were standing at City Hall, signing that paper, did it ever cross your mind what I was supposed to do?” He frowned, looking at me with dead-serious earnestness. “I did think about it, Clara. We’ve been together for eight years. Today’s ceremony is for our families, to give everyone the show they expect. As long as you keep your mouth shut, no one has to know we aren’t legally married.” A tidal wave of absurdity crashed over me. I looked at the man standing before me—this man speaking with such quiet, terrifying rationality—and felt like I was looking at a complete stranger. In his twisted mind, a marriage could be neatly severed down the middle: the legal document for Molly, the glamorous party for me. Molly looked up at me, her voice trembling with manufactured timidity. “Don’t worry, Clara. I promise I won’t try to steal him away from you day-to-day.” The sound of my name in her mouth made my stomach heave. “Don’t speak to me,” I said, stepping back. I looked at Colin. “I’m not marrying you. The wedding is off.” Surprise flickered in Colin’s eyes. He looked at me like I was a petulant, unreasonable child throwing a tantrum. “Clara, the guests are already seated. You can’t just cancel. Stop being so emotional. Molly isn’t going to fight you for anything. Do you really need to make a massive scene?” His sheer, breathtaking audacity almost made me laugh again. This wedding reception was real. But Molly’s marriage certificate was also real. Colin thought he could partition his life, but I refused to play the role of the oblivious fool. “Are you honestly acting like you aren’t the one who created this freak show?” I asked. Colin’s expression darkened. A cold sneer curled the corner of his mouth. “You’re the one who begged for a lavish wedding, Clara. You threw your own money at it. And now you’re calling it a freak show? Don’t you think that’s a little pathetic?” I froze. My mouth opened, but the words died in my throat. When we were picking venues, I had fallen in love with a stunning botanical hall, planning to fill it with thousands of white baby’s breath flowers. But it cost fifty grand. Colin had frowned, insisting it wasn’t in the budget. I hadn’t wanted to compromise on a once-in-a-lifetime day, so I quietly emptied my own savings account, handing him the extra cash to cover it. How stupid I was. I never stopped to wonder why a man making a high six-figure salary couldn’t afford the venue. It wasn’t that he couldn’t. It was that I wasn’t worth it. His sneer felt like a physical knife twisting in my eyes. From the very beginning, I was the only one who wanted this. The humiliation I was currently drowning in was something I had literally paid fifty thousand dollars for. Seeing the devastation on my face, a flash of regret briefly softened Colin’s features. His tone dropped an octave. “Clara, I know I screwed up. I’m sorry. But we have to walk down the aisle today.” The sincerity in his eyes made my head spin. I couldn’t tell if he genuinely wanted to stand at the altar with me, or if he was just terrified of the public embarrassment. It didn’t matter. None of it mattered anymore. “I’m not doing it, Colin,” I said, my voice dead. “I actually have a shred of self-respect. I’m not going to put on a white dress and smile for the cameras knowing you’re legally bound to someone else.” His face drained of color. Molly immediately clutched his arm, bursting into fresh, pathetic sobs. “Are you calling me shameless, Clara? If it bothers you that much, I’ll divorce him right now! As long as Colin is happy, I don’t care about a piece of paper!” I glared at her, my lip curling in disgust. “Was my bridal suite comfortable, Molly? Did you get off on the thrill of screwing the man who practically acted as your older brother?” Her face went pale. She reached out, weakly tugging at the hem of my dress. “I was forced into this! You’re so smart, Clara, you have a great career, you have a family that loves you. You’ll find someone better. But if I don’t marry Colin, my parents will drag me back to the trailer park and force me to marry that degenerate with three ex-wives.” Three years ago, I had believed that exact sob story. And my reward was absolute, unfiltered betrayal. “Your misery is not my problem, Molly,” I said coldly. “And it certainly isn’t an excuse to sleep with my fiancé and destroy my life.” She stiffened. Then, turning her tear-streaked face up to Colin, she whimpered, “I didn’t…” Colin pulled her against his chest, murmuring soft assurances into her hair. He whispered a dozen gentle promises until a weak smile finally broke through her tears. He let out a sigh of relief. Then, he turned his gaze back to me, his eyes entirely devoid of warmth. “There’s no law against cheating, Clara,” he said flatly. “And considering your own mother’s history, I hardly think the daughter of a homewrecker has the moral high ground to judge us.” My head snapped up. Molly peeked at me from the safety of his arms, her eyes wide with exaggerated shock. “Oh my god. I had no idea your family was so… scandalous. No wonder you’re so obsessed with a big, flashy wedding. People always overcompensate for what they lack, right?” Colin winced slightly, realizing he had gone too far. He picked my fallen bouquet off the floor and tried to press it into my hands. “Clara… I shouldn’t have said that. I’m sorry. Just forget it.” I violently shoved his hands away. It’s the instinctive, unfiltered words that do the most damage. I realized then that the mouth that whispered ‘I love you’ could just as easily tear me to shreds. I would never forget the look of utter disgust that had just crossed his face. It was burned into my retinas forever. Years ago, when I finally summoned the courage to tell him about my mother’s past—how she had been manipulated by a married man, how she was cast out and left to raise me alone—his eyes had filled with tears. He had pulled me into his arms, swearing that I wasn’t defined by my family. He promised he would protect me forever. But the boy who made those promises was gone. Today, to protect his new mistress, he had weaponized my deepest, bloodiest wound and driven the knife all the way to the hilt. “Do you love her?” I asked. Colin looked at me, completely unapologetic. “I don’t know about love. But I do care about her. You know I don’t lie to you.” You know I don’t lie to you. When we first got together, his one vow was total honesty. Over the years, he was transparent to a fault. Even when his frat brothers mocked him for being whipped, he wore it like a badge of honor. I like belonging to Clara, he’d say. I’d never lie to her. Even if I cheated, I’d tell her to her face. He had kept his promise. But his honesty had become a weapon. A sharp knock on the door interrupted us. The wedding coordinator poked her head in. “Are we ready in here? The guests are waiting.” Ignoring Colin’s outstretched hand, I stumbled past him toward the door. Just as my fingers grazed the handle, he grabbed my wrist. “Are you sure about this, Clara? You’re really going to blow this up?” “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.” He let out a dark, breathless chuckle. “Fine. If you walk out, Molly is putting on the dress. At least we actually have the paperwork to back it up.” Molly immediately clung to his bicep, practically buzzing with excitement. “Oh, yes! When Clara was at her fitting, I secretly tried on the backup gown. It fit me perfectly. It’s meant to be.” She covered her mouth, feigning guilt. “Oops. Did I say that out loud?” The heavy silk of my dress suddenly felt like it was suffocating me. I grabbed the fabric at my collar, desperately trying to yank it down, but Colin grabbed my shoulders, pinning me in place. “Stop it, Clara,” he hissed. “Maybe you can handle the fallout of a canceled wedding, but are you absolutely sure your mother’s heart can take the shock?” His eyes gleamed with a sickening certainty. He was waiting for me to break. Just like every other time we argued, he would simply stare me down in silence until I caved. Before I could answer, the door swung wide open. A swarm of family members and bridesmaids poured into the suite. An aunt caught sight of my face and beamed. “Oh, look! The bride is already crying happy tears!” I bit the inside of my cheek, swallowing the bile in my throat. I couldn’t let my mother see this. Not yet. Not like this. We were ushered onto the plush sofa for a pre-wedding family photo. As the photographer adjusted the lighting, Colin leaned close to my ear. “Smile, Clara.” I forced the corners of my mouth up, my muscles trembling. Just then, a heavy piece of paper slipped from Colin’s jacket and landed squarely in my lap. My mother, sitting on my other side, quickly picked it up, a fond smile on her face. “Honestly, you two. I know you’re crazy about each other, but carrying your marriage certificate during the photos? Put this away before you lose it.” I gave a stiff, jerky nod. I reached for it, but a hand darted out and snatched it away. Molly pressed the certificate to her chest, batting her eyelashes innocently. “I’m so sorry, ma’am. This is actually mine.” My mother chuckled, clearly confused. Molly traced the edge of the paper with her French-manicured nail, looking directly at my mother. “Would you like to see?” “Molly, shut your mouth,” I snarled, the temperature in the room plummeting. My anger only fueled her twisted satisfaction. She flipped the document open and shoved it right in my mother’s face. “Did you know your daughter is a homewrecker, just like you?” she asked sweetly. The words dropped like a bomb. The room instantly erupted into chaotic murmurs. I could feel a dozen pairs of eyes scraping over my skin, peeling back my layers. My mother stared at the photo of Colin and Molly on the legal document. The blood drained from her face, only to rush back in a violently flush of rage. She stood up, instinctively throwing her arm in front of me to shield me. “How dare you!” my mother choked out. “My daughter has been with him for eight years! If anyone is a homewrecker, it’s you!” Tears burned my eyes at the sight of her trembling back. Molly didn’t flinch. She waved the certificate in the air for the room to see. “We’re legally married. What else do you call her but a mistress? Everyone knows your sordid history. You got knocked up by a married man and thrown out into the street. With a mother like you, it’s no surprise the apple didn’t fall far from the tree!” A blinding, primal rage hijacked my nervous system. I lunged forward, hands raised, wanting nothing more than to rip the hair from Molly’s scalp. “Don’t you ever speak to my mother like that!” But Colin caught me around the waist, his arms locking around me like iron bands, pinning me back. Suddenly, a gasp echoed from behind us. I whipped my head around. My mother’s face was ashen, her lips turning a faint, terrifying shade of blue. She clutched her chest, her knees buckling as she collapsed onto the carpet. “Mom!” I thrashed against Colin’s grip, finally breaking free, and threw myself onto the floor beside her. Tears splashed violently against the rug. My hands shook uncontrollably as I fumbled for my phone. “Mom, hold on, I’m calling 911, just hold on—” A sharp kick sent my phone skittering across the hardwood floor. Molly stood over me, her chest heaving, a look of unhinged malice on her face. “You aren’t calling anyone,” Molly spat. “Not until you get on your knees and press your forehead to this floor. Beg me for her life, Clara.” I scrambled toward the phone, but Molly kicked it further away, out of reach. I looked up at Colin, desperate. But his face was a mask of cold stone. “Apologize to my wife, Clara,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “Your mother is just having a panic attack. She’ll live. But Molly’s honor matters.” The tears blinded me. “She insulted my mother first!” I screamed, my voice breaking. His eyes were dead, devoid of a single ounce of the love he had harbored for eight years. “She is the woman I legally married. When you attack her, you attack me. Apologize.” Molly sniffled, burying her face in his shoulder. “It’s fine, Colin. I don’t want to cause trouble…” Colin tightened his hold on her, stroking her hair. “No. I won’t let anyone disrespect you.” Eight years. Eight years of my life given to this man, and he was demanding I sacrifice my dignity to feed her ego, while my mother lay dying on the floor. “We’re wasting time, Clara,” Molly whispered, her voice like a razor blade. “She doesn’t look so good.” I closed my eyes. The world shattered into a million irreparable pieces. I slowly pushed myself onto my knees. I bent forward. My forehead hit the cold floor. One. Two. I bowed over and over again, until the skin on my forehead tore and a smear of red stained the floorboards. Beside me, my mother’s breathing grew horribly, impossibly shallow. “That’s not enough,” Colin said coldly. “Take the dress off, Clara. Give it to Molly. Your mother needs a doctor, but my wedding is still happening.” I moved like a hollowed-out machine. I unzipped the custom silk gown, stepping out of it and leaving it in a crumpled white heap on the floor. I sat there, shivering in my slip, watching him wrap his arm around Molly’s waist. They walked out of the suite, bathed in the confused but obedient applause of his family. As the faint, distant wail of an ambulance siren finally cut through the air, I crawled back to my mother’s side. Her eyes had gone cloudy and dim. “Oh, my sweet girl…” she gasped, her voice barely a rattle. “This is my fault. I was a fool… and you’re paying for my sins. But you… you shouldn’t have to bow to anyone.” She reached up, her trembling fingers brushing the blood from my forehead. And then, she locked her jaw. A violent spasm seized her body, her teeth sinking so hard into her own lip that blood welled up, spilling over her chin. She chose the physical agony, her heart giving out under the sheer, unbearable weight of the humiliation. “Mom!” I shrieked, the sound tearing my vocal cords. The paramedics rushed in a minute later, tossing equipment onto the floor, pumping her chest, pushing epinephrine. But eventually, the medic rocked back on his heels and slowly shook his head. “I’m sorry, ma’am. She’s gone.” My mother died because of me. She died so I wouldn’t have to suffer anymore. With fingers entirely slick with blood, I found my phone. I opened my messages and typed one final text to Colin.

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Tomorrow is the day I’m to be anointed as the Keeper of the Valley. I sat before the vanity, silently wiping the heavy makeup from my face, my heart as cold as the mountain air outside. In our town of Blackwood Creek, there is a tradition that has survived for generations. Every decade, a set of twin girls is born to a single household. According to the old laws, the sisters’ paths are split: one is allowed to marry and leave, while the other must stay, serving as the Keeper of the Valley—a lifelong vestal protector of our heritage. She cannot marry; she cannot even step beyond the town limits. I used to have dreams. When I got into a university in the city, I made a pact with my boyfriend, Sawyer. We agreed that when I turned twenty-two, he would come to the Creek to ask for my hand. The day had finally arrived. I had spent hours dressing, my heart full of a frantic, hopeful joy. When I saw Sawyer’s black Maybach pull into the dusty driveway, looking utterly out of place against our rustic backdrop, I had to press a hand to my chest to keep my heart from leaping out. But then, I heard him. He was leaning against the car door, finishing a phone call. His words were a cold blade through the drywall of my heart. “I’m here to take Grace,” he said. There was a pause, and then he continued, “You don’t understand—her parents are playing favorites. If I don’t marry Grace, she’ll be stuck here. She won’t survive it.” Then came the kicker, the casual dismissal that stripped me bare: “Jodie is different. She’s got her degree; she can make it on her own. Her parents adore her—they’d never force her into the Keeper role if she really fought it. She’s strong enough to handle a different life.” 1 I sat on the edge of the bed. A bitter, acidic feeling rose in my throat. When we were kids, it was Grace who had promised she’d be the one to stay. She’d told me she’d take the mantle so I could go off and see the world. Because of that promise, I’d spent my life yielding to her. I gave her the best clothes, the biggest portions; I let my parents dote on her while I buried my head in books. Even my parents leaned toward her. But I’d always thought it was okay. Freedom was the ultimate prize, and I was willing to pay for it with years of self-sacrifice. I studied until my eyes burned, squeezing every second of my life into a future that belonged to both of us. And now, she was using my boyfriend’s pity to steal that future. She wasn’t a victim. She was a strategist. She never intended to stay in Blackwood Creek; she just wanted the rewards without the sacrifice. I turned back to the mirror, scrubbing the foundation off in layers. The woman in the glass slowly emerged—the real me. Nothing spectacular. Just a face, eyes, a nose. Identical to Grace’s. Yet, since we were toddlers, everyone said Grace was the “ethereal” one, the “gentle soul,” the one who looked exactly like the town’s patron saint in the old chapel paintings. They called me “wild,” “stubborn,” and “difficult.” Same face. Different labels. Outside, the car door slammed. Then came the footsteps, heavy and rhythmic, approaching the house. It was Sawyer. I didn’t move. I squeezed the cotton pad in my hand, staring at the reflection until the face in the mirror felt like a stranger’s. A knock. “Jo?” Sawyer’s voice. “I’m here.” “Come in,” I said. The door creaked open. He froze for a second, clearly caught off guard by the sight of me in an old flannel shirt instead of the white lace dress I’d picked out for this day. “You…” He stepped inside, looking around the room. “Why aren’t you dressed?” I looked at him through the mirror. “What are you here for, Sawyer?” He hesitated, then forced a smile. He walked toward me. “To take you away, obviously. Isn’t that what we agreed? Twenty-two. I come for you.” “Who, specifically, are you coming for?” He stopped in his tracks. I turned around to face him. “Sawyer, look at me. Whose hand are you here to ask for?” The smile died on his face. He was silent for a few agonizing seconds before he finally spoke. “Jo, let me explain—” “I don’t need an explanation.” I stood up, tossing the makeup pad onto the table. “I heard you on the phone. Every word.” His face went pale. “You said Grace didn’t have a degree, that she couldn’t make it outside, so you had to marry her,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “You said I was the strong one. That I could fend for myself, so it wouldn’t matter if you left me behind.” “Jodie—” “What you’re saying,” I continued, my tone flat, “is that you weighed us on a scale. You decided I was less deserving of your protection because I didn’t act helpless. So you’re taking her instead.” He opened his mouth, but nothing came out. I knew it. He couldn’t deny it because it was the truth. We had known each other for five years. We’d been together for three. He had met Grace less than a dozen times. And yet, he’d done the math. On one side was me, and on the other was her. He decided that because I could carry the weight, I didn’t need him to help me bear it. “Sawyer,” I said, stepping back. “Leave.” He frowned. “You need to calm down. I have my reasons—” “I am perfectly calm,” I said. “More calm than you can possibly imagine.” He looked like he wanted to say more, but footsteps echoed in the hallway. Then came Grace’s voice—soft, melodic, with that practiced hint of a tremor. “Jo, I know you’re upset. But you don’t understand… I didn’t think…” She pushed the door open and stood there, her eyes rimmed with red, tears trembling on her lashes. She was beautiful when she cried. She’d always been. Since we were girls, one tear from her and the world would stop to comfort her. Even I used to fall for it. But now, I just looked at her. “Grace, you don’t have to explain anything to me.” She blinked. “Jo…” “I have no right to blame you,” I said. “I was the fool. I was the one who thought promises actually meant something.” I said it to both of them. There was a heavy silence. I picked up my phone from the nightstand. “I’m going to the chapel. You two stay here.” “Wait,” Sawyer said, stepping forward. “What are you going to the chapel for?” I didn’t look back. “To tell the Elder,” I said, “that I’ll be taking part in the Anointing tomorrow. I’m staying.” 2 The chapel sat at the furthest edge of the Creek, nestled against the mountain. The cobblestone path was lined with red lanterns for the festival. As the wind kicked up, their shadows danced across the stones like restless ghosts. I walked slowly. Not because I was hesitant, but because my mind was a chaotic mess of threads that I needed to untangle before I reached the door. I kept thinking about five years ago. I was seventeen. Sawyer was a college student who had come to the Creek for a summer volunteer program. I remember seeing him for the first time, sitting on the stone steps of the local library, the sunset gilding his profile. I’d never seen anyone like him. He looked clean, light, as if he belonged to a world that wasn’t covered in coal dust and tradition. He’d asked me where the road out of town led. “To the valley,” I’d said. “Then to the town, then the city, then the world.” “Where do you want to go?” he asked. “Everywhere,” I told him. He laughed. “Then let’s go everywhere.” I believed him. I believed a stranger’s casual promise. After he left, we wrote letters. When everyone got smartphones, we switched to texts. We talked every day for five years. He told me he’d come for me at twenty-two. I’d joked, How do you know I’ll still want to go? And he’d say, Because you love me. I had called him arrogant. But he was right. I did love him. For five years, I hadn’t looked at another soul. At the chapel steps, Cyrus, the town Elder, sat smoking a pipe. He squinted as I approached. “You’re here,” he said. “I didn’t think you’d show tonight.” I crouched down across from him. “Cyrus, I need to ask you something.” “Speak.” “The rules for the Keeper—must she stay within the Creek? Forever?” Cyrus took a long drag. “The old laws are clear. The Keeper guards the hearth. She protects our history. She stays within the gates, she remains unwed, and she serves until the end.” I nodded. “And if she leaves?” He paused, tilting his head. “No Keeper has ever left.” “I’m just asking.” He exhaled slowly, the smoke curling into the lantern light. “Have you made up your mind? Are you accepting the Anointing?” “I haven’t decided,” I said. “I just want to understand the cage before I step inside.” He watched me for a long time. Then he said something that caught me off guard. “Jodie, do you know that out of everyone in your generation, you’re the first one I misread?” “What does that mean?” “The twins,” he said. “I always assumed it would be Grace who stayed.” “She’s the one everyone says is perfect for it.” “Grace has lived here her whole life,” Cyrus said, “but her eyes have never truly rested on this town. She’s always looking past it.” The wind gusted, rattling the lanterns. “But you,” he continued. “Every time you come down from the ridge, you stop and look back. You aren’t looking with longing to leave. You’re memorizing. You’re recording the path, the trees, the way the light hits the valley. The way someone looks at a place they want to escape is very different from the way someone looks at a place they actually care about.” I looked down. My throat felt tight. “I wasn’t the one who was supposed to stay,” I said, my voice thick. “I had a life planned.” “Go live it then,” Cyrus said, tapping his pipe against the stone. “But know this: Grace can’t walk that path. She wouldn’t last a year out there, and she’d destroy this place if she stayed as Keeper. You have to be sure.” He stood up and disappeared into the darkened chapel. I stayed on the steps, watching his shadow vanish. I knew he was right. Grace couldn’t be the Keeper. Not because she wasn’t “good” enough, but because she couldn’t hold the weight of it. To be the Keeper isn’t just about staying; it’s about guarding the heart of the community. You can’t guard something you’re trying to flee. I stood up and brushed the dust from my jeans. Footsteps behind me. I didn’t need to turn around. “Are you really doing this?” Sawyer asked. “I haven’t decided.” “Then why come here?” “To know what I’m signing up for.” He walked up beside me. After a long silence, he said, “Jo, if you do this, you’re stuck. For life.” “I know.” “You have a degree. You have so many options—” “Sawyer,” I interrupted, turning to him. “Did you come here today to take me, or to take her?” He went quiet. “Then we have nothing left to talk about.” 3 When I got home, Grace was still in the living room. My parents were there, too. My mother looked up as I walked in. “Jodie, where have you been?” “The chapel.” She stiffened. “You…” “I was asking Cyrus about the ceremony. If I’m doing this tomorrow, I want to know the details.” My father didn’t say a word. He just stared at his boots. Grace looked up, her eyes still puffy. “Jo…” “Grace,” I said. “You were the one who promised to stay. You said you’d take the mantle so I could go to school. Those were your words, right?” Grace’s fingers tightened in her lap. “Yes, but…” “No ‘buts’,” I said. “You said it, and I remembered it. Because of that promise, I stepped aside for you. Mom and Dad gave you everything because they felt guilty you were staying. Every time I wanted something, I gave it to you.” My voice was steady, almost clinical. “I didn’t study that hard because I loved the books, Grace. I did it because I felt like I was carrying your freedom on my shoulders. I didn’t want to waste the chance you gave me.” The room was suffocatingly quiet. “And now,” I said, “you’re trading that promise for what? For Sawyer to carry you away?” Grace broke down, tears streaming. “I didn’t plan this! I didn’t scheme against you. Sawyer and I just… we started talking…” “Just what?” “We just connected,” she sobbed. “He… he understood how scared I was. He felt sorry for me…” My mother reached out to wipe her own eyes. “Jodie, your sister has suffered too. She’s spent her whole life knowing she might be trapped here. Have some heart.” I looked at my mother. “And me? What about my heart?” She flinched. “I spent my life knowing that if it wasn’t her, it would be me,” I said. “I’ve been preparing for a life that was supposed to be mine. Who’s having ‘heart’ for me?” No one answered. My father finally spoke, his voice muffled. “Jodie, this is on us. It’s not your sister’s fault.” “We were the ones who called Sawyer,” he admitted. I froze. “What?” He sighed. “Grace hasn’t been well. She’s fragile. We were worried that if she stayed here, she’d… she’d wither away.” He trailed off. “We called Sawyer. We begged him to come take her.” “And to get him to come, you had to give him a reason,” I whispered. “We told him how miserable she was. We told him to marry her to save her,” my mother said, looking at the floor. “We knew he was a good man, but he’s loyal to you. He couldn’t just leave you. So we told him you were fine. We told him you were strong, you had your education, and you could make it on your own…” I sat down. I processed the words slowly, one by one. Then, I laughed. It wasn’t a happy sound. It was a jagged, hollow noise. “So,” I said. “The three of you. You all conspired against me.” “Jodie—” “It wasn’t a conspiracy,” my mother cried. “We just didn’t see another way. If Grace stayed, she’d break.” “And if I stay?” My mother stopped. “Mom,” I said. “If I were the one breaking, would you have tried this hard to find me a way out?” The question hung in the air like a dead weight. No one answered. I didn’t need them to. Some answers are louder when they’re unspoken. I stood up. “I’ll be at the ceremony tomorrow.” My mother jumped up. “You can’t! You have your whole career ahead of you—” “Don’t worry about my career,” I said. “I went to school to fulfill a deal I had with Grace. Since she’s backed out, I guess I don’t need that path anymore.” “Jodie!” I didn’t say another word. I walked into my room and shut the door. The click of the latch was soft, but it sounded final. I leaned my back against the wood and stared up at the dark ceiling. My head was a mess of years of suppressed resentment, but my heart was strangely clear. Starting today, I could let go of them. 4 The Anointing was held just before dawn. The town was still mostly dark, but lights were flickering on in every house. Red lanterns lined the main street, and the rhythmic beat of a drum echoed from the chapel—thump, thump, thump—like a giant’s heartbeat. I put on the Keeper’s gown. It wasn’t a wedding dress; it had no lace, no embroidery. It was just plain, stark white. A dress so clean it felt frightening. I brushed my hair in front of the copper mirror, tying it back with a simple white ribbon. The girl looking back at me looked like a stranger. I stared at her and realized this was the face of someone who was born to be sacrificed. My parents knocked on the door. “Jodie, are you sure?” “Yes.” “But your degree—” “Mom,” I said through the door. “Don’t ever mention the degree again. It doesn’t matter now.” Silence followed. Eventually, their footsteps faded away. I tied the final knot on the ribbon and stood up. When I stepped out, Grace was standing in the hall. She was in her everyday clothes, her face pale and her eyes swollen from a sleepless night. We locked eyes for a long second. “Jo,” she whispered. “If… if you really don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. You could make a scene. You could scream at them and just drive away. No one could stop you.” I gave her a small, sad smile. “I know.” “Then why?” “Because I realized something,” I said. “The Creek needs a Keeper. And as Cyrus said… you can’t do it.” Her eyes filled with tears again. “Jo…” “Don’t feel guilty,” I said. “Just go. Live the life you wanted. Don’t look back at this place.” I walked past her and out the front door. The morning light was just beginning to spill over the mountains—pale, golden rays hitting the wet cobblestones. The drumming grew louder. I walked down the center of the road, the townspeople lining the sides. I heard the whispers. She’s doing it. Jodie’s staying. I had made it halfway to the chapel when someone came sprinting up behind me. It was Sawyer. He was breathless, his face drenched in sweat. “You can’t do this!” he shouted.

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Five years ago, a plane crash took my life. Today, my screw-up of a son is clutching my urn, standing on the edge of a jagged cliff, preparing to livestream his own suicide. It turns out he’s been framed by his rivals. They’ve painted him as a talentless hack who slept his way to the top. Now, the entire internet is hunting him down, fueled by a smear campaign that has pushed him to the brink of utter despair. Just as he was about to step off into the abyss, I suddenly “woke up” inside the urn. In a panic, I did the only thing I could: I manifested my consciousness into his livestream chat. [Justin! Baby, don’t do anything stupid! Mom’s back! I’m going to help you burn those bastards to the ground!] He froze instantly. I kept typing, firing off the kind of secrets only a mother and son could ever know. [You were five when you wet the bed and blamed it on the dog. I’m the one who washed those sheets, Justin! They’re still tucked away in the trunk at your grandma’s house!] [And that secret stash of cash you hid in the ceiling panel? You thought no one knew? I’ve been sneakily taking a twenty every month to buy you your favorite ribs since before I died!] [Don’t you dare die! I’ve lit a thousand lanterns for you down here! I’m burning a fortune in ghost-money every day just for you. If you die now, all that family wealth goes down the drain!] 1 My name is Doris, and I died in a national tragedy—a plane crash that shook the country five years ago. When I finally regained consciousness, it was because of a violent, rhythmic shaking. My only son, Justin, was standing on the highest peak of a seaside cliff, his fingers white as he gripped my urn. The ocean wind was howling, whipping against his face, which was as pale as death itself. His phone was mounted on a tripod nearby, the screen a chaotic blur of scrolling hate. “Justin, just crawl away and die already! How does he have the nerve to stream right now?” “Disgusting. Another industry plant who slept his way to a career. Is he trying to play the victim card now?” “What’s he holding? Is that his dead mom’s ashes? God, he’ll even use her corpse for clout.” “Jump already! Stop stalling!” I felt my very soul trembling with rage. Those absolute ghouls. Justin is only twenty-two. He was the youngest Best Actor winner in the country—a career that started at the summit. But overnight, he was buried under a mountain of filth. His rival’s PR firm had bought off every media outlet, leaking “evidence” so perfectly photoshopped it was indistinguishable from the truth. Overnight, the boy I raised to be my pride and joy was being trampled into the mud. His agency dropped him to save their own skin. His fan clubs disbanded, turning into his most vicious hunters. When a wall begins to crack, everyone rushes to give it a push. My son, usually so proud and stoic, had finally been driven to the end of his rope. He hugged my urn and whispered, “Mom, I can’t do this anymore. I’m coming to find you.” I went ballistic. I threw the entire weight of my spirit against the walls of that ceramic jar, but all I could produce were dull, hollow thuds. Then, just as Justin lifted his foot to step into the void, I realized I could tap into the signal of his phone. My thoughts could become words. My consciousness could manifest as text in the chat. Without a second thought, I fired off the first message. [Justin! Baby, don’t do anything stupid! Mom’s back! I’m going to help you burn those bastards to the ground!] Justin’s entire body stiffened. The chat exploded. “Who the hell is this troll? Using a dead person’s name is low, even for the internet.” “Is this Justin’s team trying one last pathetic stunt? Ghost-writing to clear his name?” Seeing him lean forward again, I felt a surge of desperation. I typed the second message. [Don’t you dare die! I’ve lit a thousand lanterns for you down here! I’m burning a fortune in ghost-money every day just for you. If you die now, all that family wealth goes down the drain!] That was our thing. It was a joke we had before the crash. I’d told him that if I died first, I’d set up a luxury estate in the afterlife to keep his star shining bright, and if he ever got lazy, I’d haunt his dreams and kick his ass. Justin froze completely. His eyes went wide, staring at the screen as the comment scrolled past. I knew I had him. I flooded the chat with more. [Justin, you were five when you wet the bed and blamed it on the dog. I’m the one who washed those sheets! They’re still in the trunk at Grandma’s!] [And that secret stash in the ceiling? I’ve been taking a twenty every month to buy you those ribs you love!] His pupils contracted. The veins in his arms bulged as he gripped the urn with renewed strength. These were the tiny, sacred details of our life together—things he had never told a soul. In the livestream, the mocking comments paused for a fraction of a second before a new wave of vitriol hit. “Nice script! He even wrote in the childhood embarrassments.” “I’m dying. Using his dead mom’s ‘ghost’ for a PR save? Justin, you have zero soul.” The rival firm’s bots started to ramp up, filling the screen with filth. But Justin didn’t seem to see them anymore. His lips trembled. He looked down at the urn in his arms and whispered, “…Mom?” 2 I replied instantly. [It’s me, baby! It’s Mom. Now get down from there. It’s dangerous!] Justin’s eyes turned red instantly. Heavy tears began to fall, unbidden and hot. In that moment, he wasn’t a fallen superstar or a disgraced actor. He was just a boy who had lost his mother and been abandoned by the world. “Mom…” he choked out, his voice as fragile as a feather. “Is it really you? Am I dreaming?” [It’s not a dream. My soul is stuck to this urn. I guess it’s because you’re such a good son—hugging me every day finally woke me up.] I used a playful tone to soothe him, even though my heart—or whatever was left of it—was breaking. The viewers were losing their minds. “Holy shit? Is he actually talking to the jar?” “Wait… look at his face. This feels too real. I’m getting goosebumps.” “Don’t be stupid. He’s clearly had a mental break. This is a psychotic episode.” The trolls pounced on that. “Confirmed! Justin’s lost his mind. He’s talking to ashes!” “So sad. He’s gone full psycho. Someone call the asylum.” “Cancel him for good! We can’t have a crazy person as a public figure!” I watched those comments, feeling my spirit nearly flicker out from pure fury. My son was not crazy. [Justin! Listen to me. Right now. Get off those rocks and go home!] [Those bastards want you dead. We aren’t giving them the satisfaction. Mom has a plan. We’re going to flip the script.] Justin looked like he’d finally found an anchor. He took one last look at the dark water below, then at my urn, and nodded fiercely. He didn’t turn off the stream. He kept it running as he carefully climbed down from the slippery rocks, shielding the urn with his own body. A pack of reporters and haters were waiting past the shoreline. As soon as he touched solid ground, they swarmed him. “Justin! Was that performance just now a stunt? How do you justify using your mother’s death to gain views?” “Justin, rumors say your ‘benefactor’ is Victor Blackwood of the Moore Group. Care to comment?” “How do you sleep at night, exploiting your mother’s ashes for clout?” Camera flashes strobed like lightning, and questions cut through the air like knives. Justin said nothing. He wrapped his arms around me, protecting the urn, and shouldered his way through the crowd until he reached his car. He peeled away, leaving the chaos in his rearview mirror. Once he’d driven a few miles and found a quiet shoulder to pull over, he finally let go. He placed my urn in the passenger seat, buckled it in with the seatbelt, and collapsed over the steering wheel, sobbing. He cried for a long time—releasing every ounce of betrayal, hopelessness, and fear he’d been bottling up. I sat there, a silent passenger, my soul aching for him. When the storm finally passed and his breathing evened out, I typed on his phone. [Done crying? Good. Now stand up straight for your mother.] Justin lifted his bloodshot eyes to the screen and nodded hard. “Mom, what do I do? All the evidence points to me. No one believes a word I say.” This wasn’t just a rumor. It was a surgical strike. His rival, a boy named Tyler Banks, had always been in Justin’s shadow. Tyler’s backers had spent millions to bury Justin for good. They’d faked photos of Justin entering hotels with Victor Blackwood, faked bank transfers, and even bribed Justin’s personal assistant to testify against him. The trap was perfect. 3 [Don’t be afraid. Mom’s here,] I typed quickly. [Did you forget what I did before I was just ‘Mom’? I was Doris Caldwell. I was the most feared investigative reporter in this city.] It was true. Before I became a full-time mother, I was the queen of the tabloids. I knew where every body in this industry was buried. I’d only retired to give Justin a normal life. But those instincts? They never die. [If they can build a cage, we can pick the lock.] [First: that assistant of yours, Zack. He has a gambling problem. Check his recent banking history—I bet you’ll find a massive ‘gift’ from a shell company.] [Second: Victor Blackwood. Everyone thinks he’s your ‘sugar daddy.’ But Victor is gay. He has a secret boyfriend, a college student he keeps in London. If we leak photos of them, the rumors about you and Victor vanish instantly.] [And most importantly… Tyler.] I paused, my spectral fingers hovering over the digital interface. [Tyler didn’t get here on his own. He has a backer too. And his backer is the CEO of the very PR firm that’s currently tearing you apart—Howard Richmond.] Justin’s eyes went wide. His jaw dropped. These were industry secrets that even the most seasoned insiders didn’t know. “Mom… how do you know all this?” [Sweetie, I’m dead, not out of the loop!] I bluffed. [The afterlife has a great gossip network. I have friends in low places.] Justin let out a short, wet laugh, his eyes welling up again. He knew I was trying to cheer him up. But he also knew his mother would never let him lose. “Okay, Mom. I’m with you.” Justin restarted the engine, a familiar sharpness returning to his gaze. “Let’s hit back.” Justin was always a fast learner. He immediately contacted the one private investigator he still trusted to dig into Zack and Tyler. Then, following my instructions, he drove to a private, high-end lounge I used to frequent. “Mom, why are we here?” Justin asked, confused. [To find an old friend.] The manager recognized Justin—and me. When he saw Justin walking in clutching an urn, he turned pale as a sheet. Justin ignored the stares and walked straight to the VIP suite at the very back. He pushed the door open. Inside, a woman in a sleek silk dress was pouring tea. She was stunning, with a sharp, dangerous elegance. When she saw Justin and the urn, she froze, then her lips curled into a slow, knowing smile. “Well, look at what the cat dragged in. If it isn’t our fallen star. What’s the matter, Justin? Did you come here to hide?” Her name was Bea. She owned the club, and she had been my best friend and partner-in-crime during my reporting days. In this city, she was the woman who knew everything. Justin bit his lip, unsure of how to start. I bypassed the drama and typed directly on his phone, then signaled for him to show it to her. [Bea, it’s me. It’s Doris.] The smile on Bea’s face turned to stone. She stared at the screen, then at the urn, then back at the screen. Her hand started to shake. “Justin… what kind of sick joke is this?” her voice wavered. Justin shook his head and quickly explained what had happened at the cliff. Bea listened, her breath hitching, looking at my urn with a mix of awe and a flicker of genuine fear. 4 [Don’t be scared. I’m just a ghost who can’t move on yet,] I typed to calm her down. [Bea, they’re trying to destroy my boy. I need you.] Bea was silent for a long beat. Finally, she let out a long sigh and looked at Justin with fierce, maternal protectiveness. “Doris, you bitch. Even from the grave, you’re making me work. Fine. Your son is my son. Whoever touched him is dead to me.” I felt a weight lift. With Bea’s connections, things would move much faster. The three of us (well, two people and a ghost) spent the next few hours in that suite, mapping out a counter-strike. First, Bea leaked the photos of Victor Blackwood and his London boyfriend to a rival news outlet. The photos were crisp, undeniable, and clearly professional. Within thirty minutes, the hashtags #VictorBlackwood and #SecretLover were trending. Victor’s team scrambled, but Bea followed up with the killing blow: a video of the two of them at a private villa. The evidence was ironclad. Victor Blackwood immediately issued a statement denying any romantic involvement with Justin, even going as far as to hint that he had been used as a pawn by Tyler Banks’ camp to frame a younger actor. For the first time, the tide of public opinion began to turn. “Wait, so the Justin/Blackwood thing was a lie? He was framed?” “I mean, look at Justin’s face. Does he really need a sugar daddy?” “I feel sick. Someone really tried to bury this kid.” Next, Justin’s investigator came back with the goods. Zack, the assistant, had indeed received a wire transfer of five hundred thousand dollars the day before the scandal broke. We even got a photo of him at an underground casino, throwing that money away like it was trash. Justin didn’t post it yet. Following my lead, he sent the evidence directly to Zack. Minutes later, Zack called. He was sobbing, his voice thick with terror. “Justin… please, man, I was desperate! They threatened me!” “Tyler’s manager, Rick, came to me. He gave me the cash and told me what to say. Please don’t go to the police, I’ll take it back! I’ll tell the truth!” Justin hit record. “Tell me exactly what Rick said.” Zack spilled everything. They hadn’t just planned the scandal; they had a contingency. If Justin didn’t break, they were going to release a faked video of him “assaulting” an assistant. And if he committed suicide? They had a headline ready: The Coward’s Way Out: Disgraced Actor Confirms Guilt. They weren’t just trying to ruin him. They were trying to erase him. My soul burned with a white-hot light. [Ask him about the connection between Rick and Howard Richmond.] Justin did. Zack hesitated, then whispered, “Rick is Howard’s nephew. The whole thing was a family business.” There it was. The smoking gun. Justin hung up, his face grim. “Mom, we have everything. I’m posting the statement now.” [No,] I stopped him. [Not yet.] I watched my son, my heart swelling with a cold, calculated pride. I typed out the final phase of the plan. [Justin, remember what I told you when you were little? When a rabid dog bites you, you don’t just kick it away. You make sure it never bites anyone again.]

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I had just finished my thirty-two-week checkup. The air in the city felt heavy, the kind of humidity that makes your ankles swell and your breath hitch. I decided to stop by a boutique baby store on the way home, just to kill time and look at cribs. I’d barely stepped through the door when I heard a voice that made my blood run cold. It was Gavin. “Let’s take two sets of these bottles,” he was saying, his voice carrying that gentle, authoritative tone he usually reserved for board meetings. “Isabelle has sensitive skin. We need the mildest soaps they have.” I froze. The air in the shop suddenly felt like it was filled with shards of glass. I followed the sound. There she was. Isabelle. She was standing right next to him, her belly a prominent curve beneath a flowing linen maternity dress. Her hand rested on Gavin’s shoulder—a casual, practiced gesture that spoke of years of intimacy. Gavin was half-kneeling on the floor, one hand steadying her calf while the other expertly tied her loose shoelace. He did it with a practiced rhythm, as if he’d performed this small act of service a thousand times before. A sales associate stood nearby, beaming. “Your husband is so attentive,” she chirped. Gavin didn’t correct her. He just offered a faint, acknowledging nod. Isabelle didn’t correct her either. Instead, she looked down at him and smiled, her voice a soft, performative whisper. “Gavin, don’t buy too much. If Dora sees this, she’ll be upset again.” … 1 I stood behind a row of high-end strollers, my knuckles white against the display handle. A hysterical laugh bubbled up in my throat. So, they knew. They knew I’d be “upset.” It wasn’t that they lacked a sense of boundaries; it was that they simply didn’t care. I pushed the stroller in front of me aside and walked straight toward them. The wheels squeaked against the polished floor. Gavin looked up, and his face went through a violent transformation—from tenderness to sheer, unadulterated panic. “Dora?” The boutique was quiet, which only made his frantic tone more audible. I looked at him, my voice flat and cold. “Don’t stop on my account. Didn’t you say she needed two sets of bottles?” Isabelle instinctively took a half-step back, her hands shielding her stomach in a “startled” pose. “Dora, please don’t misunderstand. I just—” “You just what? You just happened to be pregnant and happened to need my husband to pick out your breast pumps, tie your shoes, and spend the afternoon at a baby boutique with you?” Gavin frowned, standing up and walking toward me. “Don’t be like this, Dora. You’re making a scene. Isabelle is in a difficult position. Her husband is out of the picture. Is it so wrong for me to help a friend?” “Help a friend?” I glanced at their shopping cart. A hospital bag, organic wipes, a steam sterilizer, a premium crib mattress, a maternity pillow, even a two-hundred-dollar formula kettle. This wasn’t “helping.” This was a lifestyle. I had come here today to buy a crib because I’d reminded him three times last week to come with me. Each time, his response had been a dismissive “later.” I stared him down. “Gavin, do you even remember when my last ultrasound was?” His mouth opened, then clicked shut. His expression stiffened. “You don’t,” I answered for him. “Because that day, you were with her, listening to her baby’s heartbeat.” The sales associate had slunk away. Even the other customers were staring. Gavin’s face darkened. “Do you really have to do this here? In public?” “Do what?” I laughed. “Ask why my husband is using our joint credit card to buy a cart full of baby gear for another woman? Is that the ‘scene’ you’re worried about?” Isabelle’s eyes instantly welled up. “Dora, please don’t blame Gavin. I’ll pay him back. I promise.” “You’ll pay?” My gaze dropped to her stomach. I nodded slowly. “Then tell me who the father is. I’ll send him the invoice.” Gavin’s voice dropped an octave, dangerous and sharp. “Dora! That’s enough.” The way he barked my name made it sound like I was the one who had committed a sin. The last shred of dignity I was holding onto for our marriage finally went cold. “What? Did I ask the wrong question?” Gavin, suppressed rage simmering under his skin, reached out to grab my arm. “We’re going home. Now.” I stepped back, dodging his touch. “Don’t touch me.” His face turned a bruised shade of purple. He looked exhausted by me. “Are you really this sensitive just because you’re pregnant? Isabelle and I grew up together. She has no one to take care of her right now. I’m helping her out. Stop making this a federal case.” I looked at him and realized I didn’t recognize the man standing in front of me. “So, I’m the one being dramatic? Is that it?” He didn’t say a word, but his eyes said, Always. Isabelle stood to the side, lightly tugging at his sleeve. Her voice was thin and tremulous. “Gavin, don’t fight with Dora. It’s my fault. I shouldn’t have leaned on you.” The more she played the martyr, the more I looked like the villain. Gavin stepped instinctively into his protector role. “Ignore her. She’s been like this lately. Emotional. Irrational.” Emotional. When I was pregnant with his child and woke up screaming from leg cramps in the middle of the night, he’d roll over and complain that I was disturbing his sleep. When I spent two hours fasting in a waiting room for a glucose test and called him, he said he was in a meeting. When my doctor told him I was anemic and needed more support at home, he stayed glued to his phone, replying to emails without looking up. And yet, I was the one who was “emotional.” I looked at the shopping cart. I reached out, grabbed the expensive hospital bag from the top, and threw it back onto the shelf. “Gavin, if you want to be a saint, use your own money. Don’t play the big-hearted provider with mine.” His brow furrowed. “What do you mean ‘your money’? We’re married.” “I’m glad you finally remembered that.” I turned and walked away. I couldn’t move fast. My belly was heavy, and every step felt like a strain on my hips. But I didn’t look back. As I reached the door, I heard Gavin’s voice, thick with uncontrolled anger. “Dora! Stop being so goddamn unreasonable!” I paused at the threshold, my back still to him. “When you were picking out her bottles, Gavin… did you feel reasonable then?” That night, Gavin didn’t get home until eleven-thirty. When he walked in, I was sitting at the dining table. In front of me was a neatly organized pile of credit card statements and bank records. It looked like a trial. Or an autopsy. The moment Gavin saw the papers, his face fell. “Are you spying on me now?” “Three thousand eight hundred for prenatal supplements. Eight thousand six hundred for a ‘maternity concierge’ deposit. Forty-two thousand for an imported crib and a car seat set.” I looked up at him. “Gavin, are you helping her, or are you supporting her?” He slammed his keys onto the table. The anger he’d been nursing all day finally boiled over. “Are we seriously doing this? I told you, Isabelle is alone. I’m helping her get through this window of time. She’ll pay it back eventually.” “When is ‘eventually’?” “When she’s back on her feet.” “And how exactly is she going to do that? Why is it our responsibility—my responsibility—to fund her recovery?” Gavin tugged at his collar, agitated. “Dora, can you stop being so petty? Isabelle’s life is a mess. Her husband cheated, their divorce is a legal nightmare, her family won’t speak to her. She’s pregnant and has nobody. As a woman, can’t you show a little empathy?” He spoke with such righteous indignation, as if I were a heartless spectator rather than his wife. I watched him for a few seconds. “What about me?” He blinked. “I’m a woman. I’m pregnant. I go to my appointments alone. I pick up my lab results alone. I lie awake at night alone. When you were busy feeling ’empathy’ for her, did you ever spare a thought for me?” Gavin’s shoulders slumped slightly, his tone softening just a fraction. “You have me, Dora.” I looked down at the pile of receipts and let out a dry, hollow laugh. “Do I?” He choked on his next word. After a moment of silence, the impatience returned. “Don’t get stuck in your own head. Isabelle isn’t you.” “How so?” “You have me. You have this house. You have a stable life. She has nothing.” “So you’ve decided to take my husband, my home, and my life, and give them to her piece by piece to fill the holes in hers?” Gavin’s face went cold. “That’s a disgusting way to put it.” “It’s only disgusting because it’s true.” I pushed a signed credit card slip toward him. It was the one from the boutique that afternoon. His signature was clear and sharp—the same one he used to sign multi-million dollar contracts. “This card is a secondary line on my personal account. I set the limits. Did it ever cross your mind, even for a second, that I’m a pregnant woman too?” His eyes flickered with a brief flash of guilt, but he doubled down. “You’re really going to nickel-and-dime me over this?” I looked at him and felt something inside me finally go dark. “Is that what you think this is? Money?” “Isn’t it?” He rubbed his temples. “Dora, you used to be different. Now you’re paranoid, obsessed with every little detail. Honestly, I think you’re just bored. If you weren’t pregnant, you wouldn’t have all this time to sit around and invent problems.” My hand tightened around my water glass. Bored. I had folded my own boutique branding agency—a business I’d built for six years—into his company to help him scale. I was still working as their lead consultant, revising packaging designs between bouts of morning sickness. And he had the nerve to say I was bored. I was about to speak when his phone buzzed. The caller ID read: Isabelle. Gavin stared at the screen, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then answered. “Hello?” I couldn’t hear the other side, but his expression shifted instantly to one of frantic concern. “Stomach pains? Don’t move. Stay right there. I’m coming.” I watched him grab his jacket, not even bothering to change his shoes, and I actually laughed out loud. Gavin paused, finally remembering I was in the room. “Isabelle isn’t feeling well. I need to check on her. I’ll be back soon.” “Go ahead.” My calmness surprised even me. He seemed caught off guard by how easily I let him go. “Dora, don’t overthink this.” I nodded. “I won’t. Go take care of her.” He didn’t say another word before rushing out the door. When the door clicked shut, the silence in the house was absolute. I sat at the table, looking at the receipts, and realized I didn’t want to cry. Once you stop crying, things get a lot clearer. The next morning, I backed up every bank statement, every transaction record, every corporate email, and every piece of equity documentation onto an encrypted hard drive. Then, I sent a message to someone I hadn’t spoken to in a long time. Theodore, do you have a moment? I need to consult with a divorce attorney. The reply came back almost instantly. Three p.m. today. My office. Theodore—Theo—had been a couple of years ahead of me in college. He’d gone to a top-tier firm before becoming a partner at his own practice. We had become close three years ago when I licensed a series of maternity brand trademarks I’d registered to Gavin’s company. Theo had drafted the agreement. Back then, Gavin had held my hand and told me, “Dora, when this company takes off, half of it will always be yours.” I guess “always” has an expiration date. At three o’clock, I sat in Theo’s glass-walled office and pushed the hard drive across the desk. He didn’t start with platitudes. He didn’t ask how I was feeling. He just asked one question. “Are you sure?” I nodded. “I’m sure.” “Do you want out, or do you want to audit him?” “Both.” Theo looked at me, his gaze lingering on my stomach for a second before his expression softened. “At this stage, you can’t afford the emotional or physical toll of a messy war. Tell me the one thing you can’t live with.” I looked down at my belly. My voice was eerily steady. “It’s not that he’s helping her. It’s that he’s crossed every line, and then called me ‘sensitive’ for noticing.” “And?” “He’s using marital assets to build a life for another woman and her child.” “And?” I looked him in the eye. “I’m carrying his child, and I’ve started to feel like a stranger in my own home.” Theo was silent for a few heartbeats. He took the hard drive. “Then this isn’t an argument. It’s damage control.” His words felt like a scalpel, cleanly cutting through the mess of my emotions. He opened his laptop and began scanning the files. “Which core company assets are in your name?” “The trademarks, the visual brand copyrights, the design patents for the two main lines, and the contact list for the core distributors. I handled the early-stage networking.” He looked up, surprised. “You never transferred those to him?” “No. They were licensed. Auto-renewed annually.” “You’re sharper than I gave you credit for.” I offered a grim smile. “I just didn’t think I’d ever actually need to use that leverage.” Theo’s voice was calm and authoritative. “Spending marital funds on a third party, if it’s a significant amount and serves no joint family purpose, can be reclaimed. As for the emotional infidelity, that’s harder to prove in a ‘no-fault’ context, but the financial trail you’ve given me is enough to bury him. Also, since you’re pregnant, he can’t legally initiate a divorce in most jurisdictions, but you can.” I felt a sudden weight lift from my chest. I wasn’t trapped. “How fast can we do this?” “Protect the assets first. Terminate the licenses. Collect more evidence. Then we talk settlement.” He turned the laptop toward me. “Don’t blow your cover yet. His biggest mistake right now is thinking you can’t leave.” I stared at those words. He was right. Gavin’s confidence was built on the fact that I was pregnant. He thought I was anchored. That’s why he felt safe using my card for her bottles. That’s why he felt he had the right to call me hysterical. On the way home, my mother-in-law called. The second I answered, she started in on me. “Dora, honestly, your temper is getting out of hand. Gavin was just being a good person to Isabelle. Did you really have to embarrass him in public like that?” I stood on the sidewalk, the wind biting at my face. “You heard about that quickly.” “Isabelle called me crying her eyes out. She’s worried she’s ruining your marriage. She can’t even eat. You’re about to be a mother, Dora. When are you going to grow up?” I looked up at a billboard across the street. “He’s buying her baby gear with my money, Martha.” She paused, then her tone hardened. “So what? It’s not like you can’t afford it. Gavin and Isabelle grew up together. Their families were close. She’s in a tragic situation. Isn’t it Gavin’s duty to help?” “Duty?” “Yes! A man with a sense of honor helps those in need. What’s wrong with that?” I waited a beat. “Is it also his duty to go to her ultrasounds?” Silence on the other end. After a few seconds, Martha spoke, her voice dry. “I’m sure they were just in the neighborhood.” In that moment, it all clicked. It wasn’t just Gavin who thought I was the problem. His whole family thought my “job” was to be the silent, understanding wife while they played house with someone else. I didn’t argue. I just said, “Martha, if you’re so worried about Isabelle, go take care of her yourself. Stop using my husband’s identity to perform your charity work.” I hung up. That night, Gavin actually came home early. He even brought flowers. White roses. My favorite. He set them on the table with an air of weary benevolence. “Dora, I was harsh yesterday. I’m sorry. Can we just stop the fighting?” I was organizing a nursery checklist, not even looking up. “I’m not fighting.” “Then why the cold shoulder?” I finally looked at him. “Gavin, are you here to apologize, or are you here to critique my facial expressions?” He bristled, tugging at his tie as if trying to restrain his temper. “I told you, the Isabelle thing is temporary. Once she has the baby, things will settle down.” “What does her having a baby have to do with you?” “I told you, she has no one.” “There are millions of women who are alone and pregnant, Gavin. Why aren’t you helping them?” His face darkened. “Can you not be so cynical? I’ve known Isabelle for twenty years. If there was anything between us, don’t you think something would have happened before you came along?” I froze. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “So what you’re saying is… she’s the ‘one who got away,’ the girl on the pedestal, and I’m just the unlucky woman you actually married?” Gavin’s patience snapped. “Dora, you’re becoming incredibly bitter.” “You made me this way.” “How? You have everything. You don’t have a worry in the world. I work my tail off at the office every day, and I have to come home to this attitude? You’re never satisfied.” I watched him. It’s true what they say: when you’re truly finished with someone, you stop wanting to scream. “Gavin, I’m going to ask you one last time.” I put down my pen. “Starting today, you stay away from Isabelle. Every cent you’ve spent on her gets accounted for and paid back to our joint account. Can you do that?” He stared at me, silent. The answer was written all over his face before he even spoke. “Isabelle needs someone right now,” he said. I nodded. “Understood.” He sensed a shift in the air and narrowed his eyes. “What are you going to do?” I didn’t answer. I just picked up the white roses and dropped them into the trash can. The petals scattered against the plastic liner. Gavin’s face went pale. “Have you lost your mind?” “No,” I said, looking him in the eye. “I’m just done playing my part in this script.” In the days that followed, I began looking at our home through a different lens. The more I looked, the more absurd it became. In our nursery, the crib was still in boxes. Gavin hadn’t offered to help assemble it once. But when I checked his search history on the tablet, it was filled with maternity pillows, postpartum supplies, and high-end breast pumps. I had a folder on my laptop for the luxury maternity retreat I wanted to book for my recovery. I hadn’t pulled the trigger yet. But in our shared email account, I found a confirmation for a premium suite at the same place—booked for Isabelle. Under Emergency Contact, he had listed himself. I stared at that confirmation for a long time, and then I started laughing. I wasn’t “overthinking.” He wasn’t just helping her. He was building her a safety net with my materials. ——– Phoebe came over to see me that afternoon. She was my oldest friend, the only one I’d told the truth to. She saw the stacks of documents on the coffee table and whistled. “Planning a coup?” “Something like that.” I handed her the printed itemized list of expenses. She read it, her face turning a deeper shade of red with every line. “Is Gavin insane? You’re eight months pregnant, and he’s out here playing Daddy to his childhood sweetheart with your money?” “He thinks he’s being noble.” “Noble, my ass,” Phoebe snapped, slamming the paper down. “He wants to be the hero without paying the price, so he’s making your marriage and your bank account pay it for him.” She articulated the exact feeling I’d been struggling to name. “Exactly.” “So, what’s the plan?” “I take back what’s mine. Then I leave.” Phoebe’s eyes widened. She looked relieved. “I was afraid you were going to stay and ‘work on it’.” “I thought I was too,” I said softly, rubbing my belly. “But I realized I don’t want my daughter to grow up thinking her mother accepted being second choice.” Phoebe’s eyes softened. “Gavin is a damn fool.” She helped me categorize the documents until late into the evening. As she was leaving, she remembered something. “Didn’t you say you registered the trademarks for the company’s best-sellers yourself?” “Yeah.” “Then what are you waiting for? Pull the plug on the license.” I smiled. “Theo said the same thing.” Phoebe’s eyebrows shot up. “Theo? As in Theodore, the law school heartthrob? You guys are back in touch?” “Professionally, Phoebe.” “Is he still as handsome as he was?” I rolled my eyes. “Can you focus?” “I am focusing! On your future.” She leaned in. “Listen to me, Dora. Not every man is Gavin. Some men make you feel small because they don’t have room for you in their hearts. Others can look at you and know exactly where you’re hurting.” I swatted her with a throw pillow. “Stop it.” She caught the pillow, her expression turning serious. “I’m not joking. Don’t let Gavin convince you that this is all you deserve.” I didn’t answer. I didn’t need to. I already knew. Three days later, I went to the office. I hadn’t been in since the third trimester started, mostly working from home, so when I walked into the conference room, the air shifted. Gavin was mid-meeting with several department heads. When he saw me, his forehead creased. “Dora? What are you doing here?” I set a manila envelope on the table and took a seat. “Business.” “We can talk at home,” he said, clearly embarrassed. “Home isn’t the right venue for this.” The room went dead silent. Our VP of Sales, Jack, looked between us and wisely kept his mouth shut. I pulled a formal notice from the envelope and slid it across the table to Gavin. “Effective next month, the ‘Heirloom,’ ‘PureCotton,’ and ‘Lunar’ trademarks, along with all associated visual copyrights, will no longer be licensed to this company for free. If you wish to continue using them, we need a new contract with market-rate royalties.” Gavin’s face went white. “Dora, what the hell is this?” “It’s a business notice.” “You’re kidding. We have a new product line launching next month. If you pull the license now, the whole project collapses.” “Then I suggest you find a solution.” He stood up abruptly, his voice a low hiss. “You’re bringing our personal issues into the office? Do you know how unprofessional this is?” I looked him straight in the eye. “You used company funds for Isabelle’s personal expenses, Gavin. Tell me more about ‘professionalism’.” Jack nearly dropped his pen. The other managers looked like they wanted to phase through the floor. Gavin stared at me, shocked that I would strip his mask off in front of his team. I slid the second document over. “Also, I’ve audited the ‘Market Research’ and ‘Promotional Samples’ expenses from the marketing budget over the last six months. I have the receipts and the delivery addresses. You might want to start drafting an explanation for the board.” Jack’s face went pale. Gavin’s eyes finally showed a flicker of real fear. “You audited the books?” “I audited the accounts I co-signed.” In the early days, I handled the branding and marketing. Many of the payment authorizations were still synced to my accounts. I’d trusted him, so I’d never looked closely. Now that I was looking, I saw the rot. Gavin gritted his teeth. “You’re really going to burn it all down?” I looked at him and felt a strange sense of pity. “I didn’t light the fire, Gavin.” I stood up, bracing myself against the table. “When you were spending my money on another woman and her child, you should have known this day was coming.” As I walked out of the conference room, chaos erupted behind me. Gavin chased me into the hallway, grabbing my wrist. “What do you want, Dora? Just tell me what you want.” I shook him off. “I want you to understand that I’m not some helpless pregnant woman you can keep in a box while you play house with someone else.” His breathing was heavy, trapped. “Do you realize what you’re doing? The project will stall. We’ll lose the distributors. The whole team will suffer.” “Then you should ask yourself if Isabelle was worth losing your company and your marriage over.” He didn’t have a retort. For the first time, he looked truly cornered. And in that silence, I saw it. It wasn’t that he hadn’t weighed the cost—it was that he’d already chosen her. He just didn’t think I’d have the guts to make him pay. On the way home, I felt a sharp tightening in my belly. I leaned back in the Uber and closed my eyes. The driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “You okay, ma’am? Do you need a hospital?” I forced a smile. “No, just tired. Pregnancy, you know?” “Where’s your family? You shouldn’t be running around alone this late in the game.” I looked out at the city lights blurring past. “I’m working on that.” That night, Gavin didn’t come home. The next afternoon, my phone rang. It was Isabelle. I stared at the screen for two beats before answering. “What?” Her voice was soft, fragile. “Dora… can we meet?” “I have nothing to say to you.” “Ten minutes,” she pleaded. “About Gavin. I think you deserve to hear the truth.” Half an hour later, I was sitting across from her in a quiet café. She looked delicate in her knit dress, her makeup perfectly natural. She looked like something that needed to be protected. I sat down and cut straight to the chase. “Speak.” Isabelle stirred her tea, her eyes downcast. “Dora, I know you hate me.” “I don’t hate you,” I corrected her. “I find you exhausting.” She winced. I didn’t care. “If you had any respect for boundaries, you wouldn’t have let a married man escort you to your doctor or pay for your maternity suite. Don’t play the innocent with me.” She was silent for a moment, then she looked up. Her eyes were hard. “But Gavin wanted to.” My heart gave a heavy thud. “Dora, have you ever wondered why? Why he’s willing to fight with you for me? Why he spends the money? Why he spends every spare second at my side?” I stared at her. “Because in his heart,” she whispered, “I was always the one.” I actually laughed. “So, is this the part where you tell me you’ve won?” Her hands were shaking, but her gaze was defiant. “I’m not trying to win. I just think you should stop forcing it. Gavin hasn’t been happy for years.” “He wasn’t happy, so he needed a childhood friend carrying someone else’s baby to heal him? That’s your logic?” Isabelle’s face shifted. The words spilled out before she could stop them. “Who said this was someone else’s baby?”

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