When my parents divorced, they drew up a custody agreement as neat and sterile as a business contract: my sister and I would alternate between them every twelve months. One year with Mom, one year with Dad, swapping every September before the first day of school. Yet every single year, when the August handoff arrived, they found a way to tear into each other over Chloe. “Chloe, honey, what do you say we do a beach trip to Hilton Head for Labor Day?” Dad frowned, his fork hovering midair. “Chloe’s with me this year. Don’t go meddling with my schedule.” Mom let out a cold, sharp laugh. “Last year, when I had that corporate conference in Chicago, she stayed under your roof for seventeen whole days. I’m owed those days back, Russell.” “It wasn’t seventeen full days! It was sixteen days and eight hours, tops.” Chloe let out an exaggerated, theatrical little sigh, resting her chin in her palms. “Honestly, if only I could just slice myself right down the middle and give half to each of you.” They bickered across the restaurant table for twenty minutes before finally striking a truce: they would both take Chloe to Hilton Head together for the holiday weekend. Chloe blinked, wide-eyed and innocent. “What about Robin?” Dad looked away, adjusting his napkin. “She’s not on my ledger this year.” Mom, who hadn’t met my eyes once since sitting down, finally turned to glance at me. Her expression was flat, clinical. “I’m in the middle of a massive departmental restructuring at work this year. I don’t have the bandwidth to play full-time mom. Robin, you’re staying with your grandparents.” Under the wooden edge of the table, my fingernails dug so hard into my palms that they broke the skin. Just seconds ago, she was fiercely fighting over seventeen missing days with Chloe. And in the very next breath, she discarded me without a second thought. Right then, my phone buzzed on my lap. A text from my high school guidance counselor: [Both your pre-college summer fellowship offers came through with stellar reviews. The state flagship in the next county is a great safety option, but give it serious thought.] I tapped back without hesitating: [Thank you, Mrs. Gable. I’m going with the research institute in New Mexico.] Two thousand miles. Surely two thousand miles of empty highway and desert sky would be enough to outrun a childhood spent entirely unwanted. … My counselor texted back almost immediately: [Have you discussed this with your parents? It’s across the country.] I kept my gaze lowered to the glowing screen. [No. But I turn eighteen this week. I can sign my own papers.] Seeing me quiet and absorbed in my phone, Chloe tilted her head. “Robin doesn’t look too thrilled about staying at Grandma and Grandpa’s.” She wasn’t wrong. I hated it there. Staying with our grandparents meant waking up before dawn to make breakfast for the entire house, and coming home after grueling evening study sessions only to fold laundry for my two spoiled younger cousins. I had tasted that brand of second-class citizenship before. I had no desire to swallow it again. Mom’s brow pinched in irritation. “Robin, could you try, just once, to be considerate of the adults in this family? This promotion is the make-or-break milestone of my career. If I’m stuck looking after you and something slips, you’ll just sulk and throw attitude for weeks.” Dad chimed in with immediate solidarity. “Exactly. Robin has an unbearable temper. Remember last year? I missed one measly parent-teacher conference, and she gave me the cold shoulder for an entire week. You’d think she was the one paying my mortgage.” Mom shook her head, putting on a show of maternal disappointment. “Chloe had just started her freshman year. Your father needed to make sure she was adjusting to high school, which is why he went to her orientation instead. Why do you always have to make everything so difficult?” I released my grip on my phone, my fingers raw, and looked straight at both of them. “Freshman year is that crucial? Then why didn’t either of you show up to mine?” Mom’s eyes flickered with a brief flash of guilt before hardening back into self-righteousness. “Your sister was in eighth grade back then—graduating middle school. Obviously, we prioritized her milestone.” Dad nodded along. “Look at you, always digging up ancient history the second someone offers constructive criticism. Eighth-grade graduation matters far more than a routine ninth-grade check-in.” Whatever appetite I had left curdled in my stomach. I set my silverware down with a heavy clatter against the porcelain. “Her middle school ceremony wasn’t even on the same night as my conference. It wasn’t even the same week.” I held their gazes until both of them looked away. “You don’t need to exhaust yourselves inventing excuses. You just didn’t care enough to show up for me. It’s really that simple.” A suffocating silence fell over the table. Mom cleared her throat, suddenly fascinated by the condensation on her water glass. Dad hurried to wash his hands of it. “Well, that was Mom’s custody year anyway. You can’t pin that on me.” Chloe tapped her butter knife against her plate. “Okay, can we stop? We barely ever sit down for a nice family dinner except for Christmas and the back-to-school swap. Why do you always have to ruin the mood, Robin? Maybe Mom was just overwhelmed with work and forgot. It was just one school meeting. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” “Just one meeting?” It had been ten years. Ten consecutive years of empty folding chairs. Even before the ink was dry on their divorce decree, my name had already begun to vanish from their calendars. Last fall, our class treasurer had pulled me aside after homeroom, her voice hushed with awkward hesitation. “Hey, Robin… I hope this doesn’t sound out of line, but I wanted to check on you. Is everything okay at home? Do you need an application for the district’s hardship fund?” I had stared at her, utterly baffled. She blushed, lowering her voice further. “A girl who went to your middle school mentioned that… well, that you don’t really have anyone at home. I just wanted to make sure you were getting meals and school supplies.” “Not having anyone at home.” A polite euphemism for an orphan. The blood had rushed to my ears—not with anger, but with an icy, hollowing grief. In all those years, through every open house, award night, and freshman drop-off, not a single classmate or teacher had ever seen my parents. My solitary existence had turned me into a subject of whispered playground lore. I knew the girl meant well, so I had forced a polite, tight smile. “I’m not an orphan. I don’t need the fund, but thank you.” That was why, last autumn, I had practically begged Dad to attend my junior year conferences. He had nodded, promised he would be there, and then, the moment he stepped onto campus, made a beeline across the quad toward the freshman building to fuss over Chloe. I had stood by the second-floor window, watching his familiar jacket disappear into the wrong wing. I watched my quiet hope wither into cold, familiar resignation. For ten years, I swallowed their absence to preserve the fragile illusion of peace in our broken family. And my reward? Being branded resentful, petty, and difficult. I was done swallowing it. A single tear slipped down my cheek, hitting the screen right over the acceptance letter from the institute in New Mexico. I swallowed the lump in my throat and let out a soft, silent breath. “It’s fine,” I told myself. “I don’t have to endure this ever again.” Neither of them noticed my red-rimmed eyes. The moment Chloe smoothed things over, they treated my grievance as officially resolved—assuming, as always, that I would fall back into line. They went right back to eating. Chloe’s plate was already piled high with the best cuts of meat. My parents were perpetually locked in an unspoken competition to prove who adored her more. “Chloe, eat the steak I cut for you. Your dad overcooked his batch.” “Don’t listen to your mother, honey, hers is practically raw in the middle. You’ll get sick.” “Chloe…” “Chloe…” Over and over, the name bounced between them like a sacred chant. Sometimes, when they spoke with their mouths full, the syllables blurred, and for a fleeting, foolish second, my heart would leap, thinking they had called for Robin. Then I would look up, only to find neither of them looking my way. Chloe hadn’t always been named Chloe. When we were little, our names were paired: Robin and Wren, rooted in the same quiet rhythm. But during the bitter divorce proceedings, Mom had threatened to give up all claim to the marital assets just to legally change my sister’s middle and last name to her own family name. They had screamed at each other right on the steps of the county courthouse. Back then, seven-year-old me had tried frantically to pull their hands apart, crying, “Mom, you can change my name! Take mine! Please stop fighting!” Mom had shoved me aside with a sharp hiss of irritation. “I don’t want your name.” I had fallen hard onto the cold concrete steps, stunned and scraped. In the end, it was Chloe’s frightened whimpers that stopped the brawl. They compromised: Chloe kept Dad’s surname, but her first name was rewritten to honor Mom’s favorite maternal aunt. Chloe. A name steeped in parental adoration. When dinner ended, Mom looped her arm affectionately through Chloe’s. She glanced back at me like an afterthought. “Your sister is moving into a new dorm suite tomorrow. Your dad’s too clumsy to pack delicate things, so I’m going over to help her set up. You’ll have to take the city bus to your school orientation in the morning.” I stopped her before she reached the exit. “Mom, you haven’t given me my senior textbook and lab fees for this semester.” Without turning around, Mom said breezily, “I already covered Chloe’s housing deposit. Ask your father for yours.” Dad scowled at her retreating back. “You always jump ahead to pay for Chloe! That was supposed to be my turn.” He pulled out his phone, grudgingly setting up the bank transfer while eyeing me with undisguised skepticism. “With that rigid, dull personality of yours, I doubt your grades are anything special anyway. Are you even going to get into a decent college? Don’t go wasting the money your mother and I break our backs to earn.” I nodded, my expression entirely blank. I was currently ranked second in our entire graduating class of six hundred. Every teacher in the building knew it. The only people on campus who had no idea were my parents. They had never cared to know. And now, they never would. … On the morning of the Senior Convocation and Family Walk, every single student had someone walking beside them. Even the kids whose parents worked long-haul trucking out of state had managed to get at least one relative into the bleachers. I was the only senior sitting entirely alone. My parents were less than a quarter-mile away, folding Chloe’s sweaters in her high school dormitory. Not one of them could spare twenty minutes to walk across the lawn for my high school milestone. Just as my row was called to line up, I spotted Mom and Dad hurrying toward the field, their faces clouded with annoyance. A neighbor from down the street waved to me from the stands, calling out cheerfully, “Robin! Your parents got a little turned around in the parking lot, but they made it!” A hollow, bitter smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. I knew the truth. They had only tagged along because they bumped into someone they knew and couldn’t bear the public embarrassment of looking like neglectful parents. Mom adjusted her sunglasses, muttering under her breath, “How long is this ceremony supposed to take? Chloe is waiting for me to bring her takeout.” Dad crossed his arms, stepping back defensively. “You’re walking Robin through the commemorative arch. She’s your responsibility this year.” Mom looked at the crowd, watching the parents pose for photos under the balloon arch, and grimaced. “I’m not doing that. It’s ridiculously cheesy, and everyone is staring. You go.” Dad sneered. “I’m not playing along with this circus.” They began arguing in harsh, muffled whispers, so completely absorbed in their petty turf war that they didn’t even hear the principal call my name over the loudspeaker. I didn’t utter a single word to break them up. I stepped right past them, squared my shoulders, and walked under the senior arch entirely alone. If it had been Chloe standing there in a cap and gown, would they have hesitated? Would they have called it a circus? Never. Not in a million years. My best friend, Bella, was waiting on the other side of the field with a cold bottle of water. When I told her what had just happened, her face flushed with fury and confusion. “I just don’t get it, Robin,” she said, her voice shaking. “How can two people be so blatantly, disgustingly biased?” I took a slow sip of water, feeling the cool liquid settle the knot in my chest. “When I was little, I thought it was my fault. I thought if I got straight A’s, never asked for new clothes, learned how to scrub the floors, and became the most obedient, invisible child in the world, they’d finally look at me.” I turned to watch the crowd laughing in the distance. “But they never changed. Not an inch. That’s when I finally understood: favoritism doesn’t follow logic. It’s just an irrational, cruel reflex.” I looked at Bella and gave her a small, steady smile. “I’m done trying to earn their love. From now on, I’m just going to pretend… that I’m an orphan.” … When the long October weekend arrived, Dad’s sedan was idling by the school gate on Friday afternoon. I stood nearby for a moment until the doors opened and the three of them emerged. Mom was carrying Chloe’s weekend tote, while Dad had Chloe’s pastel-pink duffel slung over his shoulder. The laughter they were sharing vanished the instant they clocked me standing on the sidewalk. Mom instinctively stepped in front of the car door in a defensive posture. “Robin, you like reading anyway—spend the weekend at the library. You don’t know how to swim, so coming to the beach house would just be a hazard.” I looked at her guarded stance, then at Dad, who deliberately kept his hand off the key fob so the doors stayed locked. I nearly laughed out loud. They honestly believed I was standing there to beg for an invitation to their perfect little family getaway. “I’m just here for my grocery allowance,” I said calmly. “Unless you expect me to photosynthesize while you’re out of state.” Mom let out an audible sigh of relief. She dug through her purse, then nudged Dad’s shoulder. “Russell, do you have any cash on you? Give her some. My wallet’s empty and my phone battery just died.” Dad didn’t budge. “She’s under your roof this year. Why should I pay out of pocket?” “Oh, stop it! You always try to push Robin’s expenses onto me. It’s exhausting.” As Mom shoved him in irritation, she accidentally knocked Chloe’s duffel off his shoulder. The zipper caught on Dad’s jacket, tearing open just enough to reveal what was inside. A thick, crisp band of hundred-dollar bills. At least two thousand dollars in cold, hard cash. Seeing me stare at the money, Chloe immediately snatched the bag off the pavement, hugging it tightly against her chest. “Mom gave me this bonus for improving my grades on the midterms! It has nothing to do with you, so don’t even think about asking for a cut!” Mom smoothed her hair, flustered. “Alright, Robin, head on home. I’ll Venmo you some cash once I plug my phone into the car charger.” I didn’t move. “Improving your grades? By how many points? What was your class rank?” Dad puffed out his chest proudly. “Two whole points! In a competitive class, a single point can make or break a college application. Our Chloe beat out hundreds of kids. She earned that reward.” “Two points.” A two-point bump on a sophomore exam so notoriously easy that the department average had surged by twenty points across the board. In reality, Chloe’s percentile had plummeted. Mom held a master’s degree in accounting; there was no way on earth she couldn’t read a standard distribution curve. Yet, just like every other instance of favoritism in our lives, reality didn’t matter. When they wanted to give Chloe the world, any excuse would do. Mom scowled at my silence. “Alright, wipe that sour look off your face, Robin. I checked with one of your classmates’ mothers—your score actually dropped by three points on your last calculus test. If we’re rewarding progress, then we penalize regression. By that logic, you owe us three hundred dollars.” A dry chuckle caught in my throat. On an advanced placement exam where the state average was fifty percent, my score had slipped from a ninety-nine to a ninety-six. My calculus teacher had spent three days praising my work as an example for the district. Yet standing before my parents, I was treated like a delinquent debtor. “You bothered to ask about my three-point drop,” I said quietly, “but did you bother to ask what my actual score was?” Mom waved her hand dismissively. “The woman might have mentioned it, but I was in a rush to pick up dry cleaning. It’s beside the point. We have a flight to catch. Stop acting like a parasite. I’ll send your grocery money later.” Twenty-four hours passed. Mom never sent a single cent. I sent her a text. No reply. Yet an hour later, her social media feed was updated with a ten-photo carousel of Chloe eating gelato on the boardwalk. I texted Dad. He replied instantly: [Talk to your mother.] I was used to it, of course. But the familiar, casual rejection still felt like a dull blade twisting between my ribs. Every Sunday evening, they would call each other without fail to ensure Chloe’s lunch account was funded. Whenever one of them traveled for work, they would swallow their mutual hatred to ensure Chloe had a warm bed at the other parent’s house, terrified she might spend a single night alone. They didn’t have bad memories. They weren’t incapable of responsibility. They simply didn’t love me. … During the winter holidays, the extended family gathered at my grandmother’s house for Christmas dinner. Chloe picked at her ham for five minutes before running down the street to set off sparklers with her neighborhood friends. Without her in the room, Mom and Dad immediately reignited an old war over which private SAT prep academy Chloe should attend in the spring. Their voices grew louder and more venomous by the second, until the rest of the table fell dead silent. My aunt nudged my elbow under the tablecloth. “Robin, your parents are at each other’s throats. Go say something to calm them down.” I kept shelling my shrimp, my eyes fixed on my plate. “No.” My grandmother shot me a venomous glare from the head of the table. “Your parents are about to draw blood, and you’re just sitting there stuffing your face! Have you got no heart?” “Say something.” I had tried saying something a hundred times before. Two years ago, during our annual handoff dinner, they had started screaming before the appetizers even arrived. Chloe was running late, leaving just the three of us in the private dining room. Seeing Dad raise a glass bottle, I had stepped between them, speaking in the calmest, most neutral tone I could muster. Mom had immediately whipped around and pointed a trembling finger in my face: “I’ve been feeding you all year, and you won’t even take my side? You ungrateful little traitor!” She had picked up a heavy wooden dining chair, ready to swing it. Terrified, I had stammered an apology to placate her. Behind me, Dad had let out a vicious sneer. “If you love your mother so damn much, she can keep you next year too. Suits me fine—I only ever wanted Chloe anyway.” That single sentence had lit the powder keg. “Next year is MY turn with Chloe!!” Mom had shrieked. They had lunged at each other. When I tried to pull Mom back, Dad’s flailing arm caught me squarely across the cheek. A deafening, stinging slap that knocked me onto the carpet. They had paused for exactly one second, looked down at me on the floor, and gone right back to tearing at each other’s clothes. Not one person asked if I was hurt. A few minutes later, Chloe had walked through the door. She had stood in the doorway, her eyes welling with pretty, delicate tears. She didn’t have to utter a single word. Mom dropped the chair instantly. Dad lowered his fists. Both of them rushed across the room, knocking over water glasses in their haste to dab Chloe’s cheeks with linen napkins. “Oh, baby, don’t cry! Mommy and Daddy were just having a silly disagreement. We didn’t mean to scare you.” “Come sit by Dad, honey. Look at the menu—order whatever you want.” I had lost count of how many times I ended up bruised and humiliated trying to hold their broken world together, clinging to the childish hope that if I saved them, they might finally love me back. Now, I was done. They could tear each other to pieces on the linoleum, and I wouldn’t bat an eye. My aunt nudged me again. “Robin! Do something! Look at them!” “Smack.” Dad caught Mom across the jaw with an open hand. Grandmother gasped, stomping her foot in helpless fury, glaring at me like I was a monster. “You cold-blooded little ingrate!” I took a slow, unhurried spoonful of soup. “They won’t listen to me,” I said evenly. “Wait for Chloe.” A few uncles tried to intervene, but only got cursed out for their trouble. Ten minutes later, the front door clicked open. Chloe walked in, holding a sparkler stick, and let out an exasperated sigh. “Seriously? It’s Christmas Day, guys. What are you even doing?” Mom immediately let go of Dad’s collar. Dad shook out his bruised knuckles. “Nothing, nothing, sweetheart! Just a little holiday debate,” Mom cooed, reaching into her designer bag. “Mom shouldn’t have stressed you out on Christmas. Here—take an extra fifty for your shopping trip tomorrow.” Dad pulled out his wallet too. “Go buy yourself those boots you wanted. Text me if you need more on the card.” Mom then turned to me, pulling a single, wrinkled twenty-dollar bill from her pocket and sliding it carelessly across the wood. “Robin doesn’t need much,” Mom said casually to the room. “She didn’t care at all that we were upset. No compensation needed.” I picked up the twenty, folded it in half, and tucked it into my pocket without a single word of protest. Mom blinked, clearly caught off guard by my utter lack of resistance. She stared at me for a beat, as if searching for the usual wounded look on my face, but found only blank, impenetrable glass. … When high school graduation came in June, neither of them remembered the date. I drove myself to the testing center for my AP exams. I submitted my college applications in the dark of my bedroom. When the acceptance letters rolled in—several offering full honors rides—I didn’t share the news with a soul at home. My decision had been made months ago: the prestigious research institute in the desert of New Mexico. By late August, the annual handoff ritual arrived once more. Mom practically vibrated with excitement as she packed up my boxes, entirely unable to conceal the sheer joy of shipping me off so she could welcome Chloe back. The next morning, I wheeled my suitcase out the front door at sunrise. My destination wasn’t the restaurant where they planned to swap children over brunch. It was the airport. Bella drove me to the terminal. As we waited at the gate, sipping iced coffees, she looked at me with lingering worry. “Robin, your parents treated you like a ghost your whole life. What happens when you’re successful and making six figures? What if they try to dump their retirement onto your shoulders?” I looked through the floor-to-ceiling glass at the silver jet gleaming in the morning sun, and let out a soft laugh. “Simple. We’ll settle it through court-ordered mediation.” I took a sip of my drink, feeling the cool rush of freedom in my veins. “One year with me, one year with Chloe. We’ll rotate every September, just like they did.” I just wondered when that day came, which one of them would hate being treated like an unwanted burden more.

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The nineteenth time I asked Victor for a divorce, Patrick didn’t try to stop me. Every time before, he had intervened with frantic desperation. He would pace my living room for hours, take time off work, and even march into Victor’s corner office to broker an uneasy peace between us. This time, Patrick moved with a quiet, clinical efficiency. He called the attorneys, drafted the marital dissolution agreement, and ran the legal errands himself. When it came time to sign, the eerie silence between us became too heavy to bear. I looked up from the mahogany desk and asked him why he was acting so strange. The question seemed to strike an exposed nerve. His face contorted, and his voice cracked across the room, violent and raw: “Do you have any idea that Kayla nearly had her face permanently disfigured because of you? When is this endless tantrum of yours going to stop?” Kayla. The woman Victor had been sleeping with. Seeing the shock freeze my features, Patrick let out a ragged sigh. His anger collapsed into weary resignation. “The truth is, Kayla was my junior in college. I was the one who introduced her to Victor in the first place.” He looked away, unable to meet my eyes. “All these years, I tried to make it up to you out of guilt. I fought to keep your marriage alive because I felt responsible. But I’m exhausted, Bridget.” He walked over and placed a heavy, paternal hand on my shoulder. “For my sake, just drop it. Don’t fight them anymore. Whatever they owe you, I’ll pay it back myself.” A profound, suffocating chill seeped through my limbs. In a single instant, the two pillars of my existence—the great romance of my youth and the deepest friendship of my life—crumbled into dust. It had all been an elaborate, meticulously choreographed lie. I didn’t argue. I didn’t cry. While he stood by the window looking out at the gray sky, I slowly smoothed out the crisp edges of the divorce papers. With a steady, deliberate hand, I signed my name. … The silence in the room was deafening until his phone buzzed against the glass table. The screen lit up with a single name: “Kayla”. The tension in Patrick’s shoulders instantly melted away, replaced by an instinctive softness. “Hey. Don’t worry, I’m on my way.” He hung up, slipping the phone into his coat pocket as his rehearsed composure returned. “I know you don’t actually want to go through with this,” he said, grabbing his keys off the counter. “If you did, you wouldn’t have let me talk you out of it eighteen times before. Go home. Swallow your pride, apologize to Victor, and promise you’ll leave Kayla alone. Let this nightmare end.” He didn’t wait for my answer. He strode out of the county clerk’s office, eager to be wherever she was. Outside, the sky bruised into a dark, violent slate. Within minutes, a torrential downpour slammed against the pavement. I gripped the manila envelope containing the agreement. It had been raining just like this the first time I caught Victor. I had walked into our penthouse to find a tangle of limbs, scattered silk, and the lingering scent of another woman’s perfume. When I broke down, screaming until my lungs gave out, Victor had simply buttoned his shirt, wearing an expression of mild annoyance. “It was just an itch,” he had said, pouring himself a scotch. “What are you crying for? You’re my wife. No one is ever going to take your place.” That night, I had run into the storm like a madwoman, hurling myself into the swollen river by the harbor. It was Patrick who dove into the freezing black water, risking his own life to drag me back to the shore. He had held me on the wet gravel, sobbing against my hair. “He’s just playing around, Bridget. I swear to you, I will make him see reason. I will bring him back to you.” In the years that followed, as Victor’s infidelities became bolder, I went through every stage of grief and madness—slitting my wrists, standing on hotel balconies, wishing for our mutual destruction. And every single time, Patrick had been the anchor. He had stitched my wounds, hidden the sleeping pills, and promised me that Victor would change. Victor never changed. One was the man I gave my youth to; the other was the brother who knew every dark corner of my soul. They were the two people who used to have screaming matches over whether my dinner had too much garlic because they both knew my sensitive stomach. When bullies threw rocks at me in high school, one would shield my body while the other chased them down the block. Now, they were both standing on the other side of a chasm, protecting the same woman while tearing me apart. My hands began to tremble with the familiar, sickening onset of an anxiety attack. I pressed my nails into my palms until the pain anchored me, took a long, steady breath, and walked out into the rain. From this moment on, no one was coming to save me. I had to save myself. When I returned to the empty house, a massive velvet jewelry box was sitting squarely on the dining table. This was Victor’s signature move after every divorce threat. No apologies. No explanations. Just a courier delivering a five-figure trinket from Tiffany’s the following afternoon, bought with the casual indifference of a man tipping a valet. I approached the table and lifted the lid. A heavy, cabochon ruby necklace stared back at me. Its deep, arterial crimson burned into my retinas, and my stomach violently heaved. I barely made it to the sink before throwing up bile. When I was sixteen, my mother was branded a homewrecker by the entire town. To prove her innocence, she walked to the roof of our apartment building and stepped off into the open air. Her blood had painted the asphalt below in that exact shade of crimson. Ever since that day, red had been my waking nightmare. Shaking, I slammed the box shut. I pulled out my phone and dialed Victor’s private line. Usually, he picked up within three rings. This time, it rang into voicemail. One minute. Thirty minutes. An hour. My call log filled with unanswered attempts. I couldn’t sit in the quiet house any longer. I opened the vehicle tracking app synced to our family account, grabbed the divorce papers and my car keys, and walked out the door. The GPS led me forty miles outside the city, to a sprawling, gated estate tucked behind private woodland—the sanctuary Victor had secretly purchased for Kayla. As I reached the wrought-iron gates, two private security guards stepped out of the guardhouse, blocking the driveway. “Private property, ma’am. Turn around.” The perimeter was reinforced with high fences and surveillance cameras, as if guarding against a siege. I clutched the manila folder tightly against my chest. “I’m here to see Victor. I’m his wife.” The guards exchanged an amused, contemptuous glance. “Save the fairy tales,” the taller one sneered. “Everyone knows Mr. Langston’s wife is the lady living inside. Look at you—soaked, plain, no makeup. You think anyone’s buying that?” I pressed my lips together and stood my ground, refusing to budge. Moments later, an older man in a tailored suit walked down the stone path from the main villa. He leaned in and whispered something into the guards’ ears. The guard’s expression hardened. He unclipped a heavy baton from his belt. “Boss says he doesn’t know any Bridget. Get the hell off the property before we remove you by force.” Before I could speak, they shoved me hard. My heels caught on the wet gravel, and I crashed to the ground, scraping my palms. One of them raised his baton, stepping forward to intimidate me. “Screeech—” The sharp shriek of tires cut through the rain. A black sedan skidded to a halt just inches from the gate. Patrick threw the driver’s door open and sprinted toward me, hoisting me up by my elbows. “You nearly ruined Kayla’s life, Bridget! You know Victor doesn’t want to see you right now—why do you have to humiliate yourself like this?” I clenched my jaw, staring through him in icy silence. He looked at my bleeding palms, groaned under his breath, and muttered, “Fine. Follow me.” The guards stood down immediately, swinging the heavy gates open. Patrick guided me past the manicured lawns and through the towering mahogany double doors into the grand hall. The moment I stepped inside, the breath caught in my throat. The room was glowing with crystal chandeliers. Men in bespoke tuxedos and women in champagne silk drifted across the marble floor, laughing over flutes of vintage Dom Pérignon. And in the center of the hall, resting on an ornate gilded easel, was a life-sized portrait of Victor and Kayla in full wedding attire. It was an informal reception. A sham wedding. The room was filled with our old college friends, corporate partners, and distant relatives—people who had once whispered viciously behind Kayla’s back about her being a shameless mistress. Today, they were all lining up with beaming smiles, raising their glasses to toast the happy couple. Across the room, Victor’s eyes found mine. His glass paused halfway to his lips. He stiffened, handed his drink to a server, and pushed through the murmuring crowd toward me. “Did Patrick bring you here?” he asked, his voice low and tight. I stayed silent. He pinched the bridge of his nose, exhaling a heavy breath. “Bridget, Kayla has stood by me for years without a ring. After that scare with her health, she just wanted a celebration to lift her spirits. It’s a symbolic party. Please, don’t ruin this for her.” He reached out, his hand instinctively moving to stroke my hair in that old, patronizing way of his. I jerked my head back, dodging his touch. His hand hovered awkwardly in the air. In an instant, the gentle mask slipped, replaced by raw disdain. “Tell me what you want this time,” he said coldly. “A new diamond suite? The penthouse in Tribeca? Another two percent of the company shares?” A sharp, familiar pain stabbed at my heart. Over the years, every time I caught him and demanded a way out, Patrick was always there in my ear: “If you want to keep a powerful man in check, you have to hit his balance sheet. Bleed him dry so he knows your worth.” So I had let Patrick negotiate astronomical settlements on my behalf after every betrayal. Victor had paid every cent, but with every wire transfer, his respect for me had withered into pure disgust. I gripped the divorce folder, ready to end it. Before I could speak, a blur of white silk charged out from the crowd. “Slap!” The blow was vicious, snapping my head to the side. A hot, metallic sting bloomed across my cheek. Kayla stood before me, her eyes rimmed with angry red tears, her chest heaving in her couture gown. “What right do you have to come here?” she hissed, her voice shaking with venom. “You really are your mother’s daughter. A vile, parasitic little homewrecker who ruins everything she touches.” The word hit me like a physical blow, knocking the air from my lungs. My vision blurred with sudden, burning heat. “My mother was not a homewrecker!” Victor stepped between us, using his broad frame to shield Kayla completely. He glared down at me, his eyes full of venom. “Enough! When will you stop this pathetic circus?” The disgust radiating from him was palpable, suffocating the air around us. Before I could even find my voice, a heavy hand shoved me backward. I stumbled, looking up to see Patrick standing in front of Victor and Kayla. He was wearing a matching groomsman’s tuxedo, looking down at me with cold, detached eyes. “Her family,” Patrick said quietly, “was the family your mother destroyed.” The entire room seemed to drop into absolute zero. I stared at Patrick. Then at Victor. Then at Kayla. When I was in tenth grade, my mother married a seemingly gentle man, only to discover months later that he was already married with a wife and a young daughter. No matter how much my mother cried that she had been deceived, the town labeled her a whore. The day the man’s legal wife showed up at our door with a mob of relatives, screaming insults, my mother threw herself off the fifth-floor balcony. The man fled the state and was never seen again. In the aftermath, the rumor that I was the spawn of a homewrecker spread through high school like wildfire. Kids dumped rotting garbage into my locker. They drew thick red crosses over my test papers. People pointed at me in the hallways: “Like mother, like daughter. She’s dirty.” I sank into a depression so deep I stopped eating, stopped speaking, stopped leaving my bed. It was Patrick who came to my house, pulled me out from under the covers, bathed me, and forced clothes onto my trembling body. It was Victor who walked me to and from school every single day, confronting anyone who stared: “Did you see it with your own eyes? Or did your dad cheat on your mom too?” He made people choke on their own cruelty until they finally looked away. The night we graduated, Victor asked me to be his. Before I could even answer, Patrick was crying tears of pure joy. He grabbed Victor’s lapels and choked out: “Victor, you know what she’s been through. Swear to God you will never let anyone make her feel like an outcast again.” And Victor, nineteen years old and full of fiery devotion, dropped to one knee in the dirt and swore to the stars: “I will spend my whole life loving Bridget. If I ever betray her, may I lose everything.” We had an unbreakable bond back then. The three of us against the world. We shared a damp basement apartment, split five-dollar deli sandwiches, and built Victor’s media empire line by line, late into the night. And then, five years ago, Kayla appeared out of nowhere. Everything began to rot from the inside out, slowly, quietly, until nothing was left. I could never understand why Victor had chosen her. Why Patrick had always seemed so strangely tolerant of her existence. Now, the puzzle pieces fell into place with brutal clarity. “So…” My voice was barely a whisper, shaking so hard it fractured. “Kayla is the daughter of the man who killed my mother?” Patrick subtly shifted, blocking Kayla further from my view. “No one killed your mother, Bridget. Kayla told me the whole truth years ago.” He looked at me with an eerie, self-righteous pity. “It was your mother who seduced her father and tore their family apart. Kayla grew up shuttled between foster homes and abusive relatives. She had a far harder life than you ever did.” My lips trembled violently. “And you felt so sorry for her… that you introduced her to my husband?” Patrick flinched. He looked down, unable to meet my eyes, but he offered no defense. “That’s enough,” Victor interjected coldly. “Even if Patrick hadn’t introduced us, I would have fallen in love with Kayla eventually.” Looking at Victor’s unwavering, protective stance, a sound tore from my throat—a low, broken laugh that dissolved into silent, streaming tears. They watched me warily. The moment my hand reached into my leather bag to pull out the paperwork, Victor panicked. “Stop her!” he barked at the security guards. “Don’t let her hurt Kayla!” Four burly men tackled me instantly, slamming me face-first onto the cold marble floor. Knees dug into my spine; heavy hands pinned my arms. The physical pain was sharp, but it was nothing compared to the violent, hollow tearing inside my chest. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood pooling in my mouth, gasping for air against the polished stone. “Victor… I came here to give you the divorce.” Victor froze. He looked down at me, his brow furrowing in irritation. “Bridget, when are you going to grow up?” To him, this was just another scene in an exhausted script. Every suicide attempt, every shattered glass, every threat—in his mind, it had all been an elaborate cry for attention, an audition to be coaxed back into his arms by Patrick. He didn’t know that this time, the thread had snapped forever. The guards loosened their grip, and I slowly pushed myself up, wiping the blood from the corner of my lip. “The jewelry, the townhouses, the cars—I don’t want any of it,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “I just want the papers signed.” Victor’s arm tightened around Kayla. “I’m not signing anything. What is this, reverse psychology? Another game?” Kayla wiped a manufactured tear from her cheek. “Victor… you promised me you’d give me a real home.” Victor paused, his voice softening as he stroked her arm. “Hush. I promised you my heart, and I promised her the title. Nothing changes.” Kayla turned her face away in rehearsed, fragile heartbreak. I didn’t flinch. I reached back into my bag and pulled out a separate legal document, holding it out toward him. “You’ve been trying to buy out my founder shares in the company for two years,” I said evenly. “Sign the divorce decree, and the eight percent voting equity is yours. Free of charge.” Patrick lunged forward, grabbing my wrist. “Are you out of your mind? You earned those shares when we built the startup from scratch! You give that up, and you leave with nothing!” I didn’t look at Patrick. I kept my eyes fixed on Victor. “I know you’re in the final round of the municipal tech bidding against Leona Caldwell’s conglomerate,” I said. “With my shares consolidated into your portfolio, you’ll have uncontested board control. It’s what you need to win.” Victor stared at the document, his dark eyes narrowing into sharp slits. “Bridget, I’ll sign. But if this is another one of your stunts—” “Victor,” I interrupted, staring straight into the hollow center of his soul. “Let me go. And let yourself go. I’m too tired to keep drowning.” Something in my tone—the absolute, dead emptiness of it—seemed to rattle him. He snatched the pen from his inside pocket, dragged the divorce papers onto the nearest high-top table, and scrawled his signature with aggressive, slashing strokes. “There. It’s done.” He threw the papers directly into my face. The white sheets fluttered through the air, grazing my skin before scattering across the marble. “Now get out,” he sneered. “Let’s see how long you survive in the real world without the Langston name. I give you a month before you come crawling back on your knees, begging me to take you back.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t shed a single tear. I knelt down, gathered every scattered page with calm, methodical precision, tucked them into my bag, and turned toward the exit. Behind me, Patrick’s frantic footsteps echoed across the hall. “Bridget! Stop! Are you insane? How are you going to live without Victor?” He reached out to grab my shoulder. “I didn’t stop you this one time—did you really have to blow up your entire life out of spite?” “Let her walk,” Victor’s cold, authoritative voice boomed from the center of the room. “We’ve sheltered her for too long. Let her taste the cold outside. Maybe then she’ll finally understand how good she had it.” My footsteps paused for a fraction of a second. He was wrong. My world had never been stormy until they entered it. Every drop of rain, every hurricane, every scar I bore had been brought into my life by the very people who claimed to protect me. I walked out the front doors and never looked back. Back at the penthouse, I packed my life into a single suitcase. The framed photographs from our high school graduation, the postcards we sent each other during college road trips, the mementos of the three musketeers—I left every single one behind. A few changes of simple clothes. My passport. My legal documents. In a home that had gradually been overwritten by Kayla’s tastes, my presence was already a ghost. Packing took less than twenty minutes. I wheeled my suitcase to the private airfield on the north side of the city. Waiting beside a sleek Gulfstream was a sharp-looking woman in a charcoal suit. “Mrs. Langston,” she said, nodding politely. “Ms. Caldwell is grateful for the assist. Everything for your relocation has been arranged. I can assure you, unless you choose to be found, Victor Langston will never cross your path again.” I offered a quiet nod of thanks, powered down my phone, and climbed the airstair into the cabin. Two hours later, the jet touched down in Chicago. The moment I switched my phone back on, a violent avalanche of missed calls and unread messages flooded the screen.

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My wife’s college sweetheart just flew back into the country. The entire family was looking at me like I was already a corpse waiting to be hauled out. My mother-in-law didn’t even flinch as she made up the master guest suite right in front of me, dropping the spare key into the man’s waiting hand. And me? I poured him a glass of bourbon, looked him dead in the eye, and said with complete, unadulterated sincerity: “Man, I’ve been waiting for you.” I have been stuck inside this trashy romance novel for three years. For three long years, I have dreamed of returning the female lead to her rightful owner. If this guy could pack up my ice-queen wife and take her off my hands, I’d gladly drop to my knees and thank him. After all, the girl who actually belongs to me in this world is still waiting. 1 My name is Jeff. Three years ago, I woke up with a pounding headache only to realize I had transmigrated into a melodrama about a cutthroat corporate dynasty, cast in the thankless role of the female lead’s contract husband. The terms were written in cold, indisputable black and white: a three-year term, zero physical intimacy, complete non-interference, automatic dissolution upon expiration. My wife was Vicky Townsend, the undisputed queen of the city’s corporate elite. Vicky was colder than a meat locker. In three years, if you stitched together every single word she had ever spoken to me, it wouldn’t fill a single sheet of printer paper. As for my character’s backstory, I was an absolute nobody. I’d happened to pull Vicky’s grandfather out of a bad car wreck, and in a fit of old-money eccentric gratitude, the patriarch had forced his granddaughter to marry me. In the original plot, the original Jeff was a pathetic fool. Right before the three-year contract was set to expire, Vicky’s one true love returned—Adrian Pierce, an Ivy League-pedigreed golden boy and the only man who had ever cracked Vicky’s icy exterior during their college days. The original Jeff made the classic, fatal mistake: he couldn’t let go. He stalked them. He threw temper tantrums in public. He picked fights with Adrian at high-society galas. The payoff? He was kicked out of the Townsend estate without a dime, his reputation was thoroughly dragged through the mud, he was blacklisted from every job in the city, and he eventually drank himself to death in a rat-infested studio apartment. A textbook cannon-fodder ending. The very first morning I woke up in this body, I made up my mind: I didn’t want this marriage. I had zero interest in fighting over the female lead. My game plan was simple: keep my head down, wait out the remaining months of the contract, stash away every penny of my modest allowance, and walk away clean to find the one person written into this story who actually mattered to me. Her name was Josie. She was a minor side character in the book—gentle, sharp, and the owner of a quiet little neighborhood bakery. In the original text, her fate was tragic: a corrupt real estate mogul bought up her block, jacked up the rent, and crushed her life’s work just to force her out. I needed to find her before that happened. I needed to protect her. “That” was my real quest. As for the star-crossed romance between Vicky Townsend and Adrian Pierce? Not my circus, not my monkeys. So when Vicky stood in our sprawling, minimalist living room and told me without a shred of emotion, “Adrian is coming back next week,” I had to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from grinning. “Oh? That’s great news,” I said, putting down my phone. “Need me to pick him up from the airport? I’m a pretty smooth driver.” Vicky looked at me. It was a look reserved for someone trying to determine whether a stray dog was rabid or just profoundly stupid. “That won’t be necessary.” She turned on her heel and glided upstairs. I sat back on the Italian leather sofa, rubbing my palms together. “It’s happening.” The plot was finally moving forward. Three years of playing a houseplant in this marble tomb, and the finish line was in sight. “Hurry up and get here, Adrian. Sweep your queen off her feet. I’ll roll out the red carpet, hire a brass band, and hold the door open for you—just get it done.” The next morning, my mother-in-law, Marian, swept into the house like a cold front. Her attitude toward me over the past three years had been consistent: she treated me like oxygen. Or rather, worse than oxygen. Oxygen served a biological purpose; I was merely occupying square footage that could have held an antique vase. The moment she crossed the threshold, she began barking orders at the housekeeper. “Change the duvet to Egyptian cotton. Fresh white lilies in the vase—no roses, Adrian is sensitive to strong floral scents.” She orchestrated every minute detail like a field general preparing for royalty. Then, her gaze drifted down to me. “Jeff, clear out your study.” “Clear out what?” “Adrian needs an office while he stays here. He can’t very well be expected to work from a laptop on the coffee table.” I paused for two seconds. Not because I was offended, but because I was actively fighting a belly laugh. “Lady, the guy hasn’t even cleared customs yet and you’re already evicting me from the furniture?” “Sure thing,” I said, standing up easily. “I’ll have my stuff boxed up in twenty minutes.” Marian blinked, visibly unsettled by how cheerfully I’d agreed. I flashed her a helpful smile. “Tell you what, do you want my bedroom too? I can crash on the sectional downstairs. It pulls out. No problem at all.” Marian’s lip twitched with pure, unadulterated disdain. I knew that face. It was the look of a high-society matriarch confronted with a son-in-law whose complete lack of pride was practically suffocating. Little did she know, I was practically setting off fireworks in my head. 2 Adrian’s flight touched down on a crisp Saturday afternoon. I actually went to the airport. Not because Vicky asked me to, but because I volunteered. My buddy Hank was screaming into my ear over Bluetooth the entire drive to the terminal. “Are you out of your damn mind? You’re personally chauffeuring your wife’s ex-boyfriend from the airport? What kind of cuckold fantasy is this, Jeff?” “You don’t get it,” I said, tapping the steering wheel to the rhythm of the radio, in the best mood I’d been in all year. “It’s called customer service. If I welcome the guy with open arms, then when he rides off into the sunset with my wife, we can part ways with dignity and mutual respect.” There was a five-second silence on the other end. “Jeff, man… have you just accepted being a doormat as a lifestyle choice?” I hung up on him. When the passengers began trickling through international arrivals, I spotted Adrian immediately. The author’s original description was spot on: six-foot-one, clean-cut features with a tailored, academic elegance, wire-rimmed glasses, and an impossibly crisp oxford shirt that seemed immune to the laws of long-haul turbulence. Five years abroad at Oxford had given him that effortless, old-money aura. I stepped forward to meet him. “Mr. Pierce? I’m Jeff. Vicky’s—” I paused, flashing a disarming grin. “—roommate.” Adrian stopped pushing his luggage cart and gave me a long, evaluating look. It was subtle, but there was a flicker of condescending curiosity behind his lenses. “Ah, so this is the little charity case.” “Jeff. A pleasure,” he said, extending a hand. His grip was firm, measured, impeccably polite. “Vicky mentioned you.” “Mentioned me?” I’d bet my life savings she hadn’t wasted more than four words on the topic: “There’s a guy living here.” “Let me take that bag,” I said, hauling his Hartmann suitcase into the trunk of my SUV. On the drive back, I played the genial host, throwing out easy conversational softballs—his research fellowship in London, the new skyline developments in the city, the unseasonably mild weather. Adrian didn’t say much, but he was courteous. His voice was a calm, low baritone, radiating the kind of effortless charisma that made people instinctively lean in. I totally got why Vicky fell for him back in the day. If I were a woman, I’d probably be swooning too. When we pulled into the driveway, Vicky was already standing in the foyer. I caught a detail right away: she had changed. For three years, Vicky’s domestic wardrobe consisted entirely of sharp monochrome—black slacks, charcoal cashmere, crisp white blouses. Today, she wore a soft, slate-blue knit dress. Her long hair, usually scraped back into an immaculate corporate bun, fell loose over her shoulders. I pretended not to notice, stepping aside to hold the heavy front door. “After you.” Adrian stepped inside, and the second his eyes landed on Vicky, his stride hitched. “Vicky.” Vicky gave a small nod. “You must be exhausted. Your room is ready.” Just a few words. Yet I caught the faint, rosy flush creeping up the tips of her ears. “Case closed.” My work here was practically done. I could already taste my freedom. Dinner that evening was cooked entirely by Marian herself. A five-course spread: pan-seared sea bass, garlic butter prawns, roasted asparagus, wild rice pilaf. In the three years I had lived under this roof, the woman hadn’t so much as poured me a glass of tap water. Tonight, even the silverware was aligned to the millimeter, the best vintage was uncorked, and the soup tureen was placed within easiest reach of Adrian’s elbow. I sat at the far corner of the table, happily stuffing my face with sea bass. Marian spent the entire meal fawning over Adrian. “You look so thin, Adrian. The food in England must have been dreadful.” “Don’t work yourself to the bone, darling. Health comes first.” “Vicky has been carrying the entire firm on her shoulders these past few years… not a single person around her she can actually lean on…” On that last sentence, she shot me a venomous side-eye. The subtext was painted in neon: “You, Jeff, are a useless piece of decorative junk, while Adrian is the partner my daughter actually deserves.” I chewed on a mouthful of sea bass. It was flaky, buttery, and seasoned to perfection. My first time tasting my mother-in-law’s cooking, and honestly? Four stars. Adrian, to his credit, had manners. Whenever Marian tried to use him as a bludgeon to belittle me, he smoothly deflected. “Marian, this bass is incredible. The searing is absolute perfection.” A classy guy. Halfway through dinner, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I slipped it out under the rim of the table. A notification from a local food app popped up: [Josie’s Hearth Bakery • Weekend Special: Chestnut Mont Blanc Tart, limited run for three days.] A faint smile tugged at the corner of my mouth. Her shop was a twenty-minute drive from the estate. I made a mental note. “Jeff?” Vicky’s cool voice sliced through my thoughts. I looked up. “Yeah?” “There’s a corporate dinner with our overseas clients tomorrow night,” she said evenly. “You don’t need to attend.” In the past, she would occasionally drag me along to these galas as a nominal husband to fend off unwanted suitors. Now that Adrian was back, her arm candy had received an immediate, massive upgrade. “Understood,” I said instantly. No hesitation. No drama. Vicky stared at me, her dark brows knitting together into a faint line. I knew that expression. Whenever I complied too quickly, whenever I acted like I genuinely didn’t give a damn, she would look at me like that. Like she was trying to spot the trap. Like she couldn’t comprehend why a man in my position wasn’t groveling. She didn’t press it, though. She just lowered her eyes and took a sip of her white wine. I laid my napkin across my plate and pushed my chair back. “I’m all set. I’ll come down and do the dishes in a bit. Take your time, guys.” As I walked out of the dining room, I could feel two pairs of eyes burning into the back of my neck. One belonged to Vicky. The other belonged to Adrian. I didn’t turn around. My mind was already focused on plotting the best driving route to Josie’s bakery tomorrow afternoon to score that limited-edition chestnut tart. 3 The next afternoon, I cut out of work early. To be fair, my job at Townsend Enterprises was purely decorative. I held a title as a “Planning Consultant”—I showed up three days a week, sat in an air-conditioned office, and nobody ever assigned me a single task. The entire building knew I was the CEO’s contract spouse; no one dared cross me, but nobody took me seriously either. It suited me just fine. I pulled my car up to the curb outside Josie’s bakery. It was a small, unassuming storefront tucked into the corner of a leafy, bohemian neighborhood. Warm amber light spilled through the paned windows, and the sign above the door was carved in simple, rustic wood: “Josie’s Hearth”. I pushed the door open. A small brass bell chimed overhead. Behind the counter stood a girl with her hair tied back in a messy ponytail, a smudge of white flour dusting the front of her denim apron. She was leaning over a prep table, carefully piping delicate ribbons of cream onto a pastry. Josie. I had read the descriptions of her in the novel countless times. She wasn’t the kind of woman whose beauty knocked the breath out of you from across the room like Vicky; she was the kind of person who made the room feel instantly warmer. Soft features, warm hazel eyes, and a faint, sweet dimple when she smiled. She looked up, giving me an easy, welcoming smile. “Afternoon! Table for one?” “Yeah,” I said, walking up to the glass display. “Do you still have the Chestnut Mont Blanc?” “You’re in luck,” she said, setting down her piping bag and wiping her hands on a clean towel. “Got the last two in the back. Perfect timing.” I grabbed a small wooden table by the window. Sunlight streamed through the glass, warming my sleeves. Sitting here felt light-years away from the sterile, museum-like chill of the Townsend mansion. When Josie brought the tart over on a ceramic plate, I noticed a flesh-colored bandage wrapped around her right wrist. “Burn?” I asked quietly. She glanced down at her wrist and gave a dismissive wave. “Just a splash of hot caramel. Occupational hazard. Nothing serious.” I didn’t pry. I picked up my dessert fork and took a bite of the Mont Blanc. The chestnut purée was silky and earthy, the whipped cream light as air, the sweetness perfectly calibrated. “Incredible,” I murmured. Behind the counter, she caught my praise, and her eyes crinkled. “Thank you.” I ate slowly, taking in the rhythm of the shop. Three o’clock on a Tuesday. Foot traffic was sparse. In the forty minutes I sat there, only four people walked in: two grabbed takeout coffees and left, one teenager spent half an hour taking selfies with a single cupcake before leaving, and besides me, there was only one other paying customer. This volume was unsustainable. The novel had laid it out plainly: Josie’s bakery managed to survive on razor-thin margins for two years, but when a commercial developer tied to the main villain acquired the adjacent properties, they intentionally choked out the independent tenants with predatory rent hikes. She was forced to shutter her doors in tears. According to the timeline, that crisis was still six months away. I still had time. When I went up to settle the bill, I picked up one of the business cards resting beside the register. “Do you do custom catering? Corporate events, private orders?” Josie poked her head out from behind the espresso machine. “We do! We just need about three days’ notice. Birthdays, small corporate mixers, custom dessert bars—anything you need.” “Good to know,” I said, slipping the card into my wallet. When I stepped back onto the sidewalk, the afternoon sun was beginning to dip, casting long, golden shadows across the pavement. I took a deep breath of the crisp air. Sweet. The air genuinely smelled like vanilla and toasted sugar. “This” was the life I wanted. Not playing an invisible ghost in a billionaire’s mansion. Not dodging the cold glares of an overbearing mother-in-law. Not being a front-row spectator to someone else’s destined romance. My phone rang. Hank’s name flashed across the screen. “Yo. Beers tonight?” “I’m in,” I said. “The usual dive?” “See you in twenty.” 4 Our usual spot was a smoky neighborhood barbecue joint down an alley off 4th Street. By the time I slid into the booth, Hank had already ordered a pitcher of IPA and a mountain of charred skewers. Hank was the only real friend I’d made since waking up in this world. He wasn’t part of the original book; he was just an architect I met at a hardware store two years ago who talked too much, cared too much, and had no filter after two drinks. He shoved a frosted glass across the table. “Alright, spill. What’s the deal with the fancy Ivy League ex? Is he actually sleeping under your roof?” “He is.” “He’s in your guest room, sleeping down the hall, actively trying to get with your wife. And you’re just sitting there passing the butter?” I took a bite of a lamb skewer. “Vicky and I signed a three-year contract, Hank. It’s up in four months. Adrian coming back is great—it speeds up the timeline, and I get my life back early.” Hank stared at me like I was speaking Martian. “Why do you always talk like you’re reading from a script? What the hell does ‘speeds up the timeline’ mean?” I caught myself. Right—he didn’t know I was living in a paperback novel. “Figure of speech,” I said, taking a long pull from my beer. “I mean we don’t have feelings for each other. Her heart belongs to someone else, and my heart… well, I’ve got my own priorities. Splitting up is a win-win.” Hank chewed slowly, his eyes narrowing as he processed my words. Suddenly, his eyebrows shot up. “Wait a second. “Your” heart belongs to someone else? Who? Since when? You dirty dog, you’ve been holding out on me!” I couldn’t help a grin. “Not yet. Timing isn’t right.” “Unbelievable,” he muttered, shaking his head and draining half his glass. “Alright, let me ask you one real question, Jeff. Be honest with me. In three whole years… you really never felt a single spark for Vicky?” I went quiet for a moment. I thought about it. Genuinely thought about it. Vicky Townsend was, objectively speaking, an extraordinary woman. Breathtakingly beautiful, brutally competent, poised under pressure. The problem was—she wasn’t written for me. Every internal monologue, every romantic beat, every soft vulnerability the author had penned for Vicky was reserved exclusively for Adrian Pierce. To her, I was a placeholder. A decorative chess piece used to satisfy her grandfather’s dying wish. “No,” I said, setting my glass on the sticky table. “Not even once.” Hank searched my eyes for several seconds, looking for a crack in the armor. Finally, he let out a heavy sigh. “Man. You’re cold as ice.” It wasn’t coldness. It was survival. The cardinal sin for any transmigrator is getting high on your own supply—confusing someone else’s scripted romance with your own reality. The original Jeff died because he couldn’t accept that he was an extra in someone else’s love story. I refused to make that mistake. We finished the pitcher around nine, and I drove home under the streetlights. When I unlocked the front door, the living room lights were dimmed to a soft glow. Vicky and Adrian were sitting on the sectional together, separated by a single decorative pillow, each holding a glass of pinot noir. The flat-screen was playing a nature documentary at a low volume. The composition was picture-perfect. High-class domestic harmony. I kicked off my sneakers by the door. “Evening.” Vicky turned her head, her nose twitching faintly. “Have you been drinking?” “Grabbed barbecue with a buddy. Had a couple of beers. Nothing crazy.” “Don’t you have to go into the office tomorrow?” “I’ll be there.” She didn’t say anything else, turning her gaze back toward the screen. Adrian offered me a polite, easy smile. “Jeff, care to join us? It’s a fascinating piece on deep-sea ecosystems.” “I’m good, thanks. Heading up,” I said, offering a casual wave before taking the stairs two at a time. Behind the closed door of my bedroom, I looked at myself in the bathroom mirror. My jacket smelled faintly of woodsmoke and cumin; my hair was windswept and messy. Downstairs, the two of them looked like an ad for an upscale private bank. The contrast was stark. And I couldn’t care less. Honestly, I wished they’d hurry up. I wished they’d skip the slow-burn tension, confess their undying love tomorrow, file the paperwork the next day, and let me pack my bags by Friday. Unfortunately, romance novels don’t work like that. In the original plot, Adrian’s return kicked off a three-month dance of emotional hesitation. Vicky spent weeks wrestling with her pride and her past before finally breaking down on a rainy night, confessing her feelings, and demanding a divorce. Three months. Not too long, not too short. I could wait. Because in those three months, I had my own work to do: get close to Josie, build her trust, and set the board so that when the developer came for her shop, we’d be ready to strike back. I lay on my bed and pulled out my phone. I pinned “Josie’s Hearth” to the top of my maps. Then I set a recurring alarm for 3:00 PM every weekday—right when the bakery hit its afternoon lull. Time to become a regular. 5 For the next two weeks, I showed up at “Josie’s Hearth” like clockwork. During the first week, Josie treated me like any other polite customer. “The usual? Mont Blanc?” “Let’s switch it up today. Tiramisu.” “Coming right up.” By the second week, she had memorized my quirks. The moment I pushed the door open, she’d already have an iced Americano waiting—no syrup, light ice. “What exactly do you do for a living?” she asked one afternoon, resting her elbows on the counter. “I’ve never seen someone under thirty with this much free time on a Tuesday.” “Let’s call it semi-retired.” “Semi-retired? You look twenty-seven.” “Just good luck, I guess.” She let out a soft laugh, then quickly caught herself, looking slightly embarrassed. That faint dimple flashed on her cheek. “This girl isn’t a minor character,” I thought to myself. “She’s a hidden treasure.” I didn’t rush things. In the book, Josie was naturally reserved, instinctively wary of men who came on too strong. If I showed up playing the white knight, she’d put her guard up. I had to play the long game. Become a friend first. Earn her trust. Make my presence a comforting, constant fixture in her day. You can’t microwave real connection. Luckily, time was the one thing I had in abundance. That Thursday afternoon, I was at my usual table by the window. Josie was behind the counter kneading a batch of brioche dough. Aside from me, the only other customer was a young mother reading a picture book to her toddler in the corner. It was peaceful. Then the front door was pushed open with unnecessary force. The brass bell didn’t chime; it clattered violently against the frame. A man in a sharp, slick grey suit walked in, his hair slicked back with too much pomade, followed closely by an assistant carrying a leather portfolio. He didn’t glance at the menu. He walked straight to the counter. “Josie Lin?” Josie looked up, wiping flour from her hands with a dry towel. “Yes. Can I help you?” “My name is Paul Briggs. Apex Properties.” He slid an embossed business card across the counter. “We acquired the two retail spaces adjacent to yours last month. We’re going to be neighbors. I’m here today to discuss a transition plan.” Josie took the card, her expression tightening. “What kind of transition?” Briggs offered a practiced, predatory smile, tapping the counter with his manicured fingers. “To put it simply, Apex is redeveloping this entire strip into a high-end lifestyle corridor. Your current footprint falls squarely within our phase-one master plan.” “And?” “And when your current commercial lease expires, the renewal terms will reflect the updated market valuation of the district.” He spoke with polished politeness. But the words “updated valuation” were code for economic eviction. Josie’s hands clenched into the dough on the prep board, flattening it out of shape. “My lease still has eight months left on it.” “Indeed. Which is why I’m here early, as a courtesy,” Briggs said smoothly. “Of course, if you’re open to vacating early to accommodate our construction timeline, Apex is prepared to offer a very reasonable buyout package.” “I don’t understand what you mean by ‘accommodating.’” “I mean breaking your lease early and moving out.” He said it so casually, as if he were doing her a massive personal favor. Josie drew in a sharp, quiet breath. “Mr. Briggs, I have no intention of leaving early. I poured every cent I have into opening this shop. There is no reason for me to walk away.” Briggs’s smile vanished. He stared at her for two cold seconds. “Ms. Lin, I suggest you think it over carefully. When Apex takes on a project, we see it through to the end.” He turned on his heel and strode out, his assistant trailing behind him. The door swung shut, the bell rattling once more. The sound felt sharp and ugly in the quiet room. Josie remained standing behind the counter, her small hands clutching the dough so hard her knuckles were white. I set down my coffee cup, stood up, and walked over to the counter. “You alright?” She looked up, forcing a brittle, defensive smile. “I’m fine. Just a corporate guy throwing his weight around.” Her lower lashes were glistening. The plot had moved up. Two whole months earlier than in the book. Apex Properties was a shell company owned by Victor Croft—a ruthless developer with deep, dirty ties to local zoning boards. Croft had gotten insider wind of a planned subway extension along this avenue and was aggressively clearing out independent shop owners at rock-bottom prices so he could flip the unified parcel to a mega-developer. In the original novel, Josie held out alone for two agonizing months before the pressure broke her, forcing her to pack her kitchen into cardboard boxes. Not this time. I was here now. And I wasn’t going to let that ending happen. “Josie,” I said softly. She looked at me. “Your pastries are genuinely the best in the city. I’m planning on being a customer for a very long time,” I paused, leaning slightly against the wooden counter. “Also, I know a few local food influencers and lifestyle editors. Would you be open to doing some promo collabs?” She blinked, caught off guard. “You… you know food bloggers?” “Friends of friends. Let me make a few calls and set something up.” Josie looked at me, her hazel eyes searching mine, something bright and fragile flickering in her gaze. “Thank you, Jeff.” “Just doing my civic duty to protect my favorite bakery,” I smiled. That was step one. 6 By the time I drove back to the Townsend estate, dusk had settled. As soon as I stepped through the double mahogany doors, I realized the living room was packed. Vicky, Adrian, Marian, and Vicky’s uncle, Richard Townsend. The air was heavy enough to cut with a steak knife. Marian’s lip curled the second she saw me. Uncle Richard, at least, offered a polite nod—he was a mild-mannered corporate director who preferred keeping the peace, always careful to maintain decorum. “Ah, Jeff’s back,” Richard said, breaking the silence. “Come sit down. We were just discussing the calendar.” I took an armchair on the periphery. Marian got straight to the point. “The Townsend Group’s Annual Gala is on the fifteenth of next month. Normally, you accompany Vicky as her spouse. This year…” She trailed off, her gaze darting deliberately between me and Adrian. The implication wasn’t subtle: she wanted Adrian on Vicky’s arm for the society pages, and I was an embarrassing blemish on the family portrait. Vicky held her porcelain teacup, silent, her gaze fixed on the steam rising from the liquid. I leaned back into the armchair, interlacing my fingers, waiting. Adrian was the one who spoke up first. “Marian, that wouldn’t be appropriate. Jeff is Vicky’s legal husband. At a high-profile corporate event—” “A husband in name only,” Marian snapped, cutting him off. “Three years of this charade is enough. It’s time Vicky had a dignified, public resolution.” She turned her sights fully on me. “Jeff, you’re an adult. You know exactly what this arrangement has been from day one. Rather than dragging this out until the bitter end, wouldn’t it be better to just—” “Get a divorce?” I finished the sentence for her. The room went dead silent. Vicky snapped her head up, her gaze locking onto mine with an unreadable intensity. “There’s no rush,” I said with an easy, untroubled smile. “The contract states we have four months remaining. I believe in honoring agreements.” “Jeff, don’t be—” “Marian,” I said, cutting through her protest with calm, measured authority. “A contract is a contract. Four months from now, I will sign the dissolution papers, pack my single suitcase, take zero spousal support, and walk out that door without a word. But until that date arrives, we follow the agreed-upon rules. I won’t attend the gala—that’s fine by me, I hate black-tie events anyway. But the rest stays as is.” Marian’s face went rigid. My response was airtight. I wasn’t groveling, I wasn’t picking a fight, and I hadn’t given her an inch of leverage to throw a scene. Uncle Richard cleared his throat, smoothing over the tension. “Alright, alright. We still have four months. No need to rush the paperwork today.” The meeting dissolved. I stood up. “If that’s all, I’m heading up.” As I turned toward the staircase, my peripheral vision caught Adrian’s expression. He was staring at me. Not with smugness. Not with pity. It was the look of a man trying to solve a puzzle—re-evaluating an opponent he had assumed was a complete non-entity. Back in my room, I shut the door and let out a long breath against the wood. Four months. I just had to hold the line for four more months. Keep things stable on the Townsend front while dismantling the threat against Josie on the outside. Two tracks running parallel. Tight timeline, but entirely doable. I pulled out my phone and tapped Hank’s name. “Me: Hey, didn’t you mention your cousin runs a local foodie channel? The one with decent reach?” Hank replied instantly: “Yeah, Callie. Why, you trying to take a girl on a date?” “Me: Connect us. I have a business proposal for her.” “Hank: Done. I’ll make an intro group chat tomorrow.” I tossed the phone onto the bed and began mapping out the strategy in my head. Josie’s immediate issue was volume. A great bakery tucked into a side street needed digital discovery. If we pumped up her foot traffic and established a steady revenue stream, she’d have the financial cushion to stand her ground. When Apex pushed harder, she wouldn’t be desperate. As for completely neutralizing Victor Croft and Apex Properties… that required a much bigger hammer. One step at a time. 7 Hank’s cousin, Callie, ran a popular metropolitan lifestyle blog with around 120,000 engaged local followers. Not a mega-influencer, but she had serious sway among the city’s brunch-and-pastry crowd. I paid her fee out of my private savings and had her visit “Josie’s Hearth” for an organic feature. I explicitly told her not to mention my name. The prompt was simple: frame it as a spontaneous discovery of a “hidden gem” artisanal bakery. The video went live on a Thursday evening. By Friday afternoon, Josie’s online delivery orders had tripled. By Saturday morning, customers were driving across the bridge from the north side just to buy her Mont Blanc tarts. On Tuesday, my phone buzzed with a message from Josie. “Josie: Jeff, the shop has been slammed for three days straight. Half the people in line said they saw us on a food blog video. Did you… did you have something to do with this?”

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When the syndicate’s traitor pulled the trigger five years ago, Corinne threw herself in front of the bullet for me. She wrapped her arms around the gunman and dragged him off the edge of the pier, plunging them both into the churning, icy black water below. The day her battered body was dragged from the harbor, I dropped to my knees so hard the crushed gravel dug deep into my flesh. Right there, choking on bile and seawater, I swore a blood debt against every single person responsible. It took me three brutal years to hunt down the remnants of that faction. When it was done, I hung the heads of all ten conspirators above the iron gates of the shipyard as a warning to the city. People feared me. They whispered that I had turned into a soulless monster who ruled the coastal underworld without a shred of mercy. On the fifth anniversary of Corinne’s death, I bought a dark bottle of industrial pesticide. I walked down to the edge of the exact same pier where she had drowned, unscrewing the cap, ready to swallow it whole and follow her into the dark. Just as the rim touched my lips, a chartered luxury yacht drifted into view through the coastal fog. Music and laughter spilled across the water. To my shock, I saw my own men—the very crew who had sworn their lives to me—boarding the vessel with gift boxes in hand. I set the bottle down and slipped quietly onto the lower deck. I never could have prepared myself for what was waiting on the sunlit upper deck. Standing there in a flowing white bridal gown was Corinne. Not dead. Radiantly alive. And standing beside her in a tailored suit was Wesley—the boy I had pulled out of human trafficking years ago, the kid I had treated more like a brother than a subordinate. Surrounded by the rowdy cheers and applause of my most trusted lieutenants, the two of them leaned in and shared a deep, breathless kiss. My blood turned instantly to ice. Mick, who had backed me on the streets for twelve straight years, turned around and caught sight of me. The color drained from his face until he looked like a corpse. “Boss… please, don’t do anything crazy! Corinne is pregnant!” Uncle Frank, the elder who had looked after me since I was a boy, stepped forward and positioned his body directly in front of Wesley. “Jim,” Frank said, his voice heavy with weary resignation. “I was the one who told them it was safe to come back. You’ve always been ruthless, uncompromising. You couldn’t tolerate a single flaw, so they had no choice but to fake their deaths just to escape your shadow. You run the entire waterfront now. For my sake, let them have their peace.” I stared at the circle of men surrounding the couple. Every single gun hand I had trained was shielding them from me. I didn’t utter a word. Instead, I raised my firearm and put three rounds clean through the yacht’s engine compartment. Sparks showered the deck; the motor groaned and died, leaving the boat dead in the water. “There is only one ending for traitors,” I whispered, the sound scraping up from a hollow chest. “Over the railing into the deep, or a bullet between the eyes. Who wants to go first?” … I leveled the barrel directly at Corinne and Wesley. In the next heartbeat, the metallic click of dozens of safeties snapping off echoed behind me. Gun barrels pressed hard against the back of my skull. “Boss, you can’t force love,” one of them muttered. I slowly looked around the circle, a bitter, burning ache clawing at the back of my throat. The jagged scar across the webbing of my right hand was from when a chamber exploded while I was pulling Toby from a burning warehouse. The deep, purple tissue running from my shoulder down my arm was the souvenir from three days of being beaten half to death in an underground den just to buy Mick his freedom. And now, every single one of them was standing on the other side of my gun. Ace, Red—familiar faces, men and women whose lives I had saved, whose pockets I had lined with gold, who had once sworn on their mothers’ graves to follow me into hell. I wiped the cold mist from my face and swept my gaze across them. “Why?” My voice shook. “What did I ever do to wrong a single one of you?” For five agonizing years, they had watched me expand our territory with self-destructive fury. They had watched me slash my own wrists in the dead of night, tearing myself apart with grief until I was barely recognizable as a human being. And not one of them had possessed the decency to tell me that Corinne wasn’t dead. “That’s enough,” Corinne sighed. She parted the wall of men and walked toward me. “Today is my wedding day, Jim. I don’t want to turn this into a scene.” Her eyes were glacial. She looked at me the way someone looks at an unwelcome stranger blocking the sidewalk. “No explanation?” I stepped forward, my eyes locking onto Wesley trembling behind her. “You lied to me for five years. That’s all I get?” Corinne moved with sudden, vicious speed, drawing a snub-nosed revolver from beneath her shawl and pressing the cold muzzle against my forehead. I stared into her eyes. A broken, humorless laugh escaped my chest. “Is this your answer?” Without blinking, Corinne shifted the angle of the gun, pressed it against her own left shoulder, and pulled the trigger. “Bang.” The sharp smell of cordite filled the air. She clutched her bleeding shoulder, a sneer twisting her pale lips as blood seeped through the white lace of her gown. “That bullet pays back whatever debt I owed you,” she hissed. “Now we’re even.” Wesley threw himself over her, sobbing hysterically. “Corinne! Why did you do that?!” He snatched at the weapon on the deck, pressing it against his own chest. “I’m the one who betrayed him! Let me pay for it!” Corinne kicked the gun overboard with a sharp kick and pulled Wesley behind her, shielding him with her uninjured arm. “This has nothing to do with you!” She turned back to me, her eyes burning with pure venom. “Jim, we were only engaged. We weren’t married! You were obsessive, controlling, and terrifying. You never gave me a reason to walk away, because you would have hunted me down. How else was I supposed to get rid of you except by dying?” My fingernails bit into my palms until they bled. I had truly believed our love was forged in fire. On the night of our engagement, she had looked me in the eye and whispered that she would stay by my side forever. I had believed her so completely that I had been ready to end my life just to join her in the grave. It was all a lie. Every single second of it. Wesley held her tightly, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. “I’m sorry, Jim… but I truly love her.” He looked just as fragile and tearful as the day I pulled him out of that locked container years ago. “Wesley,” I choked out. “After everything I did for you?” Corinne scoffed, resting her head against Wesley’s chest. “If we’re being honest, I should thank you.” A cruel, nostalgic smile touched her lips. “If you hadn’t constantly sent Wesley to check on me, I never would have realized what real tenderness felt like. He is a thousand times the man you are, you bloodthirsty monster.” My lips trembled. But Corinne wasn’t finished twisting the knife. “You knelt in the dirt at my empty grave for three straight days and nights,” she whispered softly. “Did you know Wesley and I were in the penthouse right across the harbor? We watched you through binoculars. Every single night, watching you weep like a broken dog. It felt fantastic.” A hot tear finally spilled down my cheek. “Get off my boat,” she said coldly, turning to lean against Wesley as they headed for the upper cabin. “Don’t ruin his proposal.” Behind them, my own men formed a solid wall across the stairs. “Boss,” Mick said softly, avoiding my eyes. “Just walk away.” Someone grabbed my wrist from behind, stripping my weapon, and shoved me hard over the railing. I hit the freezing ocean with a violent crash. The salt burned my eyes, and the icy water soaked through my clothes. When I finally dragged myself back onto the empty dock, shivering violently in the rain, I looked down at the countless self-inflicted scars lining my forearms. I pulled out my burner phone and dialed a secure line. “Tonight,” I said, my voice dead and level. “Level the central shipping yard. Burn the entire harbor to the ground.” … When the explosions tore through the warehouses and vessels, I stood on the distant shoreline. I watched the multimillion-dollar piers we had bled to build turn into a towering mountain of ash and smoke. Mick and Uncle Frank came sprinting down the road before the flames were even contained. “Boss! What did you do?!” Mick shouted, pointing an accusing finger at me. “If you destroy the docks, how are the guys supposed to put food on the table? How could you be so reckless?!” Uncle Frank shook his head, letting out a long, disappointed breath. “No wonder Corinne chose Wesley. Doing something like this… you’ve broken everyone’s trust.” I stared at the two men standing in the glow of the fire. One had grown up alongside me; the other had raised me. Neither of them cared that I was the one who had been ripped apart. “Why didn’t you tell me?” I whispered, my voice cracking with five years of suppressed agony. “Five years. You watched me tear myself to pieces. You knew. You both knew!” Mick rubbed the back of his neck defensively. “Boss, you have the docks, you have the money, you have power. You had everything! Wesley only had Corinne!” He glared at me, righteous indignation burning in his posture. “If you weren’t such a controlling sociopath, she never would have left you in the first place. Maybe you should look in the mirror for once!” Uncle Frank nodded in agreement. “Every time Wesley came by my place, he brought groceries and medicine. When I was sick in the hospital, he stayed by my bedside for weeks. Keeping their secret was our way of repaying his kindness.” Mick chimed in, “When you disciplined me and put me in the clinic, Wesley was the one who nursed me back to health day and night!” I stood frozen. A wave of nausea hit me so hard I nearly vomited. Every single basket of groceries Frank received, every medical bill paid, every night Wesley spent in that clinic—it had all been done on my orders, with my money, under my explicit instructions. Wesley hadn’t done a damn thing except deliver my care under his own name, stealing their loyalty with my resources. A wild, hollow laugh tore from my throat. “I ordered him to do every single one of those things. I paid for all of it.” Mick blinked, momentarily caught off guard, before scowling. “So what? Intent doesn’t matter, actions do. In our eyes, Wesley was the one who showed up!” Uncle Frank grabbed my hand, his tone patronizingly earnest. “Jim, for our sake, let it go. Wesley spent five hard years taking care of Corinne in hiding. It hasn’t been easy on him. Besides… she’s carrying his child now.” My jaw locked. Not a single word would come out. Mick reached into his jacket and pulled out a gold-embossed envelope, shoving it into my chest. “Wesley says the only way the city won’t brand him a homewrecker is if you personally officiate the wedding.” I looked down at the pristine card. A strange, total numbness washed over me. “Fine,” I said softly. “I’ll be there.” … Three days later, the news dominated every society page in the state: [Back from the Dead? Heiress Faked Death to Escape Mob King for True Love.] I wore a tailored black suit as I stepped into the cathedral. The moment the heavy oak doors opened, the room fell dead silent. Whispers rippled through the pews. “The butcher actually showed up…” “Keep your head down. If he pulls a gun, stay out of the crossfire.” Corinne and Wesley walked toward me down the aisle. She offered me a thin, mocking smile. “At least you know how to follow orders.” She shoved a sheet of paper containing the wedding blessing into my hands. My fingers didn’t move, and the paper fluttered to the marble floor. “Jim!” she snapped. Then she caught sight of my bloodshot eyes, tracking my gaze down to what Wesley was wearing. A tailored navy silk suit. Five years ago, Corinne had flown to Milan to personally design that exact tuxedo as an engagement gift for me. And on Wesley’s left ring finger gleamed the flawless, eight-carat emerald I had spent millions to win at an underground auction to propose to her. The final ember of warmth in my heart turned to cold, gray dust. Corinne cleared her throat, clearly uncomfortable for a fraction of a second. “The ceremony is starting. Get up to the altar.” I stared down at the dusty sheet on the floor. “To have and to hold, from this day forward…” My stomach churned with pure disgust. I clenched my fists. “I’m not doing this.” I turned on my heel to leave. Corinne stepped forward and slid a glossy photograph into my palm. In the picture, my younger sister, Mia—who was supposed to be safely studying in London—was tied to a wooden chair, a combat knife pressed against the soft skin of her throat. “Are you sure you want to walk away?” Corinne whispered softly. I stared at her in sheer horror. After my parents died, Mia was the only family I had left in the world. Corinne knew better than anyone that I would burn the earth to keep Mia safe. “Go up there,” Corinne commanded, hooking her arm gently around Wesley’s, flashing me a brilliant, triumphant smile. “And read the vows.” My fingernails cut so deeply into the photograph that the paper tore. I stepped onto the dais, gripped the podium, and spoke into the microphone. “I… Jim Morgan… offer my blessing to the union of Corinne Winslow and Wesley Parrish…” I don’t remember how I walked out of that cathedral. All I remember were the flashing cameras and the mocking headlines plastering the internet that evening: [Underworld King Reduced to Coward: Betrayed by Brother, Forced to Bless the Bride.] Corinne’s PR team worked overtime, flooding every comment section: “She had to fake her death just to escape him—any sane woman would run.” “He’s nothing but a violent thug. True love conquered the beast.” I didn’t sleep a single wink. The next morning, when I returned to the seaside villa I had purchased years ago, I found all my personal belongings thrown out on the lawn, thoroughly ruined by the overnight storm. The front door opened. Wesley leaned casually against the doorframe, sipping coffee. “Sorry about the mess, Jim,” he said smoothly. “Corinne said it was all junk, so we cleared it out.” “What are you doing in my house?” I tried to step past him, but Corinne appeared, blocking the entryway. “This property was put under my name five years ago,” she said, her voice dripping with irritation. “It belongs to me now.” I blinked, dazed. “I bought this for us. As our marital home.” “What marital home?” she snapped. “My husband is standing right here. I’ve already transferred the deed to Wesley. Take your trash and get off our property.” She gave me a hard shove. I stumbled back onto the wet grass, catching myself against a soaked cardboard box. As I looked up, the morning light caught a glint of gold on Wesley’s chest. Hanging from his waistcoat was a vintage pocket watch—the only heirloom my mother had left me before she died. Rage erupted through my veins. “Give that back! You don’t have the right to touch my mother’s things!” I lunged forward, but before my fingers even brushed his lapel, Wesley threw his arms up, twisted his body, and threw himself violently down the stone porch stairs. He tumbled down the steps, crashing into the driveway with a sickening crack. “Wesley!” Corinne shrieked. When she saw the pool of dark blood spreading beneath his hips, she turned to her guards, screaming, “Call 911! Get an ambulance now!” … Inside the private hospital suite. “Ms. Winslow,” the surgeon sighed, shaking his head grimly. “Mr. Parrish suffered a severe compound fracture to his femur, and… there is extensive trauma to the pelvic region. I’m afraid his reproductive capability has been permanently compromised. He will likely never be able to father children.” Wesley buried his face into Corinne’s chest, weeping uncontrollably. “Corinne… what am I going to do? I’m broken!” Corinne rounded on me where the guards had forced me to my knees. Her expression was demonic. “Jim Morgan! You came there on purpose today just to destroy him, didn’t you?!” “Slap!” The blow knocked my head to the side, my cheek instantly swelling. “Looking at your face makes me sick!” she hissed, trembling with rage. “If you hadn’t controlled the shipping routes, do you honestly think I ever would have let you touch me?” I looked up at her through the ringing in my ears. “I didn’t push him.” Wesley’s sobs grew louder. “Jim… are you saying I mutilated myself on purpose?” “It wouldn’t be the first time you staged a tragedy,” I replied coldly. Corinne lost all control. She kicked me viciously in the chest. I was thrown backward, my head slamming hard against the sharp corner of the marble coffee table. Warm blood instantly spilled down my forehead, blinding my left eye. She froze for a split second, her chest heaving, before her face hardened once more. “Have you ever realized that you brought all of this on yourself?” she sneered. “Every time I asked for a dinner date, you were handling ‘business.’ Every time I wanted a vacation, you had ‘shipments to secure.’ You never put me first. Everything happening to you right now is pure karma!” She grabbed me by the collar, dragging my face close to hers. “I am giving you one final chance. Hold a public press conference. Apologize to Wesley. Tell the entire city that you were an obsessive stalker who used your power to force yourself between us.” Her grip tightened. “Do it, and I let your sister board a flight home. Refuse, and you can collect her in pieces.” The agony in my skull was nothing compared to the slow, suffocating death inside my chest. Thinking of Mia, helpless in a dark room thousands of miles away, I closed my eyes. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll do it.” … The next afternoon, I was shoved onto the stage in front of a battery of press microphones. Camera flashes blinded my swollen eyes. I held the crumpled sheet of paper in my shaking hands. “I apologize… to Mr. Wesley Parrish. I was the one who used coercive means to interfere in his relationship with Corinne…” Every single syllable tasted like broken glass. The room erupted into chaos. “You violent psycho! You crippled a man and now you expect a written apology to fix it?!” “Get out of our city!” “On your knees! Beg him for forgiveness!” A rotten egg struck the side of my face, its foul liquid dripping into my collar. I stood there, frozen beneath the glaring lights, unable to breathe. “That’s enough,” Corinne’s voice rang out from the side of the room. Her security detail dragged me off the stage and threw me into the back of a black SUV. A heavy duffel bag was tossed in after me. “This car takes you straight to the cargo dock,” she said through the tinted window. “Mia is already on the freighter. Take this cash, get on that boat, and never set foot in this city again.” She slammed the door shut. Through the glass, I watched her gently push Wesley’s wheelchair away, looking down at him with tender devotion. I leaned my head against the cold leather seat and closed my eyes. … In the penthouse lounge, Wesley was excitedly flipping through travel brochures, planning their honeymoon. But Corinne was staring blankly out the panoramic window. “Corinne? What’s wrong?” Corinne blinked, trying to shake the image of my hollow, bloodstained face from her mind. “Nothing,” she muttered, rubbing her temples. Suddenly, her private phone began to ring incessantly. She tapped the speaker button. “Ms. Winslow! Something terrible has happened!” her operations manager screamed over the line. “The freighter carrying Jim Morgan… it just suffered a massive explosion three miles off the coast!”

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At our post-graduation dinner, Brad, our class president, suggested a game of “Secret Angel.” The premise was simple: for the rest of the night, your assigned angel had to look after you from the shadows, catering to your every need without blowing their cover. The card I drew bore the name of my college sweetheart of four years: Austin. When the game came to an end, Austin reached over and ruffled my hair with an easy, fond grin. “I can’t believe my angel was you,” he murmured, his thumb brushing my temple. “You were so sneaky. I didn’t notice a thing.” I lifted my chin, offering him a playful, triumphant smile. “That means I won. And the winner gets a wish.” Before the last word could settle in the air, Alyssa’s voice sliced through the room. “Austin, you were my angel tonight, weren’t you?” She leaned forward, her eyes bright and slightly glassy, and began listing everything he had done for her over the course of the evening. How he had intercepted drinks meant for her, how he had jogged nearly two miles in the muggy June heat just to find the specific electrolyte water she liked, how gently he had tucked the stray locks of hair behind her ear when she started slumping over the table. Then, she looked directly into his eyes. “My wish is for you to kiss me.” I watched, frozen, as Austin leaned toward her, his lips parting. Before they could touch, I lunged forward, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. “You can’t kiss Alyssa,” I said, my voice shaking. “That’s “my” wish.” Austin looked at me with a furrowed brow, letting out an exasperated sigh. “Babe, don’t be like that. It’s just the rules of the game.” My best friend, Jess, caught my elbow and dragged me a step backward. “Come on, Laurel,” she whispered, her tone laced with patronizing pity. “Alyssa’s had a thing for him for four years. Just let her have this one closure.” Around the table, a chorus of teasing voices joined in, urging me not to be so petty, so uptight, so possessive. And then I stood there and watched as Austin, without a single glance back at me, bent down and pressed his lips firmly against Alyssa’s mouth. A hollow numbness washed over me. He hadn’t failed to notice what I did for him all night because he was unobservant. He failed to notice because his eyes had never been on me in the first place. When he finally pulled away from her, he strolled back over to my side, his expression casual, almost bored. “All right, babe,” he said, tucking his hands into his pockets. “What’s your actual wish?” I looked at his mouth—the mouth that had just tasted another woman—and answered him silently in my heart. “My wish is to leave you.” … Two days from now was supposed to be our engagement party. The moment Austin’s lips met Alyssa’s, the quiet resolve inside me solidified into stone. The engagement was over. When he pressed me again about what my wish was, I didn’t yell. I didn’t make a scene. I simply kept my voice flat and even. “You’ll find out the day after tomorrow.” Austin chuckled, assuming I was teasing some grand surprise for our party, and reached out to playfully pinch my cheek. I jerked my face away and knocked his hand aside. “I’m heading home. You guys have fun.” He didn’t try to stop me. He simply turned back toward the circle of laughter, slipping effortlessly back into the party. The moment the heavy door of the private dining room swung shut behind me, the tears I had choked back burned down my cheeks. Through the frosted glass, I could still hear Todd’s voice. “Aren’t you going to go after Laurel? She looked completely wrecked.” My heart paused. I waited in the dim hallway, foolishly hoping for a flicker of regret from Austin. If he just showed a hint of remorse, if he ran out after me, maybe I could convince myself it was a harmless joke. Instead, his careless laugh drifted through the door. “She’s fine. I’ll smooth it over when I get back tonight. She’s always like this—making a federal case out of every little thing.” Jess chimed in with an exaggerated groan. “Seriously. I spend half my life talking her off a ledge, Austin. Good luck dealing with that once you put a ring on it.” Laughter rippled through the room. Then Todd spoke up again. “Does Laurel still not know? About how we swapped Alyssa’s seat at commencement this morning so she’d be sitting right next to you?” “Holding hands when the caps flew,” Brad added, reminiscing. “Now that’s how a college romance should end. Honestly, man, none of us ever understood why you picked Laurel over Alyssa. We’ve all been rooting for you two behind closed doors.” “Shh!” Jess hushed them loudly. “Laurel might still be in the hall. If she finds out, she’ll throw a tantrum that lasts a week. Wait—her little sister was at the ceremony, wasn’t she? What if she blabbed?” Austin’s voice faltered slightly, a tremor of panic breaking through his arrogance. I heard the rustle of fabric, followed by the electronic chime of a call connecting on speakerphone. “Corinne? Your sister didn’t see anything weird today, did she?” My younger sister’s voice came through crystal clear, sweet and reassuring. “Don’t worry, Austin! I told Laurel I was getting claustrophobic in the crowd and dragged her to the very back row. There’s no way she saw what was happening up front.” The world tilted on its axis. A high-pitched ringing filled my ears. My sister hadn’t been anxious. She hadn’t needed my comfort. She had actively engineered the distance between Austin and me, clearing the stage for him and Alyssa. Outside, the heavy, humid summer air suffocated me, but down in the marrow of my bones, I felt an unbearable chill. As I stumbled down the front steps of the restaurant, my phone buzzed in my palm. It was the event coordinator from the hotel hosting our engagement party. “Hi, Ms. Ellis. I’m just calling to confirm the layout adjustment for Saturday. We received a request to add another seat at the head family table.” I frowned, racking my brain. Every seat, every place card, every floral centerpiece had been meticulously vetted weeks ago. “Did Austin ask for that?” “Yes, Mr. Leonard called in earlier. He said a very important friend of his was supposed to catch a train back home tomorrow, but she just landed a local job offer and will be staying in town after all.” A friend leaving tomorrow. Out of our entire graduating class, only one person had booked a one-way ticket back to her small hometown for tomorrow morning: Alyssa. We had even talked about seeing her off at the station. She wasn’t leaving. I stood on the sidewalk, numb with disbelief. Clinging to the last shred of my sanity, I dialed Courtney. Courtney and Alyssa had been my roommates for four years. Courtney was always the practical one, the one I shared everything with. We had both kept our distance from Alyssa’s delicate, damsel-in-distress routine. “Courtney,” I started, my voice tight. “Did you know Alyssa isn’t going back to Ohio?” A heavy, guilty silence stretched across the line. “Laurel… how did you find out?” Courtney sighed, sounding caught. “Look, she only told me a few hours ago. Austin pulled some strings and created a position for her at his family’s firm. So she’s staying.” I felt the ground slipping out from beneath me. When had Courtney and Alyssa become close enough to share secrets like that? “Did you know she’s been in love with Austin for four years?” I asked, my voice cracking. Another silence. And that silence told me everything. A bitter laugh scraped its way out of my throat. Everyone knew. The entire world was in on the joke, except for the bride-to-be. Hearing my distress, Courtney abandoned her gentle tone and snapped defensively. “At first, I thought it was messed up too, okay? But Alyssa’s actually really sweet once you get to know her. When I had that awful flu last semester, she brought me soup and covered my shift. When I lost the department fellowship and cried my eyes out, she was the only one who sat with me in the dark.” Tears spilled over my lashes, hot and furious. “Who do you think bought that soup, Courtney? I paid for it and sent it up with her because I had an exam! And the fellowship—who spent three nights rewriting your application so you could appeal and actually get the grant? That was me!” Everything I had ever poured into these people had been casually credited to Alyssa’s gentle smile. Courtney let out an irritated sigh. “See, Laurel? This is what I mean. You snap the second things don’t revolve around you. That’s why none of us can talk to you anymore. We have to go to Alyssa.” I hung up before she could finish the sentence. Just then, the restaurant doors opened down the street. Alyssa stumbled out into the warm night, clinging tightly to Austin’s arm, her body swaying against his. “Austin… I’m so dizzy,” she slurred softly. “Can I just stay over at your place tonight?” I cleared my throat, stepping out from the shadow of the awning. Austin froze, his eyes widening in shock. “Laurel? What… what are you still doing here?” He quickly gestured for Jess to hold Alyssa upright, then crossed the pavement toward me, wearing an expression of calculated patience. “Laurel, let Alyssa crash at our place tonight. It’s late, and the dorms are basically empty now that move-out started. It’s not safe for her to be there alone while she’s this drunk.” I looked straight into his eyes. “If she steps foot inside our apartment, I will never walk through that door again.” Austin rolled his eyes, treating my boundary like another toddler’s tantrum. “Come on, stop being dramatic. She can’t stay out here in the cold air. I’m going to take her upstairs and get her settled. If it makes you uncomfortable, I’ll book you a suite at the hotel down the street and come pick you up in a bit.” Without waiting for my answer, he turned back, helped Alyssa into the back of his car, and sped away into the night. The refusal died on my lips. I stood on the corner as the minutes bled into an hour. The summer mosquitoes swarmed around my bare ankles. Despite the humiliation, the four years of shared history clawed at my chest. I dialed his number. “Austin? Are you on your way to get me? I’ve been waiting outside for an hour. I’m covered in bug bites.” The line was filled with rustling sheets and the sound of running water. “Laurel, I can’t leave right now,” he whispered hurriedly. “Alyssa’s throwing up. She can’t be left alone. I’ll send an Uber to take you to the hotel, okay?” Before I could speak, he tossed the phone onto what sounded like a nightstand. “Austin?” I called out. “Austin!” He didn’t answer, but the call remained open. Over the line, I heard Alyssa’s soft, tearful whimper. “Austin… please don’t leave me.” I ended the call and closed my eyes. A memory flashed behind my eyelids—the night before Austin and I officially started dating, back in our freshman year. I had gotten drunk at an orientation mixer. He had stayed by my side the entire night, running through the rain to buy hot tea, rubbing my temples with infinite tenderness, walking me back to my dorm with his hand hovering protectively behind my waist. Back then, his universe began and ended with me. Now, all that tenderness belonged to someone else. I spent the night in a cold hotel room, staring at the ceiling, wondering when the man I loved had quietly hollowed out into a stranger. At dawn, a sharp knock rattled the door. I opened it to find Austin standing there, holding a greasy brown paper bag from a high-end bakery. “Laurel, look. I brought you those crab-stuffed croissants you like. Still warm.” I stared at the bag with a bitter twist of my lips. Four years together, and he still didn’t realize I was allergic to shellfish. Every time he bought them, he only gave me the leftovers he couldn’t finish, and I had quietly thrown them away to spare his feelings. Looking inside the bag, I saw that one of the pastries was already broken in half, a bite missing. Alyssa’s breakfast. The very last thread of affection inside me snapped. I looked directly into his eyes. “Austin, call off the engagement party.” He blinked, taken aback. “Since I’m clearly not your first choice anymore, there’s no reason for us to keep pretending.” His face cycled through shock, panic, and finally, defensive irritation. “Laurel, the party is tomorrow! Stop playing games. Nothing happened between Alyssa and me. Stop letting your imagination run wild.” “Is it my imagination, or did you cross the line?” My voice rose, raw with unshed tears. “You never set boundaries with her. You bask in her worship, you love her attention, and you brought her into your family’s company behind my back. Do you think I’m completely blind?” Realizing I was dead serious, Austin’s arrogance cracked. He lunged forward, wrapping his arms around me in a desperate, suffocating hug. “Laurel, listen to me, please. It’s not what you think—” His phone blared in his pocket. The sharp ring cut through our embrace like a knife. I shoved him backward, screaming, “Even now? You can’t even ignore one damn phone call for five seconds?!” He hesitated, eyes darting between my tear-streaked face and the glowing screen. Then, he answered it. “Hello? What happened?” His expression turned grave. He lowered the phone, looking at me with frantic urgency. “Laurel, I have to go to the office right now. Something happened with Alyssa.” And there it was. Once again, he dropped me without a second thought. If he had chosen me just once—just one single time—I might have stayed. But every crossroad led him straight to her. As he sprinted down the hallway, leaving the door wide open, a strange, breathless laugh escaped my chest. It felt like relief. I took a cab straight to the banquet hall. Standing in the grand room decorated with the ivory ribbons and blush florals I had spent months curating, I looked at the venue manager. “Please cancel the event.” The manager’s eyes widened. “Ms. Ellis, are you sure? We’re booked solid for the next six months. If you give up this date, you won’t get it back. Shouldn’t you discuss this with Mr. Leonard?” “Cancel it,” I said, my voice steady. “Immediately.” From the venue, I went back to the apartment that was supposed to be our future home. The place was quiet. Austin and Alyssa were still at the office. In the living room, the cream-colored linen sofa I had saved up for months to buy was stained with vomit, covered by a dirty sweatshirt. On the kitchen counter, our matching ceramic mugs sat side by side, one of them filled with cold coffee next to the half-eaten pastry. This sanctuary, built on four years of dreams, had been colonized in a single night. I wheeled out my suitcase and packed my clothes. In the closet, among the rows of dresses, one hanger was empty. My engagement dress. A custom silk piece I had ordered six months ago. I dialed Austin. “Where is my engagement dress?” His voice was hurried, distracted. “Oh, Alyssa had to wear it. Her clothes were ruined last night, so she just grabbed something from the closet. It’s just a dress, Laurel.” A sharp pain lanced through my chest, making it hard to draw breath. If something could be stolen so easily, it was never truly mine to begin with. I zipped my suitcase, walked out the front door, and let it click shut behind me. That evening, Austin called my phone repeatedly. I declined every one. Then Jess called. “Laurel, Austin’s worried sick about you. Look, the party is tomorrow. Just let yesterday go. He and Alyssa are just friends. You’re blowing this way out of proportion.” I listened to her dismissive, exhausted voice, feeling no anger, only emptiness. “I hear you,” I said softly. Jess sighed in relief, assuming she had managed me once again. The next afternoon, Austin, his friends, Alyssa, and Jess all arrived at the venue in their formal wear. Standing before the dark, completely empty ballroom, Austin’s breath caught in his throat. He grabbed the nearest banquet server by the shoulder. “What’s going on here? Where is the setup?” The server blinked in confusion. “Sir? This booking was canceled yesterday.”

On payday, I went out of my way to stop by the international market and buy a whole imported durian. It was a rare indulgence, something I had craved for weeks. But in the few minutes it took me to use the bathroom after getting home, the fruit was gone. When Connor walked through the front door, I asked him in a panic where it went. He didn’t even look up from his phone. His tone was breezy, utterly indifferent. “Oh. Kendall gave me a ride home,” he said. “She came in for a second, saw it sitting on the counter, and mentioned how incredible it smelled. So I told her to take it.” I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen. To save up for our wedding down payment, I had pinched pennies for two straight months, stacking digital coupons and tracking sales just to justify spending forty dollars on that single treat. And with one careless sentence, my months of anticipation had become someone else’s dessert. When I didn’t respond, Connor furrowed his brow, looking at me with thinly veiled irritation. “Can you not be so petty over a piece of fruit? Kendall has been a massive help with my thesis.” His perspective, of course, was always broader, grander, and vastly more important than mine. Last month, when he claimed Kendall was working late in the lab, he boxed up the garlic-butter crawfish I had spent two hours preparing after my shift and drove it over to her. The month before that, Kendall casually remarked that the potted pothos on our windowsill looked lush and vibrant. By the next afternoon, the plant had found a new home on her balcony. Whenever his senior lab partner looked twice at something in our apartment, I couldn’t keep it. My desires, my small joys, and the sacrifices I made never factored into his calculations. “Fine,” I thought quietly. “Let it go.” Because if I gave up on him—if I gave up on this wedding—I could buy all the durians I ever wanted. … Connor casually peeled a banana and held it out toward me. “Here,” he said, sounding like a generous parent soothing a child. “Eat this. It’s basically the same thing.” I stared at the pale, fibrous fruit in his hand, feeling a sudden surge of bitter absurdity. When I was a little girl, I had caught a severe stomach flu, and my mother, relying on some questionable home remedy, had forced spoonfuls of mashed bananas down my throat. I had vomited violently for hours. Ever since, even the faint artificial scent of a banana made my stomach turn. I had told Connor that story at least five times over our eight years together. Every single time, he had stroked my hair with tender sympathy. Yet every single week when he brought home groceries, there was always a bunch of bananas sitting in the brown paper bag. Because Kendall loved them. Whenever I brought it up, he would shoot me an amused, patronizing look. “Who do you think I’m doing this for?” he would tease. “Aren’t you the one obsessed with saving for the wedding? I carpool with Kendall every day to save us gas money. Her fee is literally just a banana a day.” It had sounded reasonable enough at first. Until the crawfish I cooked after a grueling ten-hour workday became part of that carpool fee. Until the pothos plant I had nurtured since the week we first moved in together became part of that fee. I had argued. I had cried. His justifications were always airtight, fortified by righteous indignation. “Kendall is busy. Kendall is exhausted. Kendall is saving my academic career.” In the small living room, the sickly-sweet smell of the banana grew heavier, churning in my gut. I held my breath, refusing to look at it. When I didn’t reach out to take it, the easy smile slid off Connor’s face. “What is your problem now? It’s just a piece of fruit. Are you seriously going to make a scene over this?” He sighed, shaking his head. “Jade, if you don’t even understand basic social grace, how are we ever going to get married?” “Married.” I stared at him, numb. That word had dangled in front of me like a carrot on a string for four long years. On the day of our undergraduate graduation, his hands had trembled as he slipped a simple silver band onto my finger. “Jade, the second I finish my Master’s, we’re getting married.” On the day he finished his Master’s, his head had been bent over his phone, texting Kendall, as he tossed out a familiar placation: “Jade, as soon as we save enough for the house down payment, we’re doing it.” So, for the sake of that wedding, I became the woman who split wholesale bulk orders with reluctant coworkers just to save three dollars. I clipped coupons until I felt pathetic even to myself. I had talked about craving that durian for two months. He hadn’t remembered a single syllable. Yet Kendall only had to murmur one offhand compliment, and he knew instantly what she liked. “Forget it,” I whispered. I pushed myself up from the sofa, but my knee caught hard against the sharp corner of the coffee table. A sharp gasp of pain escaped my throat. Connor reflexively reached out to steady me, but I twisted my shoulder, wrenching myself out of his reach. His hand froze midair. A cold scoff broke from his lips. “Fine, Jade. Throw your little tantrum. I’ve spoiled you rotten, clearly.” That night, he ignored me completely. He set up his laptop at the dining table, his AirPods in, chatting and laughing on a voice call with Kendall while they worked through their manuscript revisions. I lay in the dark bedroom, staring up at the ceiling, listening to the muffled cadence of their easy banter drifting beneath the door. “Connor, the fruit was delicious,” Kendall’s voice floated through the speaker, playful and bright. “Make sure you thank Jade for me.” Connor’s chuckle was warm, utterly relaxed. “Don’t bother. That’s just how she is—makes a federal case out of buying one fruit. She literally researched online for three weeks just figuring out how to pick a ripe one.” My fingers curled tightly into the duvet. My eyes burned, hot and wet. He had known all along. He had known how much I wanted it. He had known how long I had waited. He simply hadn’t cared. Kendall said something else on the other end. Connor laughed, the sound effortless and fond. “If you like it that much, I’ll stop by the market after we leave the lab tomorrow and pick up another one for you. Consider it part of my carpool tab.” My grip on the sheets slowly loosened. The tears tracked silently across my temples, pooling cold in the shells of my ears. Cold and hollow, just like the space behind my ribs. … When I woke the next morning, my eyelids were swollen and raw. The apartment was quiet. Connor was in the bathroom, humming a tune under the running water, leaving his laptop screen glowing on the kitchen counter. I walked out to pour a glass of water, not intending to snoop. But as my eyes caught the title of an open music playlist, my feet rooted to the floorboards. “Connor & Kendall.” Their names were strung together with an ampersand, looking undeniably like a couple’s shared mixtape. Beside it, their chat window was still active. Their call hadn’t ended until 3:14 AM. With trembling fingers, I scrolled up through the thread. Every month on the fifteenth, Kendall sent him a song to commemorate their time working together. Since the project’s inception fifteen months ago, there were exactly fifteen tracks. The song she had shared yesterday was an orchestral version of “Maiden’s Prayer”. Connor had replied with an enamored emoji and a text: “It’s gorgeous. I’ve got it on repeat.” I stared at those words, an unbearable pressure building behind my eyes. A month ago, I had texted him that exact same track, telling him it was the only thing keeping me grounded during a brutal week at work. He had sent back a curt “k” and nothing else. When I asked him the next evening if he had listened, he hadn’t even paused his video game: “Not my thing, Jade. Listen to it yourself.” I stepped back, my balance faltering. My shoulder bumped against the refrigerator door, and the small magnetic whiteboard we kept pinned there came loose, clattering loudly onto the linoleum at my feet. There was writing on it, scrawled in my own hand from early spring: “Connor, I was really hurt that you missed my birthday dinner. You owe me a very big apology!” On my birthday, Connor had leaned in close that morning, whispering conspiratorially, “Happy birthday, Jade. I got you something special. You can start getting excited right now.” I had spent the whole day riding that high. I left work early, cooking a four-course dinner and setting the table with our nice glassware. I waited until the food was ice-cold before his text finally arrived: “The lab director called a last-minute grant review. Can’t make it home. Don’t wait up.” I had swallowed the knot in my throat and texted back: “No worries, focus on your work.” Then I had sat alone at the table, forcing down cold braised pork and rice. The tears had dripped steadily into my bowl, the salt blurring into the food until I couldn’t taste anything at all. Now, six months later, the truth sat bare before me. He hadn’t missed my birthday because of an emergency grant review. He had missed it because Kendall had texted him saying she didn’t want to eat hotpot by herself. “What are you doing?” Connor’s voice cracked like a whip behind me. He had come out of the bathroom, a towel draped over his dripping hair, that very song still playing softly from his phone. I turned around, staring at him blankly. In three long strides, he crossed the room and slammed the laptop shut, his eyes blazing with fury. “Going through my computer again? Jade, do you have any concept of what personal privacy means?” I looked at his rigid, defensive posture, a bitter smile touching the corner of my lips. Just last week, my old phone had randomly crashed. I had picked up his phone simply to search how to force-restart my model. He had ripped it out of my hand with that exact same look of suspicion and disgust. “Connor,” I asked quietly. “What exactly are you hiding in there that makes you so terrified of me seeing it?” He flinched for a fraction of a second before his brows snapped together, adopting his usual mask of righteous offense. “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” he snapped. “Kendall and I have a professional relationship. She’s carried half my project on her back! What’s wrong with me grabbing a meal or talking through research with her? Why are you always so paranoid and petty? Do you have to twist everything into something disgusting?” He scoffed, shaking his head. “You never used to be like this, Jade.” He was right. I never used to touch his phone because all his passcodes had been set to my birthday. I used to believe without a shred of doubt that he loved me, because wherever we went, his fingers were laced through mine, and he introduced me proudly to anyone who would listen. I looked down. The tears spilled over, heavy and silent. When he proposed, he promised he would spend his entire life making me happy. I just hadn’t realized his idea of a lifetime was so short. The living room fell into a suffocating silence, broken only by my ragged breathing. After a long pause, Connor let out a heavy, defeated sigh. He walked over, wrapping his arms around my shoulders, his palm patting my back in a rhythmic, practiced motion. “Alright, alright. Don’t cry, okay?” His voice softened into easy coaxing. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have given the durian to Kendall. I promise you, the second you get home tonight, there’ll be a whole durian waiting on the counter. Deal?” I leaned my forehead against his chest, closing my eyes, fighting back the tremor in my voice. “Connor—” Before I could finish the sentence, a car horn sounded from the street below. Three long honks, followed by one short tap. Connor’s eyes lit up instantly. He pulled away from me, grabbing his backpack and shoving his feet into his sneakers in a flurry of motion. “That’s Kendall. I gotta run,” he said, already turning toward the door. “Jade, wait for me tonight. I’ll bring your durian.” The deadbolt clicked shut. I stood in the silence of the hallway for a long time. Then I bent down, picked up the fallen whiteboard, and stuck it back onto the refrigerator door. Beneath that old, faded note from my birthday, I uncapped the dry-erase marker and wrote what I hadn’t had the chance to say aloud: “Connor, I’m not marrying you. We’re over.” … I handed in my two weeks’ notice at work and calmly called the landlord to discuss breaking our lease. I had moved across the country to Chicago in the first place solely for Connor. Now that there was no reason to stay, leaving felt remarkably simple. That afternoon, I stopped by the Asian market and bought the most expensive Musang King durian in the display case. I carried it back to the apartment, locked the front door behind me, and sat alone at the kitchen table, eating more than half of it. It was intensely sweet, rich, and perfect. Connor didn’t come home until late. When he walked in and saw me, a faint smirk tugged at his lips. He held up a small plastic grocery bag with exaggerated flourish. “Look what I brought you, Jade.” I glanced over. Inside a small takeout container sat a solitary, pathetic little wedge of fruit. “I went out of my way to hit the market,” he said, sounding remarkably pleased with himself. “Made sure to save you a piece. Now you can’t say I never think about you.” I looked at that sad, lonely piece of durian. I didn’t bother asking where the rest of the fruit had gone. He shoved the container into my hands and turned toward the fridge to grab an iced tea. The magnet on the whiteboard must have worn out completely. The moment he yanked the fridge door open, the board came loose with a sharp “clatter”, hitting the floor. I watched in silence as he bent down, scooped up the board without glancing at the writing, and tossed it carelessly onto the top of the refrigerator. “Jade, if something’s broken, just throw it out,” he said, typing rapidly on his phone with his other hand, a soft smile flickering across his face. “You don’t have to be cheap about literal garbage.” Sitting at the table, I let out a quiet, breathless laugh. How had I forgotten? He hadn’t read a single note on that board in months. When we first moved into this apartment, I had bought a small pothos to symbolize putting down roots. Connor had bought that whiteboard, earnestly telling me that communication was the foundation of a real partnership. He had told me that whenever something was hard to say out loud, I should write it down, and he would always read it. I had written so many things on that board over the years. “Rough day at work. Could really use a hug when you get home.” “You promised we’d watch a movie together yesterday, but you forgot again.” “The banana smell makes me genuinely sick. I’ve told you so many times—please stop buying them.” “Connor, you’re coming home later and later every week.” He had never read any of them. All of his attention, all of his responsiveness, was reserved for someone else’s chat notifications. … The next morning, I threw that stale wedge of durian into the trash. By mid-afternoon, my phone rang. It was my mother. Her voice was trembling so badly she could barely form words. She told me my father had collapsed in the living room; the ER doctors said it was an acute stroke, and he needed emergency surgery immediately. A deafening static filled my head. My first instinct was to wire money to her account. I opened my banking app, typed in the transfer amount, and hit confirm. “Transaction Failed: Insufficient Funds.” I tried again. And again. Five consecutive attempts, all rejected. My heart plunged into my stomach. When I checked our joint high-yield savings account—the one where we had pooled over forty-five thousand dollars for our future house—the balance read: “$1,420.18.” I sank onto the floor, my fingers shaking violently as I dialed Connor’s number. That account was linked only to the two of us. Nobody else had access. The line rang twice before clicking open. I swallowed the dry lump in my throat, forcing my voice to stay level. “Connor. Where is the money from our house fund?” There was a two-second pause on the other end before his casual, unbothered voice drifted through the receiver. “Oh. I lent it to Kendall. She was coming up short on her new car down payment and the loan terms. Don’t worry, she said she’ll pay it back by the end of the year.” My fingernails dug into my palms until the pain went entirely numb. “Her car was forty thousand dollars,” I choked out. “Did you literally buy her a car with my savings?” “Jade, it’s a loan—” “I don’t care what you call it!” I screamed into the phone. “My dad is in the hospital right now. He had a stroke and he’s going into emergency surgery! I need that money right this second. Give it back to me!” His breath caught for a second. Then came a sharp, incredulous scoff. “Are you seriously making up a story about your dad being sick just to start a fight over money?” “Connor—” “Figure it out yourself, Jade. I’m in the middle of a lab meeting. We’ll talk when I get home.” The line went dead. I listened to the hollow dial tone, leaning against the hallway wall as my legs gave out beneath me. Only one thought remained in my shattered mind: That was my money. That was the money meant to save my father’s life. I was going to get it back. … When my senses returned, my knuckles were white, gripping the collar of Kendall’s blouse in the middle of the chemistry department research lab. “Where is it?” I rasped, my vision tunneling. “That is my money! Give it back to me!” Connor materialized out of nowhere, his face dark with rage as his hands clamped onto my wrists, squeezing with enough force to bruise the bone. “Jade, have you lost your goddamn mind? Let go of her!” He yanked me backward so hard I stumbled, but I refused to let go of her collar. “That money took me three years of overtime to save!” I shouted, my voice cracking in front of the dozen graduate students staring in shock. “You took my money to buy her a car while my dad is lying on an operating table waiting for the hospital deposit! Give me back my money!” Kendall’s face was paper-white as she shrank back, looking at Connor with wide, tearful eyes. “Connor, please… make her stop!” “Jade!” Connor bellowed. He shoved me violently against the lab wall, his forearm pressing against my collarbone, pinning me in place. His eyes were bloodshot, his teeth clenched inches from my face. “How much further are you going to take this? This is my department! Are you trying to completely ruin my reputation?” I looked into his face, every tear already dried up, leaving only a hollow, cavernous ache behind. “Then give me my money,” I whispered, meeting his furious gaze. “Give it back, and I will walk out that door and never look at you again. Whatever you and your lab partner do with your lives will have nothing to do with me. That was my savings. You had no right to touch a single cent of it.” A flicker of hesitation crossed his eyes. His lips parted. “I’ll… I can…” Behind him, Kendall pushed herself up against a lab bench, her voice trembling with theatrical fragility. “I have never been so humiliated in my entire life.” Connor glanced back at her. When he turned back to face me, his jaw hardened, and his expression wiped clean into chilling detachment. “You’re completely delusional, Jade,” he said, his voice rising clearly so the entire room could hear. “You spent that money yourself. What does this have to do with Kendall?” “What?” I breathed. “You’re constantly buying things—new clothes every month, designer bags. Savings? What savings did you even contribute? I was planning on confronting you about our empty account, and now you have the nerve to come here and blame Kendall?” He kept his eyes fixed above my head, his speech rapid, louder and louder, building a wall of lies to protect his image. I stared at him, feeling an overwhelming wave of exhaustion. This was the man I had loved for eight years. “What did I buy, Connor?” I asked softly. “In the last three years, tell me one expensive thing I bought for myself.” He faltered for a second, his eyes darting. “You… you bought that durian two days ago! Do you know how much an imported one costs—” He choked on his own words. Because I started laughing. I laughed until the tears leaked from the corners of my eyes, bitter and unrestrained. He stared at me, bewildered, his hand instinctively reaching out as if to wipe away a tear. I jerked my head away, avoiding his touch. I wiped my own face with the back of my sleeve, turned around, and walked out of the building. Behind me, his frantic footsteps chased me into the corridor. “Jade!” his voice sounded hoarse, cracking with panic. “Jade, wait!” I pushed through the heavy glass doors of the science building, pulled out my phone, and called my closest friend to ask for a loan. By the time I hung up, my notification bar was flooded with texts from Connor. “Jade, wait for me at home. I’ll explain everything.” “I’m asking a friend for a loan right now, I’ll transfer the cash to you today. But you shouldn’t have caused a scene in my lab.” “Jade, please answer me.” With an expressionless face, I blocked his number and every single one of his social media accounts. Then, I booked a one-way flight home for that evening. The apartment was still frozen in the morning light when I returned. I grabbed the suitcase I had already packed days ago, walked out the door, and didn’t look back.

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In the second year of our marriage, Teman seemed to go selectively deaf. Whenever I tried to share a funny little moment from my workday, he kept his eyes glued to his stock charts, silent as a stone. When hot oil splattered from the skillet onto my arm, leaving blistered burns that made me cry out in pain, he cradled his phone and didn’t even look up. Before leaving the house, asking where he’d left the car keys required three or four repetitions, each louder than the last, before he would finally fish them out of his discarded jacket pocket with an irritated scowl. These were small slights, but like fine grains of sand trapped inside an oyster, they ground against raw flesh until every breath ached. Yet whenever I brought up my hurt, he dismissed it with an airy shrug. “I just can’t multitask, Marina. It’s not like I’m ignoring you on purpose.” Even my best friend, Bridget, used to talk me down: “All men turn into statues after the wedding. I’m his executive assistant—don’t you think I’d know if something was wrong? He’s totally clean, just oblivious. Besides, doesn’t his aloofness balance out your chronic need to please everyone?” So I swallowed it. Again and again. Until his department held an annual retreat that required spouses to attend. At the outdoor dinner, my throat felt parched from the heavily seasoned barbecue. Without thinking, I asked Teman to hand me a bottle of water. Teman picked up a chilled bottle of mineral water and carefully twisted open the cap. As I reached out, my eyes full of quiet expectation, he leaned across the table and handed it straight to Bridget. It was in that exact second I understood. He was never deaf. He had simply chosen not to see me. Watching his gaze track Bridget’s every micro-expression with devoted intensity, I slipped my hand into my cardigan pocket and crushed the positive pregnancy confirmation into a tight, crumpled ball. Let it end. Even a lifelong people-pleaser runs out of cheeks to turn. … “Here, Bridget. Drink some water.” Teman handed it over with effortless grace, the cap already loosened for her convenience. A bitter metallic taste flooded my mouth. The crisp, honeyed chicken wing on my plate suddenly turned to sawdust in my throat. Just a moment earlier, Bridget and I had both mentioned being thirsty. I was sitting right beside him, shoulder to shoulder. He hadn’t heard a word. Bridget was seated several chairs down, half the table between them, yet he had caught her casual sigh with razor-sharp precision. Perhaps my expression was too transparently devastated to ignore. When Teman sat back down, he let out a sharp, clicking “tsk” against his teeth, his voice laced with uncontainable annoyance. “What is it now, Marina?” “Always walking around with a face like a funeral. If HR hadn’t insisted on plus-ones, I swear I wouldn’t have brought you.” He didn’t shout, but his voice was clipped and loud enough for the colleagues around us to hear. The air instantly froze. A flush of shame crept up my neck. Years of ingrained insecurity and fawning instincts kicked in; my throat tightened as I desperately tried to string together an apology, a joke—anything to smooth over the tension. But the words caught in my windpipe. The smile I forced onto my face felt grotesque, closer to weeping than laughter. Instinctively, I turned toward Bridget. We had met during our freshman year of college and had been inseparable for seven years. She was radiant, sharp-tongued, and socially magnetic; I was quiet, clumsy with words, and quick to shrink into the background. In moments like this, she was always the one who stepped in to shield me. Except this time, she didn’t look my way. She was tilting her head back, sipping from the bottle with a sweet, languid curve to her mouth. As she lowered the water, her eyes flicked toward me through her eyelashes, dripping with thinly veiled contempt. It was the face of a total stranger. My stomach plummeted. Her past reassurances echoed through my mind like a mocking chorus: “I’m his assistant, don’t you think I’d know? He’s completely clean…” If she was merely his assistant, on what authority had she guaranteed my husband’s fidelity with such absolute certainty? There was only one answer. All the tenderness, the keen attentiveness, the chivalry Teman had drained from our marriage had simply been redirected to her. And Bridget knew. She had accepted every drop of it, relishing the secret spoils. My fingers trembled in my lap. My vision blurred around the edges. Only then did Bridget finally speak, her tone light and teasing. “Teman, didn’t you hear Marina say she was thirsty earlier?” Her voice was bright, scrubbed clean of any malice, making that cold, mocking glance seem like a figment of my paranoia. Teman didn’t even glance up from his phone screen, his thumb scrolling through stock tickers. “Didn’t hear her. She has two hands—she can grab one herself. Why does everything have to be a major production with her?” “A major production…” I was his lawful wife asking for a bottle of water, reduced to an unbearable drama queen. A dull, rhythmic throb began deep in my lower abdomen. I gritted my teeth against the cramp. Bridget looked at me and offered a helpless little shrug, as if to say: “If your own husband won’t look after you, what am I supposed to do?” It was a sweltering summer afternoon. Everyone around the picnic table was wiping away beads of sweat. Yet I sat there, frozen to the bone by the cruelty of the two people I had loved most in the world. The rest of the meal passed in a daze. I tried several times to gather the courage to demand an explanation, to flip the table, to scream. But decades of being the compliant, conflict-avoidant daughter kept me pinned to my seat, choking in silence. When the plates were cleared, the team eagerly debated the afternoon’s itinerary. I knew none of them well and had a storm brewing in my chest, so I retreated to the bench, silent as a shadow. Until Bridget spoke up, pitching the main event. “We came all the way to the river gorge—how can we skip whitewater rafting? It’s the entire point of this resort.” As she said it, her gaze locked onto mine. Her eyes gleamed with a predatory thrill, waiting for the crack in my armor. She knew. She knew better than anyone alive that I was terrified of water. Especially rushing, violent currents. When I was six years old, my older brother was swept away by a flash flood in the creek behind our house while trying to catch minnows for me. I had watched him vanish beneath the brown churning water with my own eyes. Afterward, I ran a fever of a hundred and four for three days and three nights, hovering on the brink of death. The trauma had carved itself permanently into my nervous system. It was a wound I never spoke of. Aside from my parents, only Bridget and Teman knew the full, agonizing story. She was doing this on purpose. I stared at her in stunned horror. Growing up unloved in a home that favored my younger brother, I had developed a mild, retreat-at-all-costs personality. I never realized that a human bond could curdle so fast, so thoroughly. Just last night, Bridget had curled up on my sofa, whining about how exhausting it was managing Teman’s schedule, complaining of a migraine, and begging me to massage her temples. I had dropped what I was doing without hesitation, patting my lap for her to rest her head. I had spent months learning acupressure techniques specifically to soothe her chronic headaches. That was our dynamic. She was dazzling and formidable to the outside world, yet soft and clingy with me. And yet, over the span of a single night, the mask had shattered. To the rest of the team, her suggestion sounded fantastic. As the department director, Teman understood exactly what that river meant to me. His eyes rested on my pleading face for two seconds. Then, with an almost gentle condescension, he trampled over my terror. “Marina, I know you have your fears, but this is a team-building exercise. We can’t hold up the entire department just for you.” “Do it for the team. Just overcome it for once, okay?” A sharp spasm seized my heart. But this time, something broke inside me. I parted my parched lips and shook my head. “No, Teman. I can’t overcome it. I’m not going.” My refusal was absolute, my face drained of color. A rare flicker of guilt crossed Teman’s features. Just as he was about to relent, Bridget frowned, her eyebrows knitting together in dramatic sorrow. “That’s a problem though… the park rules say the rafts have to be booked in pairs. If Marina sits out, one of our colleagues won’t be able to go.” She paused, letting a crestfallen look wash over her striking face. “Never mind. If Marina really doesn’t want to, I’ll stay behind with her. We shouldn’t ruin the fun for everyone else.” The moment she looked slighted, the softness in Teman’s eyes hardened back into steel. He turned on me, his tone harsh and biting. “Marina, stop being so selfish! It’s just a childhood hang-up—is it really that hard to get over?” Without waiting for another word, ignoring my frantic protests and trembling limbs, he grabbed my wrist and dragged me down the wooden dock, forcing me into a two-person raft. The moment the rubber floor hit the rushing current, a wave of sheer, suffocating terror crashed over me. My entire body locked up. Before my eyes, the memory surged back—the bloated, lifeless little body of my brother being pulled from the mud. The canyon spun violently. I began to shiver uncontrollably, my teeth chattering so hard they clicked. All the heartbreak, the jealousy, the betrayal vanished, swallowed whole by four primal words echoing in my skull: “I am going to die.” Teman looked back from the dock and smiled, thoroughly satisfied. “See? Nothing to it!” “Come on, Bridget, let’s take the lead boat.” By the time we hit the final landing, I was barely conscious. Two guides had to haul me out of the raft. My skin was the color of chalk. The moment my toes touched the riverbank, my knees gave out completely, and I collapsed onto the sharp gravel. The shock and terror had triggered something deeper—a sharp, tearing pain stabbed through my lower belly, radiating down my thighs. A few yards away, Teman and Bridget were strolling toward the shore side by side. They were flushed with adrenaline, laughing, radiating the shared intimacy of a thrilling ride. Until Teman caught sight of me sprawled on the ground. “Marina! Are you okay?!” He jogged toward me, reaching down to help me up. Before his fingers could touch me, Bridget rushed forward, subtly nudging him aside as she knelt with theatrical worry. “Oh God, Marina, why are you in such a state? Are you alright?” With my only point of leverage lost, I fell back onto the stones, gasping at the searing agony in my abdomen. A flash of red rage tore through my fog. While they were riding the rapids, laughing and flirting in the front boat, I had been curled in the fetal position, praying for the earth to swallow me whole. I hated them. In that moment, I hated them with every fiber of my soul. I swung my arms out, shoving them away with all the strength left in my battered body. Teman stumbled but caught his footing on the grass. Bridget, caught off guard, tumbled backward onto the jagged riverbed. The sharp gravel tore through her thin linen shirt, leaving several angry, bloody scrapes across her pale forearm. Teman’s pupils contracted in fury. He lunged forward, gently scooping Bridget into his arms. The nearby coworkers scrambled over with a first-aid kit. Teman tended to her scratches with an aching, tender precision, dabbing antiseptic with steady hands. Only after she was bandaged did he finally turn his gaze to me. Any trace of husbandly warmth had been extinguished, replaced by pure venom. “You venomous little ingrate! She was trying to check on you! Marina, apologize to Bridget right now!” The last ember in my heart turned to ash. I stared up at him from the dirt, my teeth sunk so deep into my lower lip that I tasted blood. I didn’t say a word. Another raft pulled up to the bank, and tourists began trickling past, casting curious glances at the escalating domestic scene. Sensing the embarrassing spectacle, Teman’s face darkened with humiliation. Just as he opened his mouth to berate me again, Bridget caught his sleeve, playing the magnanimous martyr. “Don’t, Teman. Marina was just terrified. I know she didn’t mean to push me.” “Look at her, she’s soaked to the skin. Take off your windbreaker and give it to her so she isn’t exposed.” I looked down at myself. We had both navigated the same violent rapids. Yet Bridget was nearly pristine—aside from a few drops on her cuffs and hem, she was completely dry. I, on the other hand, was drenched from head to toe. My pale cotton blouse clung to my skin like plastic wrap, leaving the dark lace of my bra and the silhouette of my body starkly visible to every passerby. Catching my hollow stare, Bridget offered a demure, triumphant little smile. “Thanks to Teman being such an amazing team lead, he shielded me from all the waves.” If this were the Bridget from yesterday, she would have ripped the jacket off Teman’s back and wrapped it securely around me before I could even ask. Instead, she offered surface-level pity laced with deliberate humiliation. The last illusion was gone. The best friend I had cherished for seven years was dead. Tears welled up, burning my eyes. Through the watery haze, I watched Teman take his dry fleece jacket and drape it gently over Bridget’s shoulders. His voice dropped to a frigid whisper: “Actions have consequences, Marina.” “Since you refuse to apologize, you can walk back to the parking lot like that.” He took Bridget by the elbow and turned his back on me. The trek from the river terminal to the parking lot took nearly thirty minutes along a crowded gravel path. I crossed my arms over my chest, trying desperately to cover myself from the leering eyes of passing strangers. It did little good. Fragments of hushed, crude chatter drifted into my ears: “Damn, she looks so plain usually, but look at that body… Isn’t her husband worried someone’s gonna steal her?” “Her husband told everyone at lunch she’s a total pushover. Soft as clay. That’s why he treats her like dirt—he knows she’ll never leave.” The comments grew bolder, louder. My spirit went through the fire of shame and rage, finally cooling into total, deadened numbness. When I dragged myself to the parking lot, I was surprised to see Teman’s SUV still idling in its spot. I reached for the front passenger door handle, but Bridget appeared, leaning out with a sweet, apologetic smile. “Sorry, Marina. Teman says you’re dripping wet and filthy. You’ll have to ride in the cargo space in the back today.” I stared through the tinted glass at Teman in disbelief. It was a compact SUV. The rear cargo area was cramped, designed for luggage, barely fit for an adult to sit upright. I had thought that even if the romantic love had dried up, there would still be some basic thread of human decency between us. Yet he wanted to lock me in a stifling, windowless trunk for an hour-long drive home. Noticing my shattered look in the side mirror, Teman raised a smug brow. “Don’t like it? Apologize to Bridget, and maybe I’ll reconsider.” A strange lightness washed over my head. All of this—the mind games, the public humiliation, the cruelty—was orchestrated just to extract an apology for his precious assistant. It was so absurd it was almost hilarious. A dry, cracked laugh tore from my throat. The laughter grew until tears spilled over my cheeks. It didn’t matter anymore. Nothing mattered. “Bridget, I am sorry. I shouldn’t have pushed you.” I bent at the waist, executing a stiff, ninety-degree bow, holding the posture in the hot parking lot dust for a full, agonizing minute. Bridget let out a cold snort. “Whatever.” Seeing her once-proud, gentle friend groveling with such pathetic submissiveness ignited an ugly, unsettled fire in Bridget’s chest. She clenched her fists inside Teman’s jacket pockets, fighting down the impulse to reach out and pull me up. She told herself this was necessary—that she was doing this to break my pathetic people-pleasing spirit once and for all. Beside her, Teman had gotten exactly what he demanded. Yet, watching my empty, lifeless eyes, he felt no rush of victory—only a sudden, suffocating irritation. He slammed his fist against the steering wheel, letting out a sharp, piercing blare of the horn. “Enough! Stop wasting time and get in the back!” On the highway, the crushing pain in my lower abdomen became impossible to endure. I slumped sideways across the back seat, curling into a tight, shivering ball. A terrible, cold dread seeped into my bones. “Teman…” I gasped his name, my voice faint as a moth’s wing. I called out four or five times, until the strength bled completely from my lungs. Finally, he deigned to glance into the rearview mirror. Seeing the cold sweat drenching my forehead, he frowned with habitual annoyance. “The AC is on full blast. What are you sweating for?” The pain reached a crescendo, turning my vision into a blinding white sheet. I clawed at the seat leather, trying to force the vital words past my lips: “The baby… please…” But my ragged whisper was instantly swallowed by Bridget’s crisp, mocking laugh from the front seat. “Teman, are you really that clueless? Marina’s just having bad period cramps.” She sighed with theatrical concern: “What bad timing. You don’t even have any pads in the glove box.” Hearing that, Teman’s face twisted in visceral disgust. “Are you even a functional woman, Marina? You can’t even track your own cycle?” “Lie flat and hold it in. Don’t you dare bleed all over my leather seats!” Teman pressed harder on the gas, turning his head to trade jokes with Bridget. Bridget glanced at the rearview mirror and teased, “Honestly, Boss, you’ve been married two years and haven’t even managed to put a baby in her? Are you slipping?” Teman chuckled, leaning in: “Running your mouth again? Keep talking like that and I’ll show you personally how capable I am.” The flirtation hung thick and suggestive in the closed cabin. Bridget’s cheeks flushed crimson. Teman cleared his throat with rare boyish embarrassment and fell silent, a charged, illicit tension crackling between them. They had completely forgotten I was breathing behind them. Until another strangled moan escaped my lips. Teman’s posture stiffened. He glanced guiltily into the mirror again. Seeing that I was completely overwhelmed by pain and clearly oblivious to their banter, he let out a quiet sigh of relief. He shook his head, his tone softening with an unearned crumb of pity: “Hang in there, Marina. We’re almost home.” That split second of distraction cost him. He failed to notice a sedan cutting aggressively into our lane. By the time he looked up, the bumper was inches away. He slammed the brakes to the floor. The violent deceleration threw Bridget forward; her lipstick smeared wildly across the dashboard in jagged crimson streaks. Because I had been lying flat without a seatbelt, the impact launched me off the seat, slamming my body hard against the floorboard. A warm, heavy rush of fluid soaked through my linen trousers. Under the force of the collision, the agony in my womb shredded into something catastrophic. Black spots swarmed my eyes. Teman, panting after the near-miss, rubbed his temples in a fit of absolute rage. “Every damn day with this drama! You almost got us killed!” “If you can’t sit still like a normal person, get the hell out and find your own way home. I’m not running an ambulance service.” He reached back, unlocked the door, hauled me out by my arm, and dropped me onto the dusty roadside curb. He slammed the door and hit the gas, speeding off with Bridget beside him. The exhaust fumes blew cold across my sweating, blood-streaked face. As the taillights disappeared into the dusk, my body gave out entirely, and the world went black. When I opened my eyes again, the sterile smell of antiseptic filled my nose. I was lying in a hospital bed under harsh fluorescent lights. The attending physician looked down at me with heavy, sorrowful eyes. “You were brought in far too late. We did everything we could, but the hemorrhage was catastrophic.” He hesitated before delivering the final blow. “I’m so sorry. Due to the severe uterine trauma and delayed intervention, it is extremely unlikely you will ever be able to conceive again.” The doctor’s voice faded. On the bedside table, my cracked phone screen lit up with two incoming notifications. Teman: “Marina, I lost my temper back there. You made it home, right? Get some rest. I have an emergency project at the office tonight, but I’ll bring home some ginger tea in the morning.” Bridget: “Marina, you’re too soft-hearted. I had to push you to the edge so you’d finally see what kind of man Teman really is. You understand now, don’t you?” I understood. I saw everything with terrifying, crystal clarity. I reached down and placed a trembling hand over my flat, empty stomach. There were no tears left. I didn’t even have the strength to weep. By the time I finished the discharge paperwork and took a cab back to the apartment, it was well past midnight. The place was dark and empty, just as I expected. I packed a single suitcase with my essential clothes and personal documents. From the bottom of my desk drawer, I pulled out the uncontested divorce agreement I had drafted months ago but had never possessed the courage to present. With a steady hand, I signed my name across the dotted line. I laid the signed papers on the dining room table, weighing them down with the hospital discharge summary and the medical record confirming the terminated pregnancy and subsequent infertility. Then, I picked up my bag, pulled open the front door, and stepped out into the night. This time, I didn’t look back.

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The day I was released early for good behavior, my three older sisters showed up at the state penitentiary gates holding a heavy leather dog collar. Virginia, the eldest, held it out to me. Her voice was flat, devoid of warmth. “Put it on. Keep it on from here to the front door of the estate.” She didn’t blink. “Consider it your final test. Pass it, and you’re officially a Bradford.” Mona, the middle sister, reached out and patted my shoulder, letting out a faint sigh. “Seven years… you’ve had it rough.” She paused, her nose wrinkling slightly. “Though that prison stench on you… when we get home, scrub yourself three times before you even think about sitting at the dinner table.” Clara, the youngest sister, looked me up and down with knitted brows. “How are you so skinny? Well, at least the collar won’t look too tight on you.” Seven years ago, they had used the exact same tone. Troy, the adopted golden boy the family took in before they found me, had spiked a classmate’s water bottle with poison. The boy had collapsed on the school track, clinging to life by a thread. That night, my sisters called my cell in a panic: “Take the fall for Troy. Do this, and you’ll truly be our brother.” I didn’t think twice. In the interrogation room, I bit my tongue and swore I acted alone. The verdict came down: seven years. I was eighteen when the bailiffs cuffed my wrists and led me through the side exit. Not a single member of the Bradford family turned around to look at me. Now, at twenty-four, I stood outside the prison gates, staring at the cold metal buckle of the dog collar. Troy poked his head out of the black SUV’s window, his smile blindingly bright. “Jerry! Look at what the girls picked out for your welcome home present!” He beamed. “It’s limited edition! Even Zeus doesn’t have one this nice.” Zeus was his purebred Doberman. I didn’t argue. I didn’t say a word. I simply took the collar, wrapped it around my neck, and buckled it tight. They thought seven years behind bars had broken me into an obedient pet. What they didn’t know was that my withdrawal protocol had only twelve hours left on the clock. In twelve hours, I would leave this world entirely and reunite with my real family. … Mona pulled open the passenger door, smiling down at me. “Get in. Let’s take you home.” I took half a step forward before Troy leaned across the center console. “Wait!” He blocked the door, turning toward our sisters with a troubled pout. “Dad gave me this car for my birthday last year…” He eyed my stained, faded release clothes, grimacing. “The smell on Jerry… what if it seeps into the leather? It might never come out.” My foot hovered in midair. I pulled it back. Virginia frowned. “Fine. Call him an Uber. Let him ride back alone.” Troy immediately waved his hands in distress. “No, no, that’s terrible! Jerry just got out after seven years. Making him take a cab makes us look like monsters!” He tilted his head, tapping his chin thoughtfully, before pointing toward the cargo hatch at the back of the SUV. He clapped his hands together. “He can sit in the trunk! It’s only a thirty-minute drive. It’ll be cozy!” A flicker of awkwardness crossed my sisters’ faces. Mona parted her lips to object, but Troy’s eyes had already welled with tears. “Never mind… forget I said anything. Jerry can take my seat. I’ll just call a cab myself.” He sniffled, looking down. “It’s fine. Every time Jerry’s around, I’m the one who has to give things up anyway.” Virginia’s expression hardened. She turned to me, her voice cold. “Get in the trunk. It’s a short drive. Don’t make a scene.” I walked to the rear and lifted the heavy tailgate. A black blur exploded from the shadows. Razor-sharp teeth sank instantly into my forearm, tearing through skin and muscle. A muffled groan ripped from my throat as dark crimson dripped down my wrist, spattering the bumper. From the front seat, Troy let out an exaggerated gasp. “Oh no! I completely forgot Zeus was back there!” He leaned over the headrest, widening his eyes in innocent horror. “I’m so sorry, Jerry! He usually never bites!” He paused, tilting his head as he studied the collar around my neck, blinking ingenuously. “Zeus probably saw what you’re wearing… maybe he thought you were another stray dog intruding on his space? He’s very territorial.” Before I could breathe through the throbbing pain, Mona’s impatient voice drifted from the front. “What are you stalling for? Get in already!” Left with no choice, I curled my body into the cramped cargo space, pressing my bleeding arm beneath my ribs to stem the flow. In my mind, a mechanical chime echoed softly: [Extraction Countdown: 10 hours, 9 minutes remaining.] When we arrived at the Bradford estate, I climbed the winding stairs to my old bedroom. The moment I pushed the door open, my feet froze. Chewed-up rubber toys lay scattered across the hardwood. The bookshelves were lined with bags of premium dog kibble and rawhide bones. In the corner sat a massive, velvet dog bed embroidered in gold thread: “Zeus’s Throne.” My room had become a kennel. My gaze drifted to the far corner near the baseboard. A small, ragged stuffed lion. One of its felt ears had been gnawed off, and white polyester fluff spilled out of its ripped belly, discarded beside the dog’s water bowl. The matron at the orphanage had sewn that for me the day the Bradfords came to take me away. On the back of its ear, she had carefully stitched four crooked words: “For My Brave Jerry.” She had told me to be like a little lion—brave, steadfast, carving out a sky of my own. During those early days in the Bradford mansion, everything was foreign, expensive, and cold. Nothing belonged to me. Except that little lion. Whenever I was scolded, whenever Troy framed me and I was sent to my room in tears, I would clutch it in the dark, pretending the matron was still holding my hand. Now, it lay shredded like a piece of worthless trash. Troy’s voice drifted softly from behind me. “I’m sorry, Jerry… after you went away, the room was empty for so long. Zeus needed a playroom, so I…” Virginia stepped up, adding casually, “We didn’t expect you to be released a year early. We’ll have someone redecorate it tomorrow. Make do for tonight.” I knelt on the floor, picking up the mangled stuffed lion. Pinch by pinch, I pushed the loose cotton back into its torn belly. “There’s no need to change it.” I knew in my heart that I wouldn’t have a tomorrow here. Virginia’s face darkened. “What is that supposed to mean?” Clara sneered from the hallway. “Seven years in a cell and your attitude hasn’t improved one bit, has it?” Virginia inhaled deeply, her tone sharp with irritation. “Troy took the trouble to prepare the guest room for you! What are you throwing a tantrum for?!” Troy grabbed Virginia’s arm, rubbing his cheek against her sleeve like an affectionate cat. “Don’t yell at him, Virginia… it’s all my fault.” He turned to smile at me, sweet and accommodating. “The guest room is on the second floor. I cleaned it myself two days ago. Go take a shower, Jerry. We’re throwing you a welcome banquet tonight.” He beamed. “Put on the clothes I laid out for you. Let’s celebrate properly.” Clutching the ruined toy to my chest, I walked into the guest room. The moment my eyes landed on the bed, my breath caught in my throat. Neatly folded on the mattress was a slate-gray servant’s uniform. Resting on top of the fabric was a polished brass dog tag on a chain. It matched the collar around my neck perfectly. Virginia knocked twice on the heavy wooden door. “Are you dressed yet? The guests are arriving.” I didn’t answer. She knocked again, her voice softening just a fraction. “Just get through tonight’s party, and you’ll officially be a Bradford son again.” I stared at the uniform on the bed. Then, slowly, I put it on. The mirror reflected a hollow stranger. A heavy leather dog collar around his neck, a servant’s tunic on his frame, and a brass dog tag pinned to his chest. Engraved upon the brass was my name: “Jerry Bradford.” When I walked down the grand staircase, the sprawling living room was already packed with high-society elites. Near the French doors, several lifestyle journalists and society bloggers had their heavy camera rigs set up, broadcasting the event live. “Look, everyone! My brother is here! Let’s welcome the eldest son of the Bradford family!” Troy stood at the center of the room in a tailored ivory suit, clapping enthusiastically. Dozens of faces turned toward the stairs simultaneously. Some paused with champagne flutes halfway to their lips. Some covered their mouths in stifled amusement. Others brazenly raised their smartphones to record. A reporter thrust a microphone past the velvet ropes. “Mr. Bradford, how does it feel to step back into high society after serving seven years behind bars?” Virginia stepped in front of me, waving the microphone away with a tight frown. “This is a private family gathering. No interviews.” Yet, she didn’t ask a single camera to stop livestreaming. A wealthy socialite approached, flicking her jeweled fan against the brass tag on my chest as she looked me up and down. “Troy, darling, is this your family’s new chauffeur?” Troy chuckled, waving his hands playfully. “Oh, stop teasing, Mrs. Robert! This is my biological brother.” “Ah…” The woman dragged out the syllable, her smile dripping with condescension. “The one who went to prison?” Whispers rippled through the surrounding crowd, unbothered by my proximity. “I heard the crime was brutal back then. Nearly beat a boy to death on the field.” “Tsk, what a shame. Handsome face, entirely wasted…” Virginia led me through the crowd, introducing me with carefully curated ambiguity. “This is my younger brother, Jerry. He took a bit of a wrong turn years ago, but he’s home now.” She never explicitly said “felon”. Yet everyone understood. Someone asked, “What kind of wrong turn?” Troy leaned close to a cluster of socialites, whispering behind his manicured hand—just loud enough for the entire circle to hear. “He made a little mistake in high school… but my sisters are so forgiving. They brought him right back. We Bradfords never abandon family.” Midway through the evening, the guests began chanting for Troy to perform. With practiced grace, he sat down at the Steinway grand piano and played a flawless rendition of “Clair de Lune”. The notes drifted effortlessly through the hall. When the final chord faded, the room erupted into thunderous applause. Troy stood, offered a modest bow, and turned toward the corner where I stood. His smile was dazzling. “Jerry, it’s your turn!” He chirped, “What did you prepare for everyone? We’re all waiting!” I stood pinned against the wall, my fingers digging into the seam of my gray trousers. No one had told me about a performance. Troy tilted his head, feigning a sudden burst of inspiration. “How about you and Zeus do a little trick together? You could crawl on all fours like a good pup!” He clapped his hands, lifting Zeus down from the sofa. “Zeus loves playing with family!” A heavy silence descended over the grand salon. Virginia’s glass paused at her lips. Mona leaned in, whispering, “Troy… with all these guests and the live broadcast, isn’t that a bit much?” Troy’s smile instantly vanished, replaced by quivering vulnerability. “Why is it too much? You always say Zeus is part of the family too!” His eyes shone with unshed tears. “Letting Jerry bond with our family pet—what’s wrong with that?” He raised a trembling hand to wipe his eye. “Or… are you taking his side now? Am I just the outsider who can’t do anything right anymore…?” Mona clamped her mouth shut. Virginia set her champagne flute down on a passing waiter’s tray. She looked directly at me. “Get on your knees.” I took a slow, deep breath. Inside my mind, the digital timer chimed again. [Extraction Countdown: 8 hours, 34 minutes remaining.] I was leaving anyway. Fighting back held no meaning anymore. I bent my knees, preparing to drop to the polished marble. Just as my palms were about to touch the floor, a sharp, furious voice sliced through the room. “Don’t you dare make him crawl!” Every head turned toward the grand foyer. Nina strode into the hall, her stilettos clicking sharply against the stone. She cut straight through the parting crowd, grabbed my wrist in an iron grip, and hauled me upward. “Virginia, your family has crossed the line.” Nina glared at my eldest sister, her voice laced with venom. “If you brought him back, why are you humiliating him like this?” The room fell dead silent. The streaming cameras pivoted instantly, focusing entirely on her. I stood half a step behind her, staring at the sharp line of her shoulders. My mind drifted back twenty years. When I arrived at the orphanage at four years old, she was already there. She had been the scrawniest girl in the yard, her pigtails always crooked, her voice so faint it sounded like she was terrified of waking the world. When the older kids stole her lunch and tossed her favorite plastic hairpin into the drainage ditch, she would crouch by the brick wall, hugging her knees in silence. It was always me who charged in, snatched her tray back, and leaped into the muddy ditch to fish out her hairpin. The older boys shoved me hard into the gravel, tearing open both my knees. She had sobbed so hard she could barely breathe, clutching my shirt as she gently blew on my bloody cuts. “Jerry, let’s never be apart, okay?” she had whimpered, her voice trembling. “No matter what anyone says about you, I’ll always stand by your side.” From that day on, she was my shadow. She had to sit next to me at meals. She dragged her little cot right against mine at night. When the other kids teased her for being an unwanted orphan, she hid behind my back, clutching my hem. Until the day a convoy of luxury sedans arrived at the gates, announcing she was the lost heiress of the powerful Robert family. Before they took her away, she had wept hysterically through the wrought-iron gate. She pressed that scratched old hairpin into my palm, refusing to let go. “Jerry, wait for me. I promise I’ll find you.” The following year, the Bradfords identified me as their long-lost son. The very day I returned to the city, Nina visited the estate and formalized our betrothal. During those seven brutal years in prison, there were countless nights I wanted to end it all. It was Nina who came to every single visitation, smiling through the reinforced glass. “Hold on just a little longer, Jerry. When you get out, we’re getting married.” If there was a single anchor holding me to this world, it was her. Virginia remained silent, her brow furrowed. Troy stood to the side, hanging his head, quietly dabbing at his eyes. “Nina… I didn’t mean to make things hard for him,” he murmured, his voice fragile and cracked. “It’s just… earlier tonight, Jerry slipped into my dressing room and took my cufflinks.” I froze. “Those were the last gift my biological mother left me… a custom heirloom. I’ve been looking everywhere for them…” He looked up at Nina, tears clinging to his long lashes. “I wasn’t trying to be cruel. I was just… heartbroken.” Nina’s posture stiffened. She turned her head slowly, looking directly at me. “Is that true?” Four words. Weightless, yet crushing. I looked into her eyes. At four years old, she had blown on my bloody knees, swearing through tears that she would always believe me over the rest of the world. Now, those same eyes held only one thing: Doubt. We had known each other for twenty years. And her first instinct was to ask if I was a thief. Did she truly believe I was the kind of person who would steal from someone else? I didn’t utter a single syllable of defense. She waited three seconds. Five seconds. When I offered no explanation, something in her gaze snapped. Slowly, deliberately, she released her grip on my wrist and stepped back. Nina closed her eyes for a heartbeat. When she opened them, every drop of warmth had drained from her face. “It seems seven years behind bars really did ruin you.” She stared down at me, enunciating every word like a hammer striking an anvil. “Crawling on all fours isn’t enough.” “Get on your knees. Bark like a dog, and apologize to Troy.” I watched her lips move, watching the cruelty spill effortlessly from her mouth. Suddenly, the last twenty years felt like nothing more than a hollow, pathetic dream. Inside my mind, the system chimed softly. [Extraction Countdown: 6 hours, 52 minutes remaining.] Without a moment’s hesitation, I fell to my knees. That night, under the glare of studio lights and before dozens of mocking smartphones, I barked like a dog for the crowd. Nina sat on the velvet sofa nearby. Not once did she look in my direction again. By the time the gala ended, it was well past midnight. The guests trickled out in small groups, chuckling as they passed me in the corridor. “The Bradford heir makes quite a convincing mutt, doesn’t he?” “Well, with the collar and the servant rags, you’d almost mistake him for one.” I had knelt on the cold stone for so long that my lower legs were entirely numb. Using the wall for support, I dragged my throbbing, stiff limbs up the stairs and limped into the guest room. The second the heavy door swung shut, a crisp “click” sounded from the hallway. Someone had locked the deadbolt from the outside. Almost instantly, the central air conditioning unit above roared to life. A blast of frigid, biting air poured from the vents, driving the room’s temperature down with unnatural speed. There were no quilts in the guest room. The single sheet on the mattress was as thin as paper. Whoever set the thermostat had cranked it down to freezing extremes. The chill penetrated straight into my marrow like ice picks. I curled into the corner of the bare mattress, clutching the mangled stuffed lion to my chest, my teeth chattering violently. One hour passed. Two hours. My fingertips turned a deep, bruised purple. My lips lost all sensation. My body shuddered uncontrollably, my consciousness slipping into a dark, foggy haze. The digital voice chimed within the fog of my mind: [Extraction Countdown: 28 minutes remaining.] [Warning: Host’s core body temperature is dropping rapidly. Vital signs approaching critical failure.] “Almost there.” I closed my eyes, relinquishing my grip on reality. “Let it end.” I was leaving anyway. A few minutes early or late made no difference. Just as the darkness was about to swallow me whole, a sharp, crimson notification flashed violently across my vision: [Alert: If the host survives until dawn to complete the natural extraction cycle, the Retribution Protocol will be unlocked.] My heavy eyelids fluttered open. [Upon activation, every individual who inflicted harm or humiliation upon the host will suffer the exact pain, physical and psychological, magnified tenfold.] The freezing air continued to pour over me like liquid nitrogen. I stared at the dim ceiling, my eyes barely able to track movement. “Everyone?” I croaked internally. [Yes. Every single one.] I bit down savagely on my own tongue. A burst of hot, metallic blood flooded my throat. “Not enough.” I dragged my left wrist against the sharp, unpolished iron corner of the bed frame, sawing the skin back and forth. I scraped until the flesh tore open, until warm blood welled from the laceration. Using my trembling right hand, I caught the blood and smeared it across my bare arms, my chest, my shivering legs. It was warm. Relying on those fleeting seconds of biological heat, I fought for every single minute. My consciousness flickered out multiple times, only to be dragged back by searing waves of agony. The wound on my tongue continued to bleed; the flesh on my wrist hung ragged and raw. I didn’t know how I survived the night. I only knew that when the first golden sliver of sunrise cut through the gap in the blackout blinds, the voice chimed with absolute clarity: [Congratulations, Host. Mission completed. Retribution Protocol successfully activated.] [Extraction sequence initiated: 5, 4, 3, 2, 1…] A wave of pure warmth washed over me. Suddenly, my entire being felt weightless. I felt myself lift off the mattress, floating upward through the ceiling, through the attic rafters, through the slate roof of the manor. I looked down. Curled in the corner of that frozen guest bed lay a lone figure. Drenched in dried blood, lips blackened, clutching a ragged little stuffed lion. It was me. Or rather, my empty shell. Downstairs, Nina’s voice drifted up from the marble foyer. “My chest has been aching terribly since I woke up… I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” She paused, her tone slightly awkward. “I might have been a bit too harsh on him last night… but he passed the test. It’s behind us now.” She cleared her throat. “I came over early so we could finally set a date for the wedding.” Virginia’s voice chimed in from the kitchen. “I felt it too. My heart’s been pounding erratically all morning, like something vital is missing.” She added calmly, “We’ll take him to the family shrine today and officially enter his name into the ancestral registry.” Mona murmured, “He endured a lot last night. I’ll make sure to make it up to him today.” Clara called out to the butler, “Go fetch him from the guest room. Tell him the test is over.” The elderly butler climbed the stairs, unlocked the deadbolt, and pushed the door open. “Master Jerry, the young ladies are requesting your presence downstairs—” The voice cut off sharply. Then, a blood-curdling scream tore through the entire manor: “Help! Oh God, someone help—!”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “562893”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

Everyone in high society swore Patrick loved me down to his marrow. To shield me from the ruthless crossfire of his family’s succession war, he had orchestrated a scandal—publicly calling off our engagement, taking the reputational hit, and installing a girl from his scholarship foundation as his public shield. Her name was Whitney. She had looked me in the eye with wide, earnest modesty, patting her chest as she swore she had a steady boyfriend back home and would never dream of touching a man who belonged to me. I believed them both. I swallowed the ache in my chest, moved by his desperate desire to protect me and her apparent loyalty. I stepped out of the limelight without a fight, retreating into the shadows of our suburban estate to quietly wait for the day he would come take me home. I waited eight months. The corporate war ended. Patrick seized the chairman’s seat at Calhoun Holdings, standing uncontested at the top of the empire. Yet what came for me was not a phone call telling me the coast was clear. It was the unvarnished truth, spilled through the haze of single malt scotch in a private lounge at the city’s most exclusive club. “Protect her? Hell, I’m protecting my own little empire,” Patrick’s voice drifted through the door crack, thick with smug arrogance. “One sweet promise tucks the heiress neatly away, and a little charity keeps the wildflower on a tight leash. Neither of them claws at the other; they even curtsy and make room. Tell me—is there a better deal on earth?” Through the narrow slit of the heavy mahogany doors, I saw Whitney curled in his lap. He tilted his head, brushing his lips across her hair with a slow, practiced tenderness that made the air freeze in my lungs. Standing in the dim, chilled corridor, a bone-deep frost settled into my veins. He had never been protecting me. He had simply crafted a noble lie I couldn’t refuse, just so I would step aside and hand him over to another woman with a grateful smile. … 1 “What are you doing here?” The heavy lounge door swung outward. When Patrick caught sight of me standing in the shadowed hallway, his frame went rigid. He took an instinctive half-step back, his broad shoulders shifting to block Whitney from my line of sight. Even so, I caught the lingering motion of his fingers—gently tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear. I lowered my gaze, keeping my voice soft and measured. “I came to drive you home.” A breath slipped past Patrick’s lips, his shoulders relaxing. He closed the distance between us and reached out to encircle my wrist. “Didn’t I tell you to wait for me at home? It’s freezing out here.” As he spoke, he shrugged off his tailored suit jacket and draped it securely over Whitney’s shoulders. “Whitney’s frail,” he added without missing a beat. “And she had a glass of wine. She can’t afford a chill.” Whitney pulled the jacket tight, cocooning herself in the warmth he had just shed. She looked up at me with wide, frightened eyes, like a doe caught in headlights. “Marina, please don’t get the wrong idea,” she whispered. “Everything he said in that room… Patrick was just putting on a show for the investors.” Patrick nodded along, catching her cue effortlessly. “You heard, didn’t you, Marina? The old guard on the board is still watching my every move. If I don’t play the part of a reckless playboy enjoying his spoils, they’ll never let their guard down. Everything I do is to keep you safe.” He met my eyes with righteous confidence, wearing the mask of a martyr so convincingly that anyone else might have believed the man who had just bragged about running two women was actually carrying a cross for love. I stared at him, saying nothing. The corridor sconces cast sharp shadows across his profile, rendering him utterly unfamiliar. “Let’s go,” I said quietly, turning on my heel. “Let’s go home.” Patrick followed me down to the private underground garage, pulling open the passenger door of his sedan. The moment I stepped forward to take the seat, his palm pressed against the frame, blocking my way. “Marina, take the back,” he said smoothly. “Whitney gets carsick easily. It’s better if she sits up front.” My hand hovered in midair. Whitney stood behind him, looking terribly contrite. “I’m so sorry, Marina. My constitution is just useless—I’m always causing trouble for you two. If it bothers you, I can just call a cab.” She turned as if to walk toward the elevator. Patrick caught her arm instantly, his brows knitting tightly together. “It’s past midnight. A young woman hailing a cab alone isn’t safe,” he said, before turning back to me, his tone laced with mild reproof. “Marina, you’ve always been the sensible one. You wouldn’t hold something so trivial against her, would you?” “No,” I replied evenly. I opened the rear door and slipped into the leather seat. The drive back was suffocatingly quiet. Through the rearview mirror, Patrick’s eyes drifted constantly toward the passenger seat. When Whitney closed her eyes against the headrest, he reached over to turn up the climate control by two degrees, then grabbed a cashmere throw from the center console and spread it carefully across her lap. Every movement was fluid, instinctive, and practiced. Far too practiced for a man merely tending to a temporary decoy. When we arrived at the estate, Whitney made her way up the stairs with familiar ease, heading straight for the master guest suite on the second floor. Patrick loosened his silk tie and disappeared into his study. I walked into our bedroom. On the nightstand rested a framed photograph from eight months ago. We were standing in a boutique studio, laughing between fittings for our wedding. Two days after that photo was taken, he stood before our families and called off the ceremony. He thrust Whitney into the spotlight, telling me that a hostile faction on the board was looking to strike at me to cripple him, and that painting a target on someone else was the only way to keep me safe. I had believed him. To keep his path clear, I had even handed over operational oversight of my own ventures, quietly retreating into this gilded cage to wait for him. My phone buzzed on the nightstand. A text from Whitney: “Patrick said my wrists are too bare and insisted on buying me this. What do you think, Marina?” Attached was a photo of a limited-edition Van Cleef & Arpels diamond bracelet. I recognized it instantly. Two weeks ago, Patrick’s executive assistant had flagged the purchase for my review. Patrick had dismissed it as a strategic gift to grease wheels with a customs commissioner’s wife. I locked the screen without replying. Thirsty, I stepped out into the quiet hallway to get a glass of water. As I passed the entryway console, my sleeve brushed against the smart assistant hub. The blue light pulsed, automatically syncing and playing back the day’s voice memos. “Patrick, this ring is far too expensive… shouldn’t it be for Marina?” Whitney’s soft, breathless voice drifted through the empty foyer. Then came Patrick’s reply, dripping with an exquisite, intimate warmth I hadn’t heard in years. “She doesn’t need something like this. I had this flown in from Milan specifically for you. Only you deserve to wear it. Once the dust settles, Whitney, I’m giving you the wedding of a lifetime.” The recording clicked off. The silence that followed was deafening. I stood frozen, the crystal glass clutched so tightly in my fingers that the edges bit into my skin. The study door clicked open behind me. Patrick stepped into the hallway, his face draining of color the moment he saw me standing beside the glowing hub. “What are you doing?” he demanded. I turned around, my face perfectly still. “Just listening to the room.” … 2 Patrick closed the distance between us in three swift strides, his thumb slamming down on the hub’s power button to kill the light. He searched my eyes, looking for the familiar signs of an impending storm—fury, betrayal, tears. But my gaze remained placid, an unmoving sheet of glass. “That recording was something Whitney staged for outside ears,” he said, taking a slow breath as his voice slipped into its familiar tone of weary patience. “The board has people tracking her movements. She has to play the part of the spoiled favorite to the hilt, or the illusion falls apart. The ring is just a prop. Marina, you’re brilliant—since when do you let cheap theatrics cloud your judgment?” He laid out the logic with seamless precision, never once needing a pause to assemble his lies. I lowered my eyes to the faint silhouette of the device on the console table. “I understand,” I said softly. “Get some sleep.” Without waiting for his response, I brushed past him and walked back into the bedroom. Patrick lingered in the hallway, unsettled by how quiet I had been. Yet, confident in his hold over me, he didn’t follow. The next morning, I went into the study to retrieve an old portfolio report I had left behind. When I slid open the bottom drawer of the mahogany desk, it was jammed with folders. Tucked beneath several thick financial binders, the crimson corner of an official document caught my eye. I pulled it free. It was a certified marriage certificate. Inside, embossed with the official state seal, was a photograph of Patrick and Whitney. The registration date was three months ago—the exact week Patrick had finalized his control over the family trust. Footsteps echoed from the threshold. Patrick stepped inside carrying a mug of coffee. The moment his eyes landed on what was in my hand, his wrist jerked, dark liquid splashing over the rim. He lunged forward, snatching the certificate from my grip. “What are you doing rifling through my private desk?” he snapped, his voice sharp with cornered guilt. I looked at him, watching the faint tremor in his jaw. “I was looking for my reports. It was right on top.” Patrick crushed the document against his palm, his throat working as he swallowed. “Marina, listen to me,” he said, his tone softening into urgent pleading. “It isn’t what it looks like.” He shoved the paper back into the drawer and turned the brass key, locking it tight. “Those old vipers on the board were digging too deep. An engagement wasn’t enough to convince them. The only way to make them believe Whitney was my sole vulnerability was to make it legal. That was the only way to draw every single target away from you and onto her. It’s just a piece of paper, Marina—a temporary sacrifice to keep you untouchable. Give me one year. Just one year to clear out the remaining opposition, and I’ll file the divorce. Then we’ll have the biggest wedding this city has ever seen. All right?” He reached out to pull me into his arms. I took a step back, slipping neatly out of his reach. His hands hung awkwardly in the empty air, his brow furrowing with sudden irritation. “What is wrong with you?” he pressed, his patience wearing thin. “I’m carrying the weight of the entire world on my shoulders to buy us a clean future, and you can’t even give me a shred of trust?” I looked at the righteous grievance etched into his features, and whatever lingering trace of sorrow had remained in my chest simply dissolved into nothing. “I’m not upset,” I said, walking toward the door. “If you say it’s just scrap paper, then that’s what it is.” I went back to the master bedroom, shut the door, and retrieved an encrypted burner phone from beneath the floorboard. Powering it on, I dialed the only number saved in the contacts. It connected on the second ring. A deep, steady baritone answered. “Marina?” “Alton,” I said, looking out the window at the manicured lawn. “The strategic merger you proposed last month. I’m ready to accept.” On the other end of the line, Alton Ward went silent for two beats. “Have you thought this through?” he asked quietly. “He’s currently the golden boy of the Calhoun empire.” My eyes rested on the framed photograph on the nightstand. “I’ve thought it through,” I replied. “It’s time to take back everything that belonged to me in the first place.” A low, resonant chuckle came through the receiver. “Good,” Alton said. “I’ll have legal draw up the equity restructuring documents today. Say the word, and I’ll come get you.” I hung up, locking the burner away. A moment later, Patrick pushed the bedroom door open, carrying a porcelain plate of sliced fruit. “Who were you on the phone with?” he asked, glancing at the empty glass in my hand. “Nobody. Telemarketers,” I said casually. He set the plate on the vanity, his tone turning gentle. “The South Bay logistics hub has an on-site inspection today. Come with me. It’ll do you good to get out of the house.” I looked at him and gave a slight nod. “All right.” … 3 The South Bay industrial project had been my brainchild from inception to execution. It remained one of the Calhoun Group’s most lucrative revenue engines. When I stepped into the SUV, Whitney was already settled comfortably in the front passenger seat. She wore an immaculate white linen sundress and a wide-brimmed straw hat. “Marina, you don’t mind me tagging along to learn the ropes, do you?” She turned around, gazing at me with wide, apologetic eyes. “Patrick said that since I’m carrying his name publicly, I should at least understand the family business.” Patrick started the engine, checking my expression in the rearview mirror. “Just bringing her along for the optics.” “Fine,” I said, turning my gaze out the window. The construction site was a sprawling expanse of dust, rumbling excavators, and towering steel skeletons. The site foreman hurried over with hard hats, bowing deferentially as he offered Patrick a briefing folder. Whitney clung tightly to Patrick’s arm, shrinking against his side. “Patrick, it’s so loud here… I’m a little scared.” Patrick patted the back of her hand soothingly. “Don’t worry. Stay right next to me.” He led the way, with Whitney tucked close against his side. I walked three paces behind them, reviewing the engineering schematics in my hands. As we crossed beneath the framework of the third fabrication warehouse, a sharp, violent screech of tearing metal rent the air above us. “Watch out!” the foreman screamed. I looked up. A temporary scaffolding structure twenty feet above was listing dangerously, its fasteners snapping under a shifted load. Dozens of heavy steel pipes were cascading down like an avalanche of iron. “Patrick!” Whitney shrieked, dropping to her knees in terror. In that fraction of a second, Patrick—who had been standing less than an arm’s length from me—pivoted without hesitation. His hands shoved me violently out of the way. He threw his entire body over Whitney, pinning her beneath him against the concrete. The force of his shove sent me sprawling hard onto the jagged gravel. My right palm dragged across a rusty metal bracket, slicing open a deep, jagged gash. Blood welled instantly, spilling over my fingers. Before I could even push myself up, a four-inch steel pipe whistled through the air, hurtling straight for my shoulder. A broad, calloused hand clamped onto the collar of my jacket, yanking me backward with fierce, decisive strength. “Crash!” The iron beam slammed into the earth barely an inch from the toe of my boot, throwing up a cloud of chalky dust and stone chips. I stumbled back into a wide, solid chest that carried the crisp, faint scent of cedarwood and winter air. “Is this Patrick Calhoun’s idea of protection?” Alton Ward’s cool, commanding voice resonated above my head. Chest heaving, I looked up. Alton’s chiseled jaw was set like carved granite, his dark eyes burning with icy contempt as he stared across the rubble. The dust settled. Patrick pushed himself up, cradling an untouched Whitney in his arms. He checked her frantically from head to toe. “Are you hurt? Does anything ache?” Whitney buried her face in his neck, weeping softly. “I’m fine… but I think Marina fell.” Only then did Patrick remember I existed. He turned, freezing the moment he saw me encircled in Alton Ward’s arm—and the dark crimson dripping steadily from my shredded palm. His brow knotted instantly. “Ward? What the hell are you doing on my site?” Alton drew a clean linen handkerchief from his breast pocket and wrapped it firmly around my bleeding hand, his movements steady and unhurried. “Ward Capital holds a forty-percent mezzanine stake in South Bay,” Alton said flatly. “I’m inspecting my assets. Do you have an issue with that?” Patrick’s face darkened as he watched Alton’s fingers work around my wrist. “Let go of her.” He took a step toward us, reaching out for my arm. Alton shifted slightly, his broad frame placing a wall between Patrick and me. “I suggest you look after the delicate guest in your arms first, Calhoun.” Patrick ground his teeth, his eyes darting to me. “Marina. Come here.” I looked at him, the throbbing pain in my hand already dulling into numbness. “Don’t worry about me,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper. “Take her to the hospital. She’s terrified.” Patrick looked between my bleeding hand and the weeping girl trembling against his chest. Without another word, he scooped Whitney into his arms. “I’m taking her for a checkup. We’ll talk back at the house.” He carried her toward the site exit without looking back once, his strides hurried and desperate. I stood in the dust, watching their retreating silhouettes. Alton finished tying off the linen wrap. “No regrets?” he asked under his breath. I pulled my eyes away, looking down at the stark white cloth soaking through with red. “None,” I said. “Did you bring the agreement?” Alton produced a sleek fountain pen and a leather-bound folder from his coat. I flipped to the signature page and, without a second of hesitation, signed my name. … 4 We went straight from the construction site to Ward Memorial Hospital, where a surgeon put five stitches into my palm. Alton insisted his private driver take me back to the Calhoun estate. By the time the black sedan pulled up the gravel driveway, dusk had settled over the grounds. I pushed open the front door. The chandelier blazed overhead. Whitney was sitting curled on the velvet sofa, holding a polished rosewood box in her lap. Inside lay an antique emerald jade bangle—the only piece of jewelry my mother had left me before she passed, and the one keepsake I had kept locked in the master safe. At the sound of the door, Whitney looked up, a sweet, guileless smile spreading across her lips. “You’re back, Marina,” she purred. “Patrick told me I could pick whatever I liked from the vault. I thought this green bracelet was lovely. Mind if I borrow it for a few days?” I crossed the room and held out my unbandaged hand. “Give it back.” Whitney shrank back against the cushions. “Why are you so petty? You’re stepping out of the picture anyway. Everything in this house is going to be mine sooner or later.” She stood up, dangling the fragile heirloom between two fingers over the polished marble floor. “Tell me… if this shatters, will you cry?” I held her gaze, my voice level. “Try it.” Whitney smirked and opened her fingers. “Snap!” The vibrant green stone struck the marble with a violent crack, splintering into four jagged shards. The sharp ring echoed through the cavernous room. She gasped, clasping her hands to her mouth in mock horror. “Oh no… it slipped.” Then, moving with terrifying deliberation, Whitney dropped to her knees, snatched up a razor-sharp shard of jade, and dragged it ruthlessly across the back of her own hand. Blood welled along the cut instantly. The front door clicked open. Patrick walked in, still carrying his briefcase. The moment his eyes took in the shattered jade and the blood dripping from Whitney’s hand, his face warped with fury. “Marina! What is wrong with you?” He stormed across the foyer, shoving me aside so hard my shoulder clipped the wall, and dropped to his knees beside Whitney, wrapping his handkerchief around her bleeding skin. “Patrick, please don’t be mad at her,” Whitney sobbed, burying her face into his shoulder. “It was an accident… I dropped her bracelet, and it’s only natural she was angry enough to push me…” Patrick whipped his head around, his eyes burning with disgust. “It’s a piece of dead rock! Was it worth trying to maim her over it?” I looked at the shattered green fragments scattered across the cold floor. I didn’t defend myself. I didn’t offer a single word of explanation. I simply looked him in the eye. “What do you want, Patrick?” My icy composure caught him off guard, deepening the crease between his brows. “Whitney is injured and traumatized. She needs absolute quiet,” he decreed, his tone brooking no argument. “You need to stay at a hotel for a few days.” He paused, his jaw setting into hard lines. “And the executive voting rights for the South Bay development—you’re signing them over to me. Consider it restitution for what you did to her.” He delivered the ultimatum as if it were the most natural thing in the world, fully expecting me to bend once more for the sake of his grand design. I looked at him and nodded. “Fine.” The single word fell cleanly into the room. Patrick froze. The entire lecture he had prepared died in his throat. “You… agree?” “Yes,” I said, turning toward the stairs. “I’ll take my things tonight. The South Bay transfer paperwork will be delivered to your office in the morning.” Thirty minutes later, I walked down the curved staircase carrying a single weekend bag. Patrick stood in the center of the foyer, staring at my luggage with an unreadable look in his eyes. Yet he said nothing. He simply shifted slightly, shielding Whitney behind his frame as I passed. I pushed open the door and stepped out into the dark night. I climbed into the back of Alton’s waiting car, pulled out my phone, and pressed “Send” on a pre-drafted command. The countdown had begun. That night, in the penthouse suite of the city’s most exclusive club, Patrick popped a bottle of Dom Pérignon to celebrate wresting full control of the South Bay project. At that exact moment across town, the towering bronze doors of the Metropolitan Gala swung open. Dressed in midnight silk, my arm linked with Alton Ward’s, I stepped into the blinding glare of a hundred flashing cameras—smiling as we announced our formal engagement and the corporate merger of our family trusts.

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After three years of living with my soul trapped in another world, I finally came back to my family. Yet the brief flash of reunion quickly curdled into cold shoulders and endless hostility. The moment I so much as touched the pink plush rabbit sitting on the dresser, my older sister, Lydia, snapped at me in front of everyone. “That belongs to Hollie! Keep your hands off her things!” At dinner, staring at a table crowded with shellfish and garlic butter, I quietly mentioned that I was allergic. My mother immediately welled up with tears. “These were Hollie’s favorites,” Mom choked out, dabbing her eyes with a napkin. “God only knows how that poor child is surviving over there…” Hollie. Always Hollie. That was the delicate name of the soul who had taken over my body—not mine. It all culminated on my twenty-fourth birthday. When I blew out the candles, I made a quiet wish out loud: “I wish our family could stay together forever.” Lydia stood up and kicked the cake off the table. “Who said you’re our family?” she screamed. “Hollie is my real sister! Monica, I wish you’d stayed trapped in that ancient wasteland forever! Give Hollie back to us!” I lowered my eyes to the ruined floor. None of them knew that I wanted to go back, too. In that other world, there were parents and an older brother who loved me with everything they had. I missed them with every fiber of my being. … “Cry, that’s all you ever do!” “Monica, why did you have to push Hollie out? She’s terrified of the dark! How is she supposed to survive without me?!” Lydia slammed the front door so hard the frame rattled, leaving behind a disaster. I stared down at the strawberry cake smeared across the hardwood floor. It felt as though someone had taken my heart, dropped it into the dirt, and crushed it beneath their heel. I had only been gone for three years, but the world I returned to was unrecognizable. When the soul-swap first happened, my family had looked for me. Mom and Lydia managed to connect to an interdimensional conduit, sending letters across the void to find me. Granted, their early messages weren’t filled with tenderness: “Monica, where the hell did you go? The sink is full of dirty dishes.” “Find a way to swap back right now! This stranger inside your body does nothing but sob all day. It’s driving us insane!” Over time, though, the letters grew sparse, and their tone shifted entirely. Lydia wrote about how Hollie massaged her shoulders after exhausting late shifts and read her bedtime stories until she fell asleep. Mom wrote about how Hollie was terrified of the gas stove’s clicking spark, yet still woke at dawn every morning to make breakfast for the household. Eventually, their letters said: “Monica, Hollie is wonderful. With her here, this house finally feels like a real home.” “Of course, we still want you to come back. When you do, we know you’ll love Hollie just as much as we do.” Now I was back, but instead of the warm embrace of home, I was met with resentment, disgust, and bitter arguments. The bitter irony was that before the swap, I had done everything Hollie did—and far more. Mom had always favored Lydia. I learned early on that the only way to earn a crumb of affection was to be the obedient, self-sacrificing younger daughter. From childhood, I shouldered every chore in the house. The moment I turned eighteen, I worked part-time jobs to put myself through school, even washing my mother’s and sister’s delicates by hand. None of that ever earned me a second glance. Yet Hollie, occupying my body without even showing her true face, had captured their hearts effortlessly. Seeing the shattered look in my eyes, Mom let out a weary sigh and wiped a stray tear. “Monica, don’t be mad at your sister. She’s hurting.” “To be honest, ever since Hollie left, my heart aches constantly. Every time I close my eyes, I worry about that child.” “You don’t understand. When you disappeared, the house fell apart. Hollie held us together. She wore your twenty-something face, but she had the innocence of a sweet child—clumsily caring for us, leaning on us. Over time, we got used to it. I started feeling like… that was how my younger daughter was always supposed to be.” Mom stood up and walked toward the door. “Forget it. I’m going out for some air. Monica, take some time to calm down.” When she left, the apartment plunged into silence. The low hum of the refrigerator echoed against the walls. I crouched down, picked up a stray piece of cake from the floor, and tasted the frosting. It was bitter. Without my knowing, Mom and Lydia had built their lives around Hollie. My return was nothing more than an intrusion. They were so consumed with grief over Hollie’s departure that they hadn’t asked me a single question about how I had survived three years in an ancient realm. They had no idea that in that other world, a family truly loved me. Just the day before I was pulled back: My brother in that world spent three sleepless nights in the estate kitchen, painstakingly trying to figure out how to bake a modern “birthday cake.” My noble mother paid a small fortune for imperial silk, embroidering a flowing gown stitch by stitch with her own hands. My father, despite his demanding duties as a high-ranking lord, personally built a polished wooden swing in the courtyard for me. They kept telling me: “Monica, our realm lacks the wonders and comforts of your world. We are so sorry you have to suffer here.” All their love, all their devotion, and yet I was torn away before my birthday arrived. I reached up and realized my cheeks were soaked with tears. “Father. Mother. Brother.” “Monica misses you so much.” Three years ago, on the day I woke up in that ancient world, it happened to be Lady Albright’s birthday banquet. Though she was the Marchioness of a grand estate, she disliked ostentation and hosted only an intimate family dinner. Terrified of being exposed as an imposter, I approached her trembling, stiffly wishing her a joyful birthday. That single sentence gave me away. My brother, Callum, instantly seized my wrist. “You aren’t him, are you?” Terrified that I would be executed on the spot, I broke down in tears and confessed everything. Instead of throwing me into a dungeon or ordering my death, Lady Albright rose from her seat and pulled me into a fierce, trembling hug. “Monica, sweet child, don’t be afraid,” she whispered against my hair. “From this day forth, you are my daughter. No one will ever harm you.” From that moment on, the entire household treated me with unwavering devotion. At high-society banquets, whenever aristocratic peers mocked me for lacking noble poise, Callum would step in and silence them with fists or sharp rebukes. Whenever I casually mentioned a modern dish I missed, Mother went to the kitchen herself. She had no idea what fried chicken was, but she stewed a rich, golden broth that became the most delicious thing I had ever tasted. Father always returned from his government posts with strange curiosities and sweet pastries, proudly fattening me up by several pounds. During the Lantern Festival, when violent rioters caused chaos in the capital and I collapsed from terror and fever, Callum rode through the night from the military outpost to hunt down the culprits, indifferent to the court officials who later condemned him for leaving his post. To pray for my recovery, Mother knelt on the cold stone of the ancestral shrine for three days and three nights until her knees were swollen black and blue. Father humbled himself before the Grand Princess to beg for a legendary medicinal root that finally pulled me back from the brink of death. When I woke up, overcome with guilt and gratitude, I didn’t know what to say. Mother simply cradled me again. “Monica, you don’t owe us anything,” she said softly. “You are our daughter. Protecting you is what a family is supposed to do.” Tears had spilled down my cheeks back then, too. In my original life, a mother’s hug was an unreachable luxury. When I fell as a child, no one picked me up. When I struggled as an adult, no one reached out a hand. All of my mother’s love had been poured into Lydia, leaving nothing for me. I had forced myself to become the invisible, self-sacrificing daughter just to survive. Yet in a strange world, having done nothing to earn it, I was cherished beyond measure. How could I not yearn to go back? … The next morning, I stepped out of my bedroom to wash up and found Lydia frantically tearing through drawers. She had pulled out the old interdimensional letters, ripping them into shreds and tossing them into the trash. “Lydia, what are you doing?” I moved forward instinctively to stop her, but she shoved me hard. My lower back slammed into the sharp edge of the dining table. Lydia’s eyes were bloodshot. She lunged forward, grabbing my collar. “What am I doing? What can I do?!” she shrieked. “You came back, and my Hollie is gone! Get out! Get the hell out of this house!” I stared at her, tears pooling in my eyes. Lydia froze. She let out a ragged, desperate breath, releasing my collar, her voice dropping into a hollow, jagged despair. “Monica, I can’t take this anymore. Just thinking about Hollie suffering in that primitive world without electricity makes me want to die.” “Even though she was in your body, you two are entirely different people.” “She was sweet. She waited up for me no matter how late I worked. She needed me. I miss her so much.” “You wouldn’t understand a bond like that. You never will.” I looked down at the floor, whispering where she couldn’t see: “How could I not understand? I miss my family, too. More than you know.” Right then, the front door burst open. Mom rushed inside, clutching a familiar stack of enchanted parchment, her eyes blazing with manic excitement. “Lydia! I reconnected with the temporal conduit! I reached Hollie through the letters!” Lydia sprang to life, snatching a pen to scribble frantically across the parchment. Moments later, faint golden script began to bleed across the page: “Mom, Lydia, I can’t believe I reached you again! I miss you so much!” “Mom, has your insomnia gotten any better? I want to rub your temples like before.” “Lydia, are you still working late? My heart breaks for you. I wish I could stay up with you.” “You are the only family I claim. The parents and brother in this world abuse me constantly. They’re even trying to force me into an arranged marriage… I had to slip a sleeping draught into their tea just to buy enough time to write this back to you…” Reading the words, Mom and Lydia broke down in loud sobs. “Hollie is in living hell, and she’s still worried about us!” “Mom, she’s trapped over there! Those ungrateful monsters want to sell her off—how dare they!” In the corner, my face drained of all color. Holt was lying. I had lived with Father, Mother, and Callum for three years. They would never force anyone into a marriage. And even if they wanted to, Holt’s true body made that entirely impossible. Because he… More importantly, Holt had poisoned them! What kind of draught? Was it fatal? Were they in danger? Panic surged through my chest like wildfire. I lunged forward, snatching the parchment from the table, and wrote furiously: “Why did you poison Father, Mother, and Callum?! They are good people!” “Mother’s constitution is delicate—she cannot survive poison! Call a physician immediately!” “Monica, what are you doing? Are you out of your mind?!” Lydia ripped the paper from my hands and slapped me across the face. The crack echoed through the room. My cheek burned. “Do you have any idea how rare this conduit paper is?!” Lydia screamed. “This is our only way to reach Hollie! Mom hasn’t even finished talking to her, and you’re ruining it!” As Lydia yelled, new words materialized on the parchment: “Is that… Monica? Mom’s real daughter? Lydia’s real sister?” “Sister Monica, I didn’t mean to poison them. I’m not a bad person, I was just trying to protect myself.” “Please don’t be angry with me. You have the best mom and sister in the entire universe. I’m so envious of you.” Hearing that, Mom and Lydia wept uncontrollably, clutching the paper to their chests. My heart felt as if it were being shredded. All I could think about was my family’s safety across the rift. While the tension hung thick and suffocating, the doorbell rang. Several aunts and cousins stood outside holding fruit baskets. “We heard Monica was finally back, so we came to check on her,” one aunt said, stepping inside. “So… that soul-swapper girl finally went back to where she came from?” I stood frozen. So the extended family had known about the soul-swap all along. Mom quickly wiped her tears, ushering them into the living room with stiff pleasantries. Meanwhile, Lydia carefully placed the letters into a lockbox, locking it three times. Turning around, Lydia glared at me. “Monica, I’m warning you. If you ever interfere with our letters to Hollie again, you’ll regret it.” I bit my lip, walking silently into the living room, catching the tail end of the relatives’ conversation. “Honestly, it’s a blessing that stranger is gone,” an aunt remarked. “You and Lydia were acting completely possessed.” “Exactly,” another chimed in. “Remember last year at Grandpa’s eightieth birthday? That girl threw a fit because she didn’t like the cake flavor, and Lydia actually demanded Grandpa change his own birthday cake. You didn’t stop her—you accused us of bullying the girl! You scared the life out of all of us.” “Now that Monica is back, you three can live like a normal family again. That’s what matters.” Before the aunt could finish, Lydia stormed out of the hallway. She flipped the glass coffee table, shattering teacups across the floor, and grabbed the relatives by their coats, shoving them toward the door. “Get out! Yes, Hollie is gone, but none of you have the right to talk about her behind her back!” “Hollie is my sister! Nobody gets to say a word against her—nobody!” I had never seen Lydia look so feral, so utterly willing to burn down the world to protect someone. The relatives left in a flurry of muttered curses and slammed doors. Lydia collapsed into tears, then ran out of the apartment. Mom grabbed her purse and chased after her. They didn’t come back for three days. For three days, there was not a single text, not a single phone call. No one cared whether I was alive or dead. On the fourth day, Mom and Lydia returned, their hair disheveled, their faces pale—yet their eyes burned with an unsettling, manic fever. “Monica, listen to me,” Mom gasped, grabbing both of my hands for the first time since my return. “I found a way through the temporal system to perform a permanent physical exchange! Hollie can come here in her own body, permanently!” Her grip was bruisingly tight. “Monica, this is our only chance. You’ll agree to it, won’t you?” “We won’t leave you over there forever! We just miss Hollie so much. That world has no internet, no electricity—she can’t survive there! In three to five years, Lydia and I promise we’ll bring you right back!” “No internet, no electricity. Hollie can’t survive there.” “Three to five years, we’ll bring you back.” Mom’s words were riddled with absurdity. Holt was a native of that ancient realm; living without modern amenities was second nature to him. Mom was simply deluding herself. Yet beneath my chest, my own heart began to pound with wild hope. If I could cross over in my own true physical body… That meant I could truly be Father and Mother’s daughter. I wouldn’t have to exist as an anomaly trapped inside someone else’s skin. Suppressing the tremor of excitement in my voice, I asked calmly, “Mom, I agree. But if Hollie’s true self is nothing like what you imagined… will you regret this?” “Never,” Lydia answered instantly, stepping forward. “No matter what Hollie looks like, she is my sister.” With Lydia’s vow, my mind was settled. After all, Holt was nothing like what they expected. Over the next week, Mom and Lydia were manic with preparation. They coordinated with the temporal conduit and redecorated my bedroom into a pastel princess sanctuary. Naturally, I was kicked out of my room and spent those nights on the living room sofa. I didn’t care in the slightest. My mind was consumed entirely by the family waiting on the other side. Holt had claimed he poisoned them—I needed to know if they were safe. The day of the exchange arrived. The temporal conduit drew a shimmering ring of golden light on the living room floor. I stepped into the center. A blinding white pillar of light rose around me, signaling the dimensional tear. As if struck by a sudden pang of conscience, Mom rubbed her hands together nervously. “Monica, just hold on for three to five years. When you return, Mom will make you a huge seafood feast.” I smiled. She had forgotten again: I was deathly allergic to shellfish. The one who loved seafood was Hollie. I didn’t feel a shred of sadness. I simply closed my eyes. “Father. Mother. Callum. Monica is coming home.” A flash of searing light swallowed me, and I vanished from the circle. Lydia leaned forward eagerly, staring into the fading glow, waiting for her beloved sister to appear. A silhouette formed in the haze, growing clearer and broader. When the light dissipated and the figure was fully revealed, the color drained from Lydia’s face. “Who are you? Where is my Hollie?!”

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