My wife of three years kept a diary. In it, she detailed a hundred ways to stage the perfect kidnapping and psychological captivity. But I knew she didn’t want to trap me. She wanted to trap her stepbrother. I played the oblivious husband, secretly taking notes. Because I wanted to trap my stepsister. The day I realized her diary was full, I decided it was time to activate my own captivity plan. I placed the finalized divorce papers in the study, right after preparing the handcuffs. It wasn’t long after that I found myself staring silently at the steel cuffs around my own wrists and ankles. …Why was the world so much more twisted than I ever imagined? 1 I held the leather-bound journal, barely containing the surge of adrenaline. Page after page, I devoured the new entries. Camille Beckett’s “One Hundred Captivity Methods” was updated, and the additions were staggering. My soul sister. Camille and I had an indifferent, purely strategic marriage for three years. I knew her heart belonged to someone else: her innocent, Golden Boy stepbrother, Noah Abbott. I’d always assumed Cami was the cold, reserved type—the kind who kept her deepest desires locked away. Now, I knew the truth. She was a full-blown, beautiful psychopath. The further I read, the more shocked I became. The methodology, the sheer audacity, the level of intensity… Camille hid it well. If her sweet, delicate stepbrother ever saw these fantasies, he’d probably collapse. But I was different. I was a fellow psycho. I studied diligently, copying the key steps and phrases into my phone’s notes app. Just as I was about to turn the last page, my phone buzzed with a video call from Noah. I quickly slipped out of Cami’s bedroom and answered with a practiced, easy smile. “Hey, Noah. What’s up?” “Ash.” The boy’s face, pale and handsome, appeared on screen. He offered a slight, sheepish grin. “Cami won’t be coming home tonight.” My face froze for a split second. Though our marriage was cold, Cami always came home. This was the first time she hadn’t. Was she making her move? But she had to get the divorce first! I frowned. “Where is she? Put her on the phone.” Noah handed the phone over. Cami’s stunning, aloof face filled the screen. Her thin lips barely moved. “What is it?” “Come home tonight,” I said, trying to keep my voice neutral. Her brow twitched. “Do you need something?” Did I need a reason to ask my wife to come home? Was she that impatient? I wasn’t even this desperate yet! I ran a hand through my hair. “Yeah, I do. We need to talk. Properly.” A silence stretched between us. Noah took the phone back. His clear eyes met mine. “Ash, if my sister doesn’t want to go back, don’t pressure her.” I was frustrated with the oblivious kid. If I didn’t drag Cami home, he was the one who was going to end up in cuffs tonight. I took a deep breath, ready to plead my case, but Cami’s frigid voice cut me off: “If you’re so bored, go find something to occupy yourself.” I paused. Right. She’s playing the disinterested wife while secretly plotting to chain up her stepbrother. She probably can’t wait to check off everything on that diary list. Noah gave me a helpless shrug. “You heard my sister, Ash.” He hung up. I stood silent for a long moment, then sighed. Returning to Cami’s room, I picked up the journal again. Unconsciously, I flipped to the final page, realizing only now that she had completely filled the book. I noticed something starkly different from the earlier, explicit pages. Her last sentence, written in clean, forceful script, read: [Compared to all of this, I only ever wanted to hold you.] I stared at the line. After a while, I slowly closed the diary and returned it to its place. 2 My worst fear hadn’t materialized. Camille returned home the next day. Her demeanor was as distant and detached as ever, even under my probing stare. “Are you attending the gala tonight?” she asked. I was momentarily confused, then remembered the social obligation. It was a major commercial event—practically every notable figure in the city would be there. “Of course,” I answered casually. “Wouldn’t want you to be without a proper date, would I?” She ignored the jab. After smoothing a crease in her sleeve with a long, elegant finger, she walked upstairs toward the study. I watched her back, realizing my mistake. She probably hoped I wouldn’t go. Then her ‘date’ could legitimately be her stepbrother. I sighed in annoyance. But I had to go. My stepsister, Sloane Albright, would definitely be there. It was a rare chance to see her. I couldn’t afford to miss it. … I spent too long selecting the perfect suit. When I arrived, I scanned the room for Camille only to find Noah already standing beside her. The young man was beaming, a perfect picture of youthful sweetness. I nursed a drink in a quiet corner, keeping my distance. My friend, Miles, joined me. He narrowed his eyes at the couple. “They aren’t blood-related, right?” I glanced at him and shook my head. Even Miles could see their intimacy was beyond the norm. Miles smirked, his tone unclear. “Just a heads up, Noah has mentioned more than once that his sister would do anything for him. Including… ditching you when you had a fever.” I paused. Oh. So that rainy night I was burning up, and Camille was nowhere to be found, she was with Noah. “They must just be close,” I mumbled. Miles tipped his chin toward a specific spot in the room. “How come you’re not that close with your stepsister?” I followed his gaze. Sloane Albright was wearing a perfectly tailored charcoal gown. The sophisticated styling couldn’t mask her vibrant, commanding beauty. She was engaged in a relaxed conversation. Then, as if sensing my eyes, she looked up and scanned the room, her gaze finding mine. We held eye contact across the distance. I was the first to look away. “…Every family is different, I guess.” Miles shrugged. “Suit yourself. Just don’t come crying to me for a place to stay when Cami eventually files for divorce.” As if on cue, Noah took Cami’s arm, intertwining his with hers. Cami paused, her cold expression softening as she looked down at his hand. She didn’t stop him. She didn’t pull away. Miles looked at me with open pity. I was taken aback. I was right here, in the same room, yet Camille still indulged him so openly. A dozen curious, scrutinizing eyes were already darting between us. I pressed my fingers to my temple. I remembered the message my father had sent recently: You’ve been married to Camille all this time, and you still haven’t won her over? How useless are you, Albert? It wasn’t my fault. She was already taken. Miles’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “They look utterly infatuated with each other. It’s almost like you were the one who intruded on their romance.” His words made me halt. I looked at him sharply. “Do you think Noah… likes her?” “Are you serious?” he countered. “Can’t you see the puppy-dog eyes and the blush?” I was quiet for a moment. “What if he’s just… really dependent on his stepsister?” “Stop lying to yourself, Ash,” Miles deadpanned. I stood there, rooted to the spot. It wasn’t entirely my denial. Before Cami and I married, Noah and I were close friends. I’d seen that same blush and shyness on his face when we were out together. He just seemed to stop clinging to me after the wedding. … If Miles was right, and Noah liked her, then why did Camille write that psychopathic diary? If they were mutually in love, why didn’t she just divorce me and be with Noah? She was powerful enough now. She could divorce me and marry anyone she wanted without consequence. Did she genuinely prefer the idea of forced love? I drained my glass, trying to push the confusing thoughts away. 3 Eventually, Noah and Camille came over to me. Noah smiled, his cheeks dimpling. “Ash, I’ve been hogging my sister all night. Are you mad?” I waved a hand dismissively. “Whatever makes you happy.” Only then did I notice Cami’s dark eyes fixed on me. I offered what I thought was a thoughtful smile. “It’s fine, Cami. You two enjoy yourselves. Don’t worry about me.” Camille’s tone was cold. “It looks like you’re having a good time yourself.” I blinked. I wasn’t, really. Unless you counted the few furtive glances I’d managed to sneak at Sloane Albright, I wasn’t having fun at all. Thinking of Sloane, I instinctively tried to look in her direction. My view was immediately blocked by Camille’s tall, slender figure. Her expression was completely blank. Seriously? I didn’t care what the two of you were doing, just don’t block my view of Sloane! I cursed under my breath. Noah lightly tugged on Cami’s arm, his voice a soft whine. “Let’s not bother Ash anymore. I have some friends who are dying to meet you, Sis.” Camille gave a slight nod. “Alright.” They turned and walked away. I let out a long, quiet sigh. Camille was cold and dismissive toward me, but immediately soft and yielding toward Noah. The hypocrite. I stood alone, again feeling the pity and derision of the crowd. “Little brother.” The clear, melodic voice made me turn instantly. Sloane Albright was smiling faintly. It took me a second to regain my composure. “Hi.” Sloane gave a sudden, knowing laugh. “I saw you chatting just now, so I didn’t want to interrupt.” I managed a weak smile. “It was nothing.” She asked abruptly, “Is Camille treating you well?” I was stunned. “What?” Sloane’s thin lips pressed together. Before she could say anything else, a man her age walked up. He greeted me politely, then turned to Sloane. “Sloane, your mother sent me to find you.” Sloane replied calmly, “I’ll be there in a minute.” The man gave a teasing smile. “Do you really have so much to talk about with your little brother?” “Come on,” he said, lightly taking her wrist. “Come check in with your mother, then you can come back and chat with your little brother, okay?” He pulled Sloane away. She paused but didn’t resist. She only glanced over her shoulder at me. “Little brother, I’ll find you later.” My gaze dropped from their clasped hands. I responded softly, “Okay.” 4 Sloane never came back for me. The gala ended. Noah had too much to drink and pleaded with Camille to take him to an observatory to see the stars. Camille agreed. I sat quietly alone in the back seat of the car. I stared out at the city streets—the rush of traffic, the blinking neon. My mind was empty. Then Cami’s final diary entry floated back into my thoughts: I only ever wanted to hold you. What did it feel like to be held? I didn’t know. After my mother divorced my father and married into the Albright family, she never once embraced me. As a child, she wanted me to win the affection of Sloane and her mother. After I married, she wanted me to win Camille’s affection. But I never won anyone’s affection. My stepsister, Sloane, was a dazzling, self-possessed princess, always surrounded by adoration. Even when she secretly brought me food after my mother locked me away, her gaze was always polite, detached. Her kindness was universal, shared equally with everyone. An embrace between us was impossible. As for my wife… I lowered my gaze. My marriage to Camille should have ended long ago. As soon as I got home, I contacted my lawyer and asked him to draft the divorce papers immediately. It was late, deep into the night, when Sloane finally called. “Little brother.” There was a silence on the line. She didn’t apologize for disappearing. She simply said: “My parents are picking out a man for me to marry. Do you want to give me your opinion?” I was stunned. “…What?” Her voice was laced with a weary resignation. “I’ve reached the legal age. There’s no avoiding it.” “It doesn’t matter who I marry, anyway.” She sounded careless. “It might be that man you saw tonight.” I struggled to respond. “Is that so… Do you… do you like him?” I hesitated before asking. “Like?” Sloane’s voice was light, airy. Then she dropped to a near-whisper. “I don’t know.” I pressed her. “Do you want to get married?” She let out a soft sigh. “It’s not about wanting or not wanting. I’m sure I’ll grow to love him, living together.” Listening to her speak, I clenched my fists inside my pockets. “If not him, it’ll be someone else. But two people leaning on each other… that seems nice, doesn’t it?” Sloane said, her tone utterly calm. I desperately wanted to speak, but the words choked in my throat. I felt a profound sadness. The simple happiness she described was so far out of my reach. She was so far out of my reach. “Albert,” she used my first name instead of ‘little brother.’ “We’ll both be happy, won’t we?” The question was spoken so softly. Yet it sent a violent ripple through my heart. Will I be happy? I let out a shaky breath, finally making my decision. “We will,” I said. After hanging up, I placed the divorce papers the lawyer had sent into the study. Then, I dug out the handcuffs and ankle restraints I had bought weeks ago and packed them in a bag. Sloane’s last question had been the push I needed. If it didn’t matter who she ended up with, why couldn’t it be me? Perhaps that was the only way I could get closer to happiness. I called Miles. “That safe-house I asked you to prepare, the one with the secure basement. Is it fully ready?” After receiving his confirmation, I immediately texted Sloane: [Where are you? I’ll come to you now. We can discuss this whole marriage thing.] Without a hint of suspicion, she sent me an address. 5 When I arrived, the address led to a private lounge. I immediately asked a waiter for a bottle of high-proof whiskey. Inside the VIP room, Sloane was alone. She was draped across a velvet sofa, long legs crossed, drinking straight from the bottle. That dazzling, commanding face was flushed pink. She squinted when she saw me. “Little brother.” Her voice was low and husky. I murmured an acknowledgment, then subtly opened the bottle I’d brought and began to pour her a drink. When her attention was diverted, I sprinkled in a little something. “I know you’re upset. I’ll keep you company.” Sloane gave a soft, muffled agreement. Just then, the door was pushed open. Noah stood in the doorway, his eyes wide in surprise. “Ash, is that really you? I thought I saw you, but wasn’t sure.” I glanced past him and saw Cami behind him. Her expression was still cold, her eyes sweeping over me and Sloane without a flicker of emotion. I silently cursed. You two go on your date. Don’t ruin my night. Noah walked in, completely at ease. “What a coincidence. Sis and I just finished stargazing and thought we’d grab a drink here. Didn’t expect to run into you guys.” I took a deep breath. “…Yeah. What a coincidence.” I forced a laugh. He spotted the bottle on the table and his eyes lit up. “Ash! This is excellent whiskey. We have such similar taste!” He reached for a glass, about to pour himself a taste. What?! My eyes shot open. With lightning speed, I snatched the bottle from his hand. And promptly downed a huge gulp myself. Noah pouted. “Ash, you’re so stingy. Fine, I’ll just have my sister order me something.” Camille actually sat down next to him. She looked at me, then gave him a curt nod. “Alright.” For the next half-hour, I tried everything to get them to leave. But neither Camille nor Noah would budge. Camille didn’t even lift her eyelids. Noah let out a wounded sigh. “Does me being here with my sister really bother you, Ash?” I gave up. I decided to leave while I could still walk. But Sloane called out my name. Her long, graceful fingers wrapped around my wrist. “Little brother, you said you’d keep me company.” Thirty minutes later. I looked fuzzily at Sloane. She was staring back. Noah was cheerfully pouring himself a drink, chatting with Cami. I couldn’t see Cami’s expression clearly. I sighed heavily in my mind. Then, unable to fight it, my eyes slid shut. My head fell to the side, and I passed out. … When I woke up, I painfully forced my eyelids open. I stared blankly at the ceiling. After a long minute, I instinctively tried to rub my eyes. My hand felt impossibly heavy. I squinted. The moment I made out the object on my wrist, I was instantly, violently awake. …What the hell? I tried to move my foot, and again, felt a crushing weight. It was followed by the clear, sharp clink of a metal chain. I lay rigid on the bed. The door opened. I recognized the person who walked in and my composure shattered. I was barely able to choke out the name: “Why is it you…?”

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After Dahlia cheated. It was pure, pathetic retaliation. In six months, I dated maybe ten different women. Ten temporary shields, ten strangers I used to generate enough anger to finally break something. The night I broke it off with the tenth woman—a graduate student in art history—I finally brought up the divorce with Dahlia. “Gabriel.” Dahlia finished typing a reply, finally looking up. “Is this another one of your tantrums? This must be… what? The fourth time this month?” She gave a small, mocking smile. “What, the latest distraction didn’t satisfy you? Has the great, placid Mr. Miller finally gotten his heart stirred up enough to start making demands?” Dahlia grabbed her jacket. “I don’t have time for this, Gabriel. I have plans tonight.” I watched her, still unable to comprehend it. How could a woman compartmentalize love and sex so completely? “Dahlia,” I said, stepping in front of the door, blocking her exit. I held out the signed agreement. My voice was eerily calm. “I’m serious. Let’s stop doing this to each other.” 1 “Gabriel, please.” Dahlia’s expression was lazily dismissive. “I really can’t play this game right now.” She held up her phone, displaying a text thread. “The kid’s going to throw a fit.” Her voice softened, her eyes full of a tenderness she no longer showed me. “You know how hard he is to placate, Gabriel.” The screen showed a cheesy, synchronized profile photo. Her current fling. The latest message was a demanding, pouty emoji followed by a complaint: Jude Ryder: How much longer are you going to spend with the old man? Jude Ryder: You said he had a girlfriend now. What, are you finally admitting the fossil is better in bed? Are you suddenly desperate for a romantic reunion? He was openly mocking my age. Dahlia only laughed, typing a reply: Dahlia: Stop being so ridiculously jealous. The phone immediately rang with an incoming voice call. The sudden, jarring sound sliced through the tension between us. “See?” Dahlia said, gesturing at the screen. “Gabriel, I really am busy.” She pressed Answer right in front of me. A high, petulant voice immediately filled the room. “Dahlia!” “I’m outside your house. Now.” “You have three seconds.” “If you don’t come out, we are over!” I listened to his ridiculous ultimatum, watching Dahlia’s face freeze for a split second before she laughed, the warmth returning to her voice. “My little king,” she cooed into the phone. “My husband is home. Are you actually trying to get him to hack you to pieces?” She paused for dramatic effect. “If he really does lay a hand on you, don’t come crying to me.” She was flirting, completely unconcerned by my presence. “You won’t let him,” Jude insisted. “You promised you’d protect me!” I knew what I should do. I should be silent. I should let her leave, give her the space she demanded. Everyone told me the same thing: as long as I was Dahlia Beaumont’s husband, I was set for life—wealth, status, everything. Even my critically ill father, hanging on by a thread in the hospital, would get the best possible care. But I couldn’t hold it in anymore. I snatched the phone from her hand. Dahlia stared at me, astonished. I put the phone to my ear. “He’s right,” I snapped at the voice on the other end. “Gabriel Miller is dangerous. You come through that door, and I’ll make sure you get carried out!” Ignoring his scream of disbelief and his high-pitched torrent of abuse, I threw the phone—shattering it against the marble floor—and yanked open the mahogany door. Jude Ryder’s face, already red, turned white. I didn’t hesitate. I raised my hand and slapped him across the face. “Do you even know what you are?” My voice was harsh, but my expression was vacant. “As long as I’m standing here, you’re nothing but a pathetic, temporary side-piece.” I grabbed a handful of his perfect blonde hair and slammed his head against the door frame. The hollow thud made him shriek. “You psycho! Dahlia! DAHLIA! You’re just going to let him assault me?!” I lifted my hand, ready for a second strike, when my wrist was suddenly caught. Dahlia’s voice, coming from behind me, was dangerously light. “Gabriel, aren’t you being just a little too unrefined?” 2 Dahlia’s voice was still layered with that soft amusement, yet I heard the steel-cold warning underneath. “The kid is at a sensitive age,” Dahlia said. “He cares about his looks. If you bruise his face, it’s only going to be more trouble for you, isn’t it?” Her tone was casual, but the grip on my wrist tightened, forcing me to release Jude. “We’ll call this incident an overreaction on his part,” she continued. “But if there’s a next time…” Her gaze darkened, resting heavy on me. “Gabriel, my patience is not infinite.” She pulled Jude into a tight hug, fussing over him carefully. “It doesn’t hurt, baby. Shh.” He clung to her, sobbing hysterically. Dahlia began to lead him away, but I spoke, the words stopping her mid-step. “Dahlia.” She paused. I pursued them, catching up to them at the end of the driveway. “If you’re so enamored,” I said, looking right at Jude’s tear-streaked face. “Give him a title.” I leaned in close to Jude’s ear and smiled without warmth. “It’s not me refusing to step aside. It’s your wonderful girlfriend who won’t let me go. If you’re really worth a damn,” I dropped the final, pointed sentence, “make her agree to let you walk through the door, just like she did for me all those years ago.” Jude’s body went rigid. His eyes darted to Dahlia, suddenly fearful. Dahlia sighed, a picture of weary frustration, and walked back toward me. “Gabriel.” Her tone was flat. “Don’t regret this.” She signed the divorce papers on the hood of my car, then immediately turned back to Jude, cooing. “Happy now?” Jude sobbed with relief and wrapped his arms around her. His eyes, however, were locked on mine—a silent, arrogant confrontation. He was gloating. He had won. I ignored them both. The crushing weight on my chest had finally lifted. I couldn’t describe the feeling. It wasn’t triumph. It was just empty. I sat alone in the vast, echoing villa, watching the moving company workers carefully clean out my belongings. My phone chimed. It was a video message from Jude. In the clip, Dahlia was on one knee, kissing Jude’s hand. The gesture was worshipful, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. “Jude,” she said. “My feelings for you are not fleeting. I’ll give you the commitment and the ceremony you need.” She pulled out a diamond—a vulgar, massive thing—and slipped it onto his finger. “Are you pleased?” Jude, sobbing and laughing, immediately texted me: Jude Ryder: Everyone says Dahlia loved you. That she defied the entire Beaumont dynasty just to marry you. That she knelt in the family chapel for seven days without food, took a beating from her brother, just so they’d finally agree. Jude Ryder: And that your dying father is only alive because she hired the best medical team on the continent. Jude Ryder: But you don’t know the truth, do you? He sent another video. The lighting was low, the atmosphere thick. It was a private club Dahlia frequented. Every face in the clip was familiar—her usual circle of wealthy, bored friends. I heard a man ask, “Dahlia, this mess with Gabriel. What’s the point?” Dahlia sat in the center of the sofa, idly spinning my simple wedding band on her finger. The man continued: “He’s been out there, what, five women now? Aren’t you worried he’ll contract something or just… get dirty? Why are you just letting him run wild?” 3 Dahlia remained silent. It was Jude who threw a glass against the wall in a fit of pique. “See? You still love him!” he screamed. “You love that old man! If you love him, why the hell are you with me?” Jude stood up to storm out. Dahlia finally rose, pulling him onto her lap with a practiced ease, and answered the room. “Why would I love him?” Dahlia’s voice was lazy, utterly devoid of emotion. “Gabriel isn’t actually cheating. The women he’s been seeing are props. Tools for a performance, meant to make me angry. I know him better than anyone.” She paused, taking a slow sip of her drink. “If he ever actually slept with someone else—if he could actually go that far—he wouldn’t be Gabriel.” The room erupted in laughter. Jude pouted. “You just say that! Do you have security footage? You don’t know anything!” Jude’s childish, possessive tone made Dahlia smile. She placed her phone on the table. “See for yourself.” On the screen, a folder held every single chat log and video from every single date I’d been on with those ten women. Every miserable, empty interaction was meticulously cataloged in her personal file. Dahlia’s voice, as it explained the file, was flat. It was the detached analysis of a scientist examining a specimen. “Men,” she said. “They like to argue. Gabe wants to play? I let him play. Sure, he started out looking for someone who would understand his pain. But for him to actually follow through—” Dahlia tapped the screen, pulling up one video. It was my third girlfriend trying to kiss me, and me pushing her away, apologizing profusely. “I can’t do this. I’m sorry.” I remember telling her we had to break up immediately after. Dahlia pointed to the video. “Gabriel. He’s fundamentally traditional. A stickler for morality. He couldn’t do it. This whole performance was just him trying to punish me.” She tapped her WeChat again, showing a message from my seventh ‘girlfriend.’ 7th GF: Dahlia, just as you predicted, I brought up going to a hotel, and he looked disgusted. He accused me of only wanting his body and broke up with me. 7th GF: Should I keep trying to corner him? I remember that woman. She was a fellow artist. We connected over painting and shared a silly love for graphic novels. But less than two months in, she suggested we “go back to her place.” When her hand touched my shoulder, trying to pull me closer, I felt a violent, conditioned reaction. I threw up on the spot and ended it right there. That night, I staggered back to the villa, humiliated and defeated. Dahlia was waiting in the living room. Her expression was a smirk of satisfied contempt. She was drinking in my shame. I felt a wave of self-loathing, the realization that I was utterly incapable of walking away from my own emotional boundaries. I collapsed and started to cry. But Dahlia surprised me by embracing me. “Gabriel,” she whispered. “Do you want to keep playing?” The scent of a stranger’s cheap cologne clung to her. When I looked up, I saw the fading red marks on her neck. A wave of nausea hit me, and I projectile vomited all over her. Dahlia instantly recoiled, her face etched with pure disgust. She tore off the expensive coat and threw it at my feet. “Gabriel, when are you going to stop with the theatrics?” “Yes, I cheated! But I gave you everything! You went from a dirt-poor nobody to the husband of Dahlia Beaumont! Who doesn’t envy you? What do you have to complain about?” I looked up at Dahlia, so high above me, so utterly alien. That was the moment my self-control shattered. “Dahlia,” I screamed, hysterical. “We’re getting divorced.” I cried until I choked. “Dahlia, let me go.” 4 She didn’t agree. She just watched me, coldly, as I fell apart, and then delivered the final blow. “Gabriel.” “You can forget about yourself. But what about your father?” She was right. My father was still in the ICU. The entire medical team, the specialized equipment—it was all thanks to Dahlia. For his sake, I had to endure. I had no choice but to wait. I waited until today. Now, watching Jude’s messages roll in, I opened the latest video he’d sent. Dahlia, clearly drunk, was clinging to Jude. “Gabriel will never divorce me,” she slurred. “Even if he wants to, he won’t. Not because of me. It’s because of his father. Because of his father, no matter how cruel I am, he can only endure.” A dull, familiar ache started in my chest. I knew our marriage was over, but being reminded that my father was my leash still cut me to the bone. I heard Jude ask her why. She laughed, a short, sharp sound. “I have a secret. One Gabriel never knew.” She beckoned Jude closer, lowering her voice. “Gabriel’s father always had a chance to get better. If he went overseas, they estimated an eighty percent recovery rate. But I refused. And I locked down every piece of information.” A bolt of pure, freezing terror shot through me. My hand shook violently as I held the phone. I heard Dahlia’s ice-cold voice: “I sealed off all the news. I didn’t want Gabriel to know. I wanted to make sure he would never, ever be able to leave me.” “Gabriel, he…” The rest of the sentence was lost in a rush of white noise. Tears streamed down my face. I pressed a hand over my mouth, stifling a desperate sob. I thought back to when my father fell—crippled while foraging for herbs to pay my college tuition. The years he had spent lying unconscious, my constant, gnawing guilt. I remembered my utter devastation, the night I wanted to end my own life. And Dahlia appeared. The high and mighty socialite, standing before me, holding me tightly. “Don’t be afraid, Gabriel. You have me. You don’t have to fear anything.” Dahlia had caught my fall. She managed my collapse, took charge of my entire future. She provided the medical team, paid my tuition, and shielded me from the world. Dahlia created the Gabriel Miller of then. And Dahlia destroyed the Gabriel Miller of now. My phone rang wildly. The hospital. My heart seized. I didn’t even manage to answer before Jude’s cruel, mocking voice came through WeChat. Jude Ryder: Too bad for you. Your dad found out the whole truth and seems to have decided he doesn’t want to live anymore. The next frame was a video of my father, tears leaking from the corners of his eyes. I collapsed, hitting Answer. “Mr. Miller.” The doctor’s silence stretched, suffocating. I couldn’t believe my own ears. The world shrank to a pinpoint, and the only sound was the frantic thump of my own heart. “My dad…” “What happened to my dad—” “Your father passed away today at 6:35 PM.” “Please, Mr. Miller.” “Our condolences.” Dahlia hadn’t been sober for days. Everyone knew the Beaumont heiress was outwardly gracious but inwardly merciless. She had only ever had one weakness. Gabriel Miller. “Gabriel…” Dahlia’s eyes snapped open. She roughly raked a hand through her hair, grabbing the phone that wouldn’t stop ringing. She barked into it, her voice thick with irritation. “This better be important!” “Ms. Beaumont…” The voice on the other end was stammering, unable to form a coherent sentence. Dahlia’s eyelid twitched. A sickening wrenching sensation hit her chest. She didn’t even have time to register the panic before her assistant’s trembling voice finally broke through. “Mr. Miller… his father passed away last night.”

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I was just checking out at the pharmacy, stocking up on Tylenol and gummy vitamins, when my phone vibrated. A friend request popped up on the lock screen. The profile picture was a blurry, low-light photograph of a rainy street corner, a shared memory from over a decade ago. My fingers froze. I knew instantly who it was. But we hadn’t spoken in five years. The break had been clean, absolute, as if we had never existed in the same orbit. I didn’t know what kind of game Glenn Easton was playing now. I tapped two short words into the verification box: Is this urgent? The reply was immediate, already waiting for me the moment I hit Send. “I’m back in the States. Can we meet?” “It’s critical. Has to be face-to-face.” Critical? I stared at the words, a ridiculous, bitter laugh rising in my throat. What could possibly be critical between us now? I pocketed the phone, handed my payment card to the cashier, and completed the transaction. The very first thing I did once I was back in the car was drag that contact straight into the Blacklist. My phone rang again as I was waiting at a stoplight. It was Stella, a friend from my college days. Her voice was cautious, testing the waters. “Harper, I just heard… he’s back in the city?” I didn’t wait for her to finish. “It has nothing to do with me.” A sigh came through the receiver. “I know, but, Harper, you run in the same professional circles. You’re bound to bump into him eventually—” “No, I’m not,” I cut her off. “I would rather take a long walk off a short pier than have any kind of interaction with Glenn Easton again.” I hung up. Almost immediately, another message flashed: a private message from Maya, another old college roommate. She was asking if I planned to attend the annual alumni mixer, quickly adding, “If you don’t want to go, I totally understand. Everyone knows what you’ve been through.” She sent a few more lines of clumsy, well-intentioned comfort. I looked at the screen, a surge of dark irony hitting me. I had finally put him behind me, yet the people around me seemed more determined to hold on to the drama than I was. Maybe it was the sheer intensity of the love and the spectacular, brutal crash that followed. It gave people years of material. But I was out. Truly, genuinely out. Now, I actually had to strain to clearly recall the details of Glenn’s face. Yet once, he had been my North Star, my entire world. Closer to me than family. We met in the trenches. Same junior high, same high school, same undergrad, and we even followed each other overseas for a time. My car alarm beeped—a reminder. I pushed the memories away. It was time for my annual ritual. I parked the car at the base of the hill and started the climb, the bag of supplies heavy in my hand. The young man who maintained the grounds of the small, quiet sanctuary on the hill saw me coming and smiled. “Ms. Maxwell, right on time.” I handed him the paper sack. He took it, a hint of curiosity in his eyes. “Ms. Maxwell, you come at the exact same time every year, without fail. Is there a reason for the dedication?” I offered a small smile but didn’t answer. I headed straight for the rear annex, a small, simple room dedicated to private reflection. I pushed open the door. Inside, the space was minimalist. A simple stone altar, and on it, an engraved memorial plaque. I began to arrange the items from the bag on the altar. “The store clerk said this is the latest remote-control monster truck, the fastest one on Amazon,” I whispered. “Not sure what’s popular up there, but I got you the new model.” “And this picture book,” I continued, placing a brightly illustrated volume next to the truck. “The artwork is gentle. I think you would have liked it.” After the toys, I unpacked a few boxes of gourmet cookies. “I bet they don’t have to worry about cavities up there, do they?” I swallowed hard, reaching out to gently trace the engraving on the plaque. “Good. Then you can eat all the sugar you want. Mom bought your favorite flavors.” Without warning, tears began to stream down my face. I wiped them away quickly, my gaze fixed on the inscription: In loving memory of Noah Maxwell. Forever held in the heart of his mother, Harper Maxwell. The father’s name was blank. The sanctuary had a parking lot, but I always left my car at the bottom, forcing myself to walk every one of those hundreds of steps. By the time I reached the bottom, my tears had usually dried. I was reaching for the driver’s side door when my phone rang again. It was an unknown number. A familiar, desperate voice roared through the receiver. “Harper, even if you hate me, you have to let me see my son!” I hung up instantly and dragged that number into the Blacklist as well. The name “Glenn Easton” had been wiped from my life for five full years. And I had been thriving. Back at the office, I was barely settled into my chair when my assistant walked in, looking strained. “Ms. Maxwell, the firm we’ve been negotiating with for the last month just pulled out of the deal. They terminated the agreement.” I looked up. “The reason? Our proposal and bid were meticulous.” My assistant looked confused. “I pressed them, and they only hinted that… we might have ‘angered the wrong CEO.’ As in, Glenn Easton.” Glenn’s method of corporate punishment hadn’t changed a bit over the years. My assistant frowned. “But Ms. Maxwell, our business is completely different from Easton’s. Why would he target us?” I set down my pen, my voice flat. “Because he’s my ex-husband.” My assistant’s eyes widened instantly. She sucked in a quick breath. “He’s the one… the rumors… about the affair with his assistant, Tatum, and the divorce?” She clapped a hand over her mouth, realizing her slip. “Ms. Maxwell, I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to bring it up.” I waved her apology away. “It’s over. There’s nothing left to talk about.” She still looked guilty, her gaze lowered. “I always thought those rumors had to be fake. You’re so accomplished, how could he possibly—” At the time, almost everyone thought that. Even I believed it. But reality proved that nothing is sacred, nothing is forever. I called my old roommate, Maya, back. I realized that after this planned move, I wouldn’t be seeing them often. I wanted one last dinner with the old dorm crew before I left. That night, six of us squeezed around a table. We ordered a case of beer and promised not to leave until we couldn’t walk straight. After a few rounds, the conversation loosened. Chelsea, the angriest and most protective of the group, held her beer glass, hesitating for a long moment before finally speaking. “Harper, there’s something I never told you.” “Glenn couldn’t find you, so he called me a lot. He wanted me to set up a meeting. He said—” Before she could finish, Chelsea slammed her glass down, the sound echoing with her anger. “Meeting for what? Glenn Easton is a low-life, opportunistic son of a bitch!” “If the Maxwells hadn’t pulled strings for his old man—if your father hadn’t risked everything to clear his name after the whole embezzlement scandal—Glenn would still be running a failed startup in a strip mall!” Maya quickly shot her a warning glance, afraid of upsetting me. But Chelsea was worked up. “No! I’m going to say it! If your father hadn’t put his own reputation and fortune on the line, the Easton Group wouldn’t even exist today! And how does he repay you? By screwing around behind your back. That kind of man—” Chelsea looked at me, her eyes red-rimmed. “Harper, you’re just too good-natured!” “How are you so calm after what he did to you?” I offered a dry smile. “It’s not good nature. It’s genuinely over.” Glenn was definitely a bastard, but I had to admit, he was ruthlessly brilliant in business. When my father helped clear up Glenn’s family scandal, Glenn was already twenty-six. The Easton family was already disgraced and penniless. The current Easton Group was entirely his own creation. And I had once been his most trusted partner. The days we spent building the company are still vivid. To lock down one of his pet projects, I once went through three back-to-back drinking events with a client, leaving me doubled over with acute stomach pain. To secure a key opportunity he wanted, I once went three days without sleep, redrafting a proposal. Back then, driven by his ambition, I practically lived at the office. I was so consumed by work that I didn’t even notice when things started with Tatum Blake. I think the first time I saw Tatum was at the old Easton family manor. I had stopped by with a new contract. As I walked in, I saw a stranger kneeling on the floor, gently massaging Glenn’s mother’s knees. Glenn was standing nearby, his expression soft. I immediately knew something was off. But Glenn explained it away: “She’s just a private home health aide who connected with my mother.” I started to object, but he cut me off with a frown. “Harper, you’re a CEO. Don’t start acting like one of those petty, domestic wives. You’re better than that.” I chose to believe him. I thought our shared history and deep bond were unbreakable. The day the Easton Group went public, we signed our marriage certificate. But things went downhill fast. I saw Tatum again, at the office. She was in a crisp suit, shadowing Glenn, now his new Executive Assistant. I confronted Glenn. His reason was infuriatingly professional. “Tatum has potential and drive. I need a sharp assistant.” From that day on, I noticed a clear, deliberate effort to sideline my responsibilities. The Marketing department was my baby; I’d handpicked every member. But Tatum, citing “restructuring,” transferred them out one by one, replacing them with her own people. When I challenged Glenn, he just said, “The company needs a refresh, Harper. New blood.” I finally understood: he was methodically dismantling my foundation in the company. As his partner in building this empire, watching my team be destroyed was an agonizing betrayal. I screamed at him and handed in my resignation. I was ready to start my own firm. It was just as I was preparing to leave that I discovered I was pregnant. Feeling the flutter of a new life inside me, my resolve softened. I willingly returned home, embracing the role of a devoted wife, trying to ignore the whispers. I thought my sacrifice would earn his respect. Reality, again, delivered a brutal blow. The rumors about him and Tatum intensified. Financial news, social media—they were everywhere, side-by-side at events, looking like the perfect power couple. I confronted him with the articles. He roughly pulled me to the mirror. He pointed at my reflection. “Look at you. Frazzled hair, maternity jeans, shadows under your eyes. You think I want to drag that to the quarterly gala? Be realistic, Harper.” Trust, once broken, can never be fully repaired. On Noah’s first birthday, the house was packed with guests. My intuition screamed that something terrible was about to happen. And it did. I walked into our bedroom and found Glenn and Tatum tangled up together. Tatum was wearing my favorite ivory silk robe, the one he bought me on our honeymoon. My mind went blank. My stomach violently rebelled. I collapsed onto the floor, dry heaving. Glenn’s face held no remorse, only the pure rage of being caught. He hissed a warning at me: “Harper Maxwell, you start any drama, and I’ll make sure the Maxwell name is a punchline on Wall Street by morning.” After that, he stopped hiding. He brought Tatum to live in our home. I discovered that his mother, who always claimed to treat me like a daughter, had known about the affair all along. She even tried to advise me: “A man like Glenn is a major league player, dear. You have to expect a few groupies. Just learn to look the other way.” I couldn’t endure the filth of that marriage for another day. I made up my mind to file for divorce. But just as I was getting the papers drawn up, Noah was diagnosed with acute leukemia. The doctors said his best chance was a bone marrow transplant. My match failed. Just as despair set in, Glenn’s results came back as a perfect match. In that moment, he became my only hope. For Noah, I put the divorce on hold. He donated bone marrow twice. Both procedures were successful. As Noah’s condition stabilized, Tatum announced she was pregnant. She brought in some charlatan who claimed this child was the Easton family’s “lucky charm,” a true heir. The Eastons treated her child like gold. Tatum claimed the master bedroom’s feng shui was bad for the baby and had me moved into a damp, moldy guest suite. Then she decided Noah’s room got the best morning sun and needed to be converted into a nursery. I watched the maids start tossing Noah’s toys and books into trash bags. I couldn’t hold back anymore. I rushed at them. “Don’t touch my son’s things!” The security guards were Glenn’s men, hired to protect Tatum. On her command, they pinned me to the floor. Tatum sat on the edge of the sofa, a malicious smirk on her face. “I’ll tell them to stop touching your son’s things, Harper.” “But only if you get on your knees and shine my shoes for me.” “Go to hell!” I spat, glaring up at her. “You pathetic wretch, you’ll get what you deserve!” The next thing I knew, a hand gripped my hair, wrenching my head back. A sharp, violent slap cracked across my face. My cheek instantly burned. Glenn was standing over me, his eyes cold. “Harper, are you insane?” “Tatum is carrying my child, the family’s future. How dare you curse her?” He used to fuss if I got a paper cut. Now, he hit me for another woman. From then on, Noah and I lived in a freezing hell. The nanny, on Tatum’s orders, gave us stale, half-cooked meals. Our guest suite was freezing and damp, even with the inadequate heating. One night, Noah woke me up, crying softly. “Mommy, I’m hungry.” I tried to sneak to the kitchen for a piece of fruit. Tatum found me and started screaming, accusing me of stealing. That night, in below-freezing temperatures, Glenn locked me outside in the courtyard. I stood there, shivering, numb, repeating the same mantra: Just hold on. One more transplant. When Noah is better, we’ll leave. The doctor said Noah needed one final transplant to fully recover. I swallowed the humiliation for that goal. But I never expected Glenn to deliver the final, killing blow. The day before the scheduled surgery, I saw the staff packing suitcases. A cold dread rushed through me. I tracked down Glenn immediately. His voice was calm, like he was talking about the weather. “Tatum wants to have the baby in Geneva. It’s aligned with our European expansion plan. We leave tomorrow.” My blood ran cold. “What about Noah’s surgery tomorrow?” Glenn shrugged it off. “I already found a donor. The surgery will proceed as planned. Don’t worry. I’ll be back once I’ve launched the European office.” I immediately called Noah’s oncologist. The doctor told me the surgery had been canceled. And there was no new donor. I charged at Glenn, screaming. “Why did you cancel it? Are you trying to kill Noah?!” He grew impatient. “Harper, stop being hysterical! You’re just looking for drama because you don’t want us to leave!” To ensure he and Tatum could leave without issue, he ordered his security team to lock Noah and me in the old storage vault in the basement. The sudden ring of my phone yanked me from the memory. I thought it was Hazel, our daughter, calling for a bedtime story. I snatched it up. But it was Glenn Easton’s guttural cry that came through the receiver. “Harper, they’re saying… they’re telling me Noah is gone…”

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I was so deep in character during the final scene that I instinctively shoved the prop “Termination of Pregnancy Consent Form” into my jacket pocket. Back at my condo, Kellan Maxwell, my A-list actor boyfriend—whose relationship with me was strictly classified—found the paper while hanging up my coat. His voice was hoarse, grated with sand: “When?” I thought he was asking when filming wrapped: “Just this afternoon. It was quick, honestly. Barely felt a thing, and then it was over.” The light in Kellan’s eyes instantly went out. He staggered backward, collapsing onto the sofa. The next day, I left for a locked-down period-piece shoot. When I finally emerged, the rumor mill was churning. Kellan had canceled all his projects. He had spent weeks at a remote monastic retreat, performing a silent vigil for a lost soul—for a child who never drew breath. 1 I hadn’t even managed to take off my heels when Kellan Maxwell’s warm, mint-scented kiss found me, his arms locking around my waist in a tight, possessive hold. Normally, faced with Kellan’s demanding affection, I’d happily go three hundred rounds. But not today. I was fresh off a month-long shoot, exhausted, and desperately needed a hot shower. “Stop, please…” I turned my head, dodging his lips. “I think my spine is fractured. Have mercy.” Kellan froze. The playful, sultry look in his eyes instantly morphed into one of sharp concern. “That bad?” “The worst.” I let out a groan as I shrugged out of my heavy coat and shoved it into his arms. “Hang this up, would you? I’m hitting the makeup wipes.” I headed straight for the bathroom. Behind me, I heard the rustle of fabric. Kellan always took care of the laundry and dry cleaning. He was already efficiently hanging my coat, his hands instinctively checking the pockets. The shower was running, and I was squeezing a pump of cleansing oil onto my palm, working on the waterproof mascara, when Kellan’s voice cut through the running water. It was barely a whisper, yet it carried an unnatural tremor. “Cassidy, when did this happen?” My eyes were closed, my face slick with oil. I assumed he was asking about my final scene. “Just this afternoon. It was quick, honestly. Didn’t feel a thing, and then it was over.” I’d expected the closing scene to be brutal, but it had gone surprisingly well, which was why I was home early. “…Did it hurt?” I felt a little warmth in my chest. I’d been in a wire harness for over an hour that day. It had definitely hurt, but complaining was unprofessional. So I answered casually: “Not really. A bit sore at the time, I guess, but I’m fine now. Totally numb.” I hadn’t noticed the rain that had started outside. The mist on the glass blurred the warm light in the room. The air outside the bathroom door thickened and hardened. Kellan’s voice trembled again, lower this time: “…Why didn’t you tell me?” Oh, here we go. The man was sulking. Was he really upset that I hadn’t given him a heads-up about wrapping early? I rolled my eyes. “Kellan, it was a tiny thing. Why would I call you? Half the crew was still there. We’re supposed to be keeping things on the low, remember?” With that, I shut the bathroom door, ready to start my long-awaited bath. I was just sinking into the tub when I heard a soft knock. “Cass?” I swished the water. “What now?” Silence for a beat. “Don’t run the water too hot. It’s not good for your system. And… don’t soak too long. You might get dizzy.” “I know, I know. God, you’re turning into such a nag.” He didn’t reply to my complaint. But I heard the low murmur of his phone call outside. “…If she gets chilled… what meds should I have on hand… Yes, I know she’s healthy, but we have to be careful…” I just assumed he was calling his overly cautious family doctor on my behalf. I didn’t see Kellan hang up, walk to the thermostat, and quietly raise the condo temperature by two degrees. 2 When I finally emerged, clean and in a soft robe, Kellan was sitting motionless on the sofa, like a marble statue. The reading lamp cast a long, lonely shadow behind him. He looked like a small child who’d been utterly abandoned by the world. Kellan was a method actor. Sometimes he’d get deep into a script and drift off into his own world. I didn’t worry about it. I couldn’t worry about it. I was leaving the next morning for a remote, highly demanding period piece. While toweling my hair, I wrestled my massive suitcase onto the floor and started packing. I was mentally running through my pre-dawn schedule as I stuffed clothes into the case. Kellan watched my frantic activity, several times parting his lips as if to speak, then snapping them shut. Finally, as I reached for the zipper, he pressed his hand over mine. “Cassidy.” “Do you absolutely have to leave tomorrow?” “You haven’t recovered yet…” I stared at him, bewildered. “What are you talking about? I’m perfectly fine. I’m a rock star.” “Besides, the entire crew is waiting for me to show up. Hundreds of people. If I back out now, it’s a breach of contract. Do you know how much the penalty is?” “I’ll pay it.” The words flew out of him. “Just stay home for a few days. Rest. Please.” I frowned, looking at him incredulously. “Kellan, what is wrong with you today?” “You’re the one who always told me an actor must have integrity, and you honor your contracts! And again, I’m fine. I’m full of energy. I don’t need ‘rest’ like some delicate flower.” Kellan’s face went instantly, horrifyingly pale, as if I had slapped him across the mouth. I didn’t understand his expression; I just felt he was being unusually clingy and difficult. I stood up straight, snapping the lock on the suitcase. “Besides, you were the one who pushed me to focus on my career. Now that I’m finally getting some traction, are you trying to keep me locked away like a gilded cage doll?” That phrase seemed to break something in him. Kellan stumbled back half a step, dropping heavily onto the sofa. He looked up at me, his eyes shattered. “It… it was me who told you to focus on your career.” He let out a terrible, choked sound that was not quite a laugh and not quite a sob. “I was wrong.” I turned away to wheel the suitcase out of the way, not paying his whispered words any mind. 3 I was exhausted from the long day, and packing had finished me off. I was asleep the second my head hit the pillow. But I woke up, groggy, to the familiar scent of Kellan’s minty body wash. I was leaving tomorrow. Two months was a long time. The thought of the separation made me feel a little reckless. I rolled over and snuggled into his chest, my hand wandering under the hem of his pajama top. “Kellan…” My voice was a soft, sleepy purr, and I lifted my chin, searching for his lips. The next second, my whole body went rigid. Kellan had pushed me away. It was a gentle move, but the refusal was absolute and unmistakable. He pressed my errant hand against the sheet. “Don’t, Cass. Sleep.” I pouted. “I’m leaving tomorrow. We won’t see each other for weeks. And that’s your reaction?” The Kellan I knew would have consumed me already. Tonight, he was rigid, acting like some kind of saint. He retreated slightly, pulling the duvet up to my chin, tucking me in so tightly only my eyes were visible. “Listen to me.” In the dark, his gaze was heavy. “Your body hasn’t fully recovered. We can’t risk it.” I frowned. “I’m tired, sure, but you’re actually rejecting me?” “Don’t expect me to be this eager next time, Kellan!” “Please. Just behave.” There was a desperate plea in his voice. I narrowed my eyes at him. This man was truly off-kilter tonight. Fine, Kellan Maxwell. Maybe you’re bored of me. “Whatever! Who cares!” I huffed, rolling onto my side with my back to him, pulling the comforter over my head. “Good! Sleep! Don’t touch me!” A single, heavy sigh sounded behind me. 4 That night, Kellan Maxwell did not sleep. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, looking at Cassidy, who was sulking next to him. His heart felt as if an invisible hand were squeezing it, wringing it out until only pain remained. He didn’t dare close his eyes. Every time he did, he saw the crumpled, clinical form: Termination of Pregnancy Consent. He remembered an afternoon two months prior. The sunlight was perfect, catching the fine downy hairs on her cheek as she scrolled through videos on his lap. Suddenly, she held the phone up to his face. On the screen was a little girl in a pink dress. Cassidy’s eyes were shining. “Kellan, look! Isn’t she the cutie? Who do you think our kid would look like?” She tilted her head, her face full of a heartbreaking, naive hope for the future. “I hope the features are yours, but the expression is mine.” Kellan had sighed, a weary smile touching his lips. He loved her, and because he loved her, he knew the ruthless nature of their business. “Cass, you’re still young.” “This industry is brutal for actresses. You have maybe a decade in your prime. If you take a year off to have a baby, the market forgets you instantly.” “I don’t want you to regret it later—giving up your chance to be brilliant and unforgettable just to be a mom.” He had analyzed the pros and cons, calmly and logically. “You have the fire, the talent. You shouldn’t slow down this soon. As for kids… can we talk about it later?” The light in Cassidy’s eyes dimmed noticeably. Right. He was the massive star, the A-lister with the career on fire. He wasn’t ready to be a father. She masked her disappointment quickly, throwing him a brittle smile. “God, don’t look so serious. I was just making conversation.” Now, Kellan buried his face in his hands, a groan escaping his throat. He was a monster. What if she had already been pregnant then? Her casual question—was it a test? Was she waiting for him to say: I want a baby with you, or I can’t wait for our child to look just like you? But his cold, pragmatic response told her everything she needed to know. Kellan couldn’t bear to imagine it. What must it have been like for her to go through that—alone? To come home and say it was “quick” and she “barely felt a thing”? He knew her. The more casually she dismissed it, the more deeply she was hurting inside. The regret that burned in his chest was a wildfire. He looked at Cassidy, whose brow was furrowed slightly even in sleep. His hand shook as he reached out to touch her cheek, then stopped inches away, terrified of disturbing her fragile rest. Finally, he settled his arm in a stiff, protective curve around her empty stomach. He spent the long, endless night internally condemning himself. I killed our child. I am the one who killed the only family we had. Hours later, Kellan sat up. He opened the private chat group he shared with a few childhood friends. [Kellan Maxwell: My child is gone.]

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The neighbor’s girl had scratched my car thirteen times with her bicycle. She always looked the part: scrubbed face, faded jeans, weeping those heartbreaking, pearly tears. Before this, I’d always melted. Always waved her off. But this time, she just looked me in the eye. “So what? It’s just a scratch,” she sneered, wiping a tear. “Someone as rich as you wouldn’t bother harassing a broke college kid over something this small, would you?” The weariness hit me like a physical blow. The emotional theater of it all—the calculated poverty—had finally curdled into disgust. “Let’s go the legal route,” I said, my voice flat. She blinked. “Original cost for repair, plus damages. I’m including the previous nine times I let slide. Total liability: three million dollars.” She froze, then her face crumpled, transitioning back to the victim in a flicker. “Three million? You’re only doing this because I’m poor, aren’t you? To bully me?” she wailed. “My boyfriend is a lawyer. I’m not afraid of you.” I truly hadn’t taken the threat seriously. Not until the day of the preliminary hearing. A striking man, immaculate in a bespoke charcoal suit, pulled her close, comforting her as she leaned into his chest. “My little crybaby,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “Finally ready to announce who your boyfriend is?” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “As a reward, how about I not only win this for you, but I make sure we get the plaintiff and her lawyer sanctioned? Get you the justice you deserve.” The man speaking was my husband, Spencer Hale—the undefeated litigation shark, the top-tier attorney who, at that very moment, was supposed to be finishing up a major deal in London. … 1. “But really? She has so much money, and she’s so arrogant,” Phoebe Carter sniffled, burying her face deeper into Spencer’s lapel. “I’m just a struggling student. How can I possibly win against her?” Spencer Hale gently wiped a tear from her cheek. “You doubt everyone else, but you doubt me?” He tilted her chin up. “Your boyfriend? I’m the best litigator in the country, Phoebe. The best. I’ll make her crawl for forgiveness. How about that?” Phoebe’s tears instantly dissolved into a dazzling, childish smile. “Yes,” she cheered. “Make that old hag pay.” “Anything you want, little rebel,” Spencer laughed, kissing her again. I watched them from a distance, my gaze fixed on their entwined silhouettes. Then I lifted my phone. Spencer saw the screen light up and instinctively frowned, pulling slightly away from Phoebe. He paused for a long moment before excusing himself, stepping into a quieter corner to answer. Spencer’s voice, artificially bright and laced with practiced affection, hit my ear immediately. “Missing me already? I just left, darling.” “Where are you?” I cut straight to the chase. A fractional hesitation. Just a beat too long. “In London, of course. I text you my itinerary every day, don’t I?” He let out an exasperated sigh. “I’ve got to go. My client’s about to throw a tantrum.” I watched the smile drop from his face the moment he hung up, a chilling, instant transformation. Phoebe rushed over, her arms looping around his neck. “Who was that on the phone?” Spencer quickly pressed a kiss to her lips. “No one important. Just a nuisance. What, are you jealous?” My heart gave a heavy, leaden thump as I stood watching their tableau—two lovers oblivious to the world. I didn’t show up for the hearing. My assistant went in my place. When I got home that evening, I sat on the sofa, scrolling through old photos of Spencer and me. Seven years of birthdays, holidays, and inside jokes. My chest was utterly numb. Spencer had graduated at the top of his class and quickly rose to the elite of the legal world. Everyone always called us the perfect couple—the golden pair. I had believed it. I truly had. I let out a short, self-mocking laugh. The vibration of my phone startled me. A text message from Phoebe. “What’s the use of all that money if no one loves you, you old woman?” she gloated. “My boyfriend loves me.” Attached were a dozen intimate photos: hands intertwined, faces pressed together, goofy selfies. The final image was the court document detailing her victory. The judgment was a stinging mockery. Before I could even process a reply, Spencer’s name flashed on my screen. “Audra Sinclair, what in God’s name were you thinking?” His voice was sharp, laced with righteous fury. “You’re nearly thirty, harassing a nineteen-year-old kid! How could you be so cruel as to demand three million dollars from a student?” I smiled, a cold, empty gesture. So he knew it was me. He knew the whole truth, yet he still used his reputation, his genius, to crush me and hand her the victory. The undefeated Spencer Hale. I hung up without speaking. Then I dialed my corporate lawyer, Mr. Alistair Cole. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Sinclair. We simply couldn’t stand up to your husband.” “It’s fine.” “I do have one more lawsuit I need your help with, Mr. Cole.” He paused. “A lawsuit? Why wouldn’t you just use Mr. Hale?” I spoke slowly, deliberately. “A divorce case.” “He’s the defendant.” 2. Spencer finally came home three days later. I gave him a brief, frigid glance, and turned to walk away. “Audra. Honey, are you still mad?” He grabbed my hand. “Look, I apologize for my tone the other day. I was too harsh.” “When I saw Phoebe, I just flashed back to my own college days. I was poor then, too. Scrounging for meal money. It was just a moment of pity.” He didn’t once mention his actual relationship with Phoebe. “We don’t need the money, Audra. Think of it as a charitable donation, an act of grace.” I kept my gaze fixed on him, unmoving. He sighed, pulling me toward the door. “Come on. As an apology, I’m taking you to pick out a new bag. Any bag you want.” I was reluctant, but I had been cooped up inside for too long. As soon as we walked into the high-end boutique, a sales associate rushed over. “Ms. Sinclair, Mr. Hale! So good to see you both!” She enthusiastically showed me the newest arrivals. Spencer beamed, pulling me closer. “Pick out whatever you like, darling. Consider it my apology for my bad temper.” The sales associate and her colleagues began whispering, their voices a sympathetic hum. “Mr. Hale is so devoted to you.” “You two are still number one on the city’s ‘Model Couples’ list.” Model couple. I let out a dry, scornful puff of air. My desire to shop evaporated. I simply grabbed a generic clutch off a shelf. Just then, Phoebe Carter burst in, a squeal escaping her lips as she flung herself onto Spencer’s arm. “Spencer! What are you doing here?” She spotted the bag in my hand. “Wow, that purse is gorgeous, Audra. Is that the new Vanderbilt?” The store associates froze, exchanging uneasy glances. I looked at Phoebe’s expression. She clearly knew I was Spencer’s wife now, but she didn’t look one bit ashamed. No, she’d probably known all along. I lowered my eyes, then extended the bag toward her. “It is nice, isn’t it? Two hundred thousand dollars. You won’t earn that working ten years of minimum wage.” Phoebe’s face immediately stiffened. Then the tears started to fall, right on cue. She said nothing, just fixed her wide, innocent eyes on Spencer, waiting. Finally, she broke into a fresh round of sobs. “It’s true, I can’t afford it,” she choked out. “But Mrs. Hale, you don’t have to look down on me like that. I’m poor. So what? Do I not deserve to live because I’m poor?” She snatched her arm away from Spencer. “I’m leaving! I’ll never show my face in front of you rich, privileged people again!” Spencer’s brow furrowed as he looked at me, all the patience he’d displayed moments before completely gone. “Who said she can’t afford it? I’ll buy it for her.” He then pulled a cheap, ten-dollar canvas tote from somewhere and threw it at me. “Here. You carry this today.” His voice was cold, laced with contempt. “Go home and think about when you became so shallow and judgmental. All you’ve ever been is a parasite, Audra, coasting on your family’s name since childhood. In ten years, Phoebe will eclipse you.” He then turned and chased after Phoebe, leaving me alone, stranded in the silent store. The sales associates stared, their pitying eyes watching me. I looked at Spencer’s retreating back, and my heart gave a sudden, sharp contraction. It was a searing, needle-like pain that radiated through my chest. I lowered my eyes to mask the flood of emotion, pulled out my phone, and took a picture of the bag’s payment receipt. Then, I walked to the window and snapped a photo of Spencer and Phoebe outside, locked in a tight embrace. “Mr. Cole,” I typed. “Adultery evidence.” 3. “Received,” Mr. Cole’s text popped up instantly. I put my phone away and sighed. A store associate nervously approached me. “Ms. Sinclair, that was the last one of those bags—and your picture with Mr. Hale… should we still display it?” I looked over at the glass shelf. There, tucked between two new bags, was a framed photo of Spencer and me, taken right after college graduation. Spencer had just started as a junior paralegal, a complete nobody. He’d saved three months of ramen-noodle money to buy me the cheapest clutch in this very store. When he gave it to me, he held me close and whispered, “I don’t have much now, Audra, but I promise you. We are going to have the brightest, most beautiful future.” That cheap clutch is still in my closet. It’s my favorite. Every time I see it, I remember that promise, that future he mapped out for us. Now he was successful, famous, and rich. That photo felt like a brutal slap across the face. “Ms. Sinclair?” the associate prompted. I looked at my younger self in the photo, smiling so innocently, never imagining this day. “Throw it out,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “It’s irrelevant.” Irrelevant memories. Irrelevant people. I didn’t want either anymore. I turned, walked out of the store, and headed straight for the ocean. I spent three hours by the water, watching the relentless churn of the waves. Seven years—from college sweethearts to married life—tumbled through my mind. The raw, jagged pain I felt when Spencer walked away had finally settled into a dull ache. The storm had passed. I sent him a text. “Tomorrow is our seventh anniversary. I think we need to talk.” Spencer didn’t reply. But Phoebe posted a picture on her social media. It was a close-up of the designer bag Spencer had just bought her. The caption read: “The one who truly loves you will cross any obstacle to be by your side. In love, the only other woman is the one who isn’t truly loved.” A moment later, Spencer Hale had ‘liked’ the post. I laughed, a harsh, brittle sound. Time to like her social media posts, but not time to reply to his wife. It didn’t matter. I no longer cared. My phone buzzed again, this time a video call. Phoebe. “Hey, Audra! Guess where I am?” Her tone was chirpy, manic. “You know, it’s true you rich people have it all. Even your dog eats better than me. An animal gets to live in a mansion. How is that fair?” In the video, she was in my living room, my dog, Gus, clutched tightly in her arms. I had raised Gus from a puppy; he was family. He was frantic, struggling in her grip. “What are you doing? Let him go!” I shouted. Gus was fiercely protective of me. He thrashed harder, perhaps hearing my distress. Phoebe squeezed his head tighter, and Gus instinctively bit her hand. Phoebe’s face, which had been smiling in her moment of triumph, twisted into something dark and ugly. “You little bastard!” “The old woman bullies me, and now her mutt attacks me, too?” Phoebe, still wearing the ridiculously expensive heels Spencer bought her, violently kicked Gus’s small body. I screamed, dropping my phone, scrambling to pick it up as I started to run. “Don’t touch him!” The ten-minute drive from the beach to the house took me five. I was still too late. I shoved the door open. Gus was lying on the marble floor. His eyes were wide with a film of tears, and he let out the smallest, weakest whimper—the sound he made only when he was in excruciating pain. My heart shattered. “Phoebe! Get away from him! Get away!” Phoebe looked up and smiled. “Oh, hi, Audra. You’re back. Your house is amazing, but your dog is so naughty.” She looked down at Gus, her eyes turning cold and malevolent. “You came back for this dog, didn’t you? Just wait. I’ll send him down to you.” A primal, suffocating dread closed in on me. “No—!” 4. I was still on the first floor, but it was too late. Phoebe was standing on the upstairs landing, and in front of my horrified eyes, she flung Gus over the railing. Thud. My companion, my little fur-family, the only unconditional love I’d known for years, hit the ground and went still. I let out a shriek of absolute devastation. “Gus!” I watched his eyes. They glazed over, fading away. His tiny paw was extended towards me, as if he needed one last hug. He was too far. I couldn’t reach him. And then, he slowly closed his eyes. A massive, overwhelming wave of pain and pure, white-hot hatred washed over me. Phoebe looked from Gus’s body to my broken face and started laughing. “Dead? Good, he deserved it. Why should an animal live better than me? I didn’t mean to kill him, but that bite—” I scrambled up the stairs like a madwoman, my hand raised, ready to strike her. “Who told you to touch him? Who gave you the right to be here?” The palm of my hand never made contact. A powerful force grabbed my wrist and stopped me dead. Spencer’s eyes, normally composed, were shadowed and dark. In seven years, I had never seen him look at me with such cold fury. For another woman. “Audra Sinclair, what the hell are you doing?” I grit my teeth, pointing a trembling finger at Gus’s motionless body below. “Who let this woman into my home? She just killed my dog!” Phoebe, naturally, was weeping against Spencer’s chest. She shook her head violently. “I’m sorry, Spencer! The dog just went crazy and bit me, and then it jumped off the balcony itself!” She pulled back her sleeve, revealing the superficial bite mark. Spencer’s eyes hardened. He violently flung my arm away. I lost my balance and crashed hard to the floor. “This is what you call a loyal pet? If anything happens to Phoebe, I swear, you will regret it.” A corner of the coat rack dug into my stomach. The pain was so sharp I couldn’t speak. Spencer didn’t even glance at me. He was focused solely on examining Phoebe’s hand. “Are you okay?” Phoebe shook her head, tears streaming down her face. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen, Spencer. I was just looking around this huge house—it’s so big—and then Audra’s dog just lunged at me. I—I…” She dissolved into sobs, and Spencer swept her up into his arms. I gripped the hem of his trousers, fighting the churning sickness in my stomach, clinging to one last sliver of hope. Maybe Gus could still be saved. “The hospital. Spencer, please. Take Gus to the hospital. Now.” He didn’t look down at me. His voice was calm, a desolate, cold whisper. “It’s just an animal. It’s dead. It got what it deserved.” I watched their backs disappear, and the tears finally came. They weren’t for Spencer. They were for my Gus. And for the seven years of my life I had given to this man. Cradled in Spencer’s arms, Phoebe looked over his shoulder. She caught my eye, a smug, victorious smile on her face. Then, she mouthed two silent words at me. Other woman. The one who isn’t truly loved. 5. I woke up in the hospital on the third day. My assistant, pale and exhausted, was sitting by my bedside. He looked like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t. “Boss—” Two full days. Spencer hadn’t come to the hospital. Not once. I closed my eyes, then opened them. My voice was raspy. “Call the police. File a report.” “Yes, Ms. Sinclair.” Not long after the police left, Spencer walked into my room. His face was grim, his eyes burning with irritation. His opening line was a demand. “Phoebe hasn’t even graduated. You called the police? What about her future?” I looked at him, my expression blank. “The moment she killed my dog, she decided her future. I want her to face the consequences for what she did.” Spencer glared at me. “I can’t believe you’ve become this person. You rich people are all heartless. But you can’t touch Phoebe while I’m here.” He stood taller, the undefeated lawyer. “You know my power, Audra. With me on her side, no case is unwinnable. I won’t let her lose.” Then, he turned and left. One day later, I received the notice. Spencer, on behalf of Phoebe, was suing me for willfully allowing my aggressive pet to injure her. Against any other attorney, the case was laughably weak. But this was Spencer Hale. His record of zero losses was the gold standard of the industry. People used to envy me for having such a brilliant husband. It never occurred to me that he would use that brilliance to destroy me. The verdict came down a week later. I lost. Thoroughly. The court ruled that I owed Phoebe one million dollars for emotional distress, medical expenses, and pain and suffering. Furthermore, for allowing a pet to maliciously injure a person, I could face a fifteen-day jail sentence if the plaintiff declined to drop the charge. I stared at the ruling. I had already convinced myself I was done with him, but still, my heart gave an involuntary, painful wrench. I never thought Spencer would be this cruel. He was so terrified of a negative impact on her future that he didn’t care about destroying mine. Fine. Spencer Hale. I never want to be associated with you again. I called Mr. Cole, forwarding the last, damning pieces of evidence of Spencer’s infidelity. … Spencer smiled when Mr. Cole showed up at his office. “Audra finally realized she was wrong, didn’t she? This whole thing was just to teach her a lesson. I would never let her actually go to jail.” He checked his watch. “Tell her I’m coming home tonight. All the previous drama—” Mr. Cole interrupted him. “Mr. Hale, this is from Ms. Sinclair. I suggest you look at it.” Spencer’s smile widened. “Did she get me a surprise? Audra is always so predictable. If she’d just been more cooperative sooner…” His voice trailed off as he fanned the papers. He looked down at the documents on the floor, the color draining from his face.

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My father, Gary Miller, had spent the better part of two decades working out-of-state construction jobs, usually in some booming metropolis two states over. I grew up a ward of the state in all but name, raised by our neighbor, Mrs. Helen Davies, seeing him only a few times a year, sometimes not even then. This year, for the first time in memory, he was actually home for the holidays. He stood awkwardly in the living room, clutching a worn manila envelope, which he tentatively pushed toward me. “Honey, you said you missed me on the phone. You asked me to send more pictures of myself. I brought them back for you.” I slammed the envelope onto the small end table. “The delivery’s done. You can go now.” Mrs. Davies’ face darkened immediately. “Ava, that’s enough. Stop this nonsense!” “Nonsense?” I yelled, my voice cracking slightly. “How many years was I here, living on her charity, and did he ever genuinely care about me?” My Aunt Carol threw her hands up in exasperation. “You ungrateful viper! You know how hard your father works, sweating on those scaffolds just to pay for your college tuition?” I let out a cold laugh and pointed at the envelope on the table. “He should have bought me an apartment so I wouldn’t have to live under someone else’s roof anymore. I’d apologize right now!” The living room erupted. My father, Aunt Carol, and the few neighbors who’d come to greet him all started talking over each other, calling me spoiled and selfish. I yanked the photos out of the envelope and slapped them across the table. “See for yourselves!” My father glanced down at the scattered pictures, and the carefully constructed mask of the dutiful, hardworking dad instantly shattered. 1. It was barely dawn, and I was still tangled in my duvet when the door to my room creaked open. A sun-scorched, deeply lined face peered through the gap, stretching into a clumsy grin. “Honey, Dad’s home.” I stared at the familiar-unfamiliar face for a few seconds before slowly sitting up. “Didn’t you ever learn to knock first?” The smile froze on Gary’s face. He pulled a flimsy envelope from inside his jacket and carefully placed it at the foot of my bed. “You said you missed me when we spoke on the phone.” His voice was tight, a nervous energy radiating off him. “I had a few pictures developed in the city… to bring back for you. So you can look at them when you miss me.” I turned my face away. “Fine. You can go now.” Mrs. Davies, bless her heart, gently pulled him out of the doorway. The low, rustling sounds of hushed voices came from the hallway—a few neighbors had clearly gathered. “It’s good to have you back, Gary. Tough work out there on the rigs…” “Gary Miller! Haven’t seen you in ages!” “Hard work, but it’s all for the kids, right?” “Ava’s grown up, Gary. You need to start worrying about her finding a good husband now!” I eventually opened the envelope and sifted through the photos, a bitter smile twisting my lips. I shoved the pictures back inside, got dressed, and walked out. Aunt Carol was in the living room talking to Dad. When he saw me, his eyes lit up. He immediately reached down into the large, dirty duffel bag by his feet and clumsily ripped open two plastic bags. “Look, honey, Dad bought you some new clothes!” He unfolded a cheap, bright red nylon coat. “Try it on. See if it fits you.” I didn’t take it. I didn’t even look up at him. I walked straight to the sofa, sat down, and started peeling a clementine from the fruit bowl. “The gifts are delivered. Go back to work.” “Don’t waste your time here.” His hand was still suspended in the air, holding the bright red coat, the moment hanging heavy with his awkwardness. Mrs. Davies rushed over to intervene. “Ava, you silly child! It’s the holidays! Your father is on vacation, he’s not working!” I peeled a segment of the fruit and popped it into my mouth. “How come he never showed up for the holidays before?” I finally raised my eyes to meet his. “Why the sudden show of false concern this year? Did some relative give you the bright idea to come back and try to marry me off for a dowry?” I sneered. Aunt Carol exploded. “What are you saying!” she shrieked. “Don’t you know how good your father has been to you? Your mother left, your grandparents passed, and he was the one who raised you, all by himself!” I kept peeling the orange, my eyes glued to my hands. “Oh, that’s right. It was Dad who stayed up all night when I had a fever to rush me to the emergency room, and it was Dad who met with my teachers when the kids at school called me an orphan…” The neighbors exchanged glances, their voices dropping into hushed whispers. “Wait, didn’t Mrs. Davies practically raise Ava since she was a toddler?” “That year Ava had the high fever, it was Helen who carried her to the clinic and stayed by her side for three days and nights.” “And the parent-teacher conferences? Never saw Gary Miller there. Always Mrs. Davies.” “Hardly ever a phone call, much less a visit…” My father’s face was bright red with shame, but he stubbornly pushed the red coat closer to me. “Honey, please, just stand up for a minute and try it on… see if it looks nice…” “Stop it!” I slammed my hand down. The jacket flew out of his grasp and landed directly on the small, portable electric heater next to the sofa. “Oh!” He cried out, practically diving to snatch the jacket back, but it was too late. The lower hem of the nylon had melted, leaving a jagged, charred hole. “The tragedy!” Aunt Carol shot up from her chair. “Do you know how many bricks your father has to lay, how much he has to sweat on that construction site, just to earn the money for this one coat? How can you be so selfish and ungrateful!” “Your father came all this way just to see you, and this is how you treat him? Have you no conscience?” She was practically shaking with rage, her face scarlet. Mrs. Davies hurried over, pulling the ruined coat from Gary’s trembling hand. “It’s alright, it’s alright… nobody panic, nobody yell…” She looked up at me and the furious Carol, then back down at the jacket. “Let me see… maybe I can find a way to patch it up… if I sew it carefully, you won’t even see it…” I stood up, snatched the coat from Mrs. Davies’ hands, roughly crumpled it into a ball, and shoved it back into the dirty duffel bag. Then, I kicked the entire bag forcefully at his feet. “Sew what? The dogs on the street wouldn’t touch this cheap trash!” “Ava.” Mrs. Davies squeezed my arm, her fingers trembling slightly. “You… you weren’t like this before…” Gary took an urgent step forward. “Honey, tell Dad, what did I do wrong? Did I not knock before coming in? Are the pictures not good enough, you don’t like them?” “Or are the pictures Dad took… not handsome enough?” Aunt Carol, muttering under her breath, said, “See? Spoiled! Such a temper. What man would want her now?” I turned sharply. “At least I can keep a man. Didn’t your husband leave you for the receptionist?” 2. “Ava Miller, you will not speak to your aunt like that!” My father shielded Carol, his voice suddenly hard, brooking no argument. “If you don’t like the pictures, I’ll take new ones next time! Why take it out on your aunt!” “No need.” “I’d rather not look at trash like that again.” I cut him off and sat back down on the sofa. The other neighbors began muttering again. “This girl is out of control now…” “She was so sweet as a kid, now she’s just rebellious.” “Her dad has it rough. Working hard for a few dollars, and he comes back to this…” Aunt Carol couldn’t hold back and lunged at me. Mrs. Davies quickly grabbed my arm, her voice catching in her throat. “Ava, please, be quiet… your father is home for the first time in so long…” I remained silent. Gary, seeing my lack of response, looked colder. He didn’t speak for a long moment. I didn’t acknowledge him, just held Mrs. Davies’ hand tightly. After a tense, extended silence, dinner was served. I finally took Mrs. Davies’ hand and led her to the table. Gary wiped his hands and spoke, the first to break the new silence. “Mrs. Davies told me… you have a boyfriend? From Silverton County?” Seeing my lack of response, he continued on his own. “I worked construction near there. Even though Mrs. Davies says the boy’s family is well-off, I still need to check him out.” I didn’t look up. Aunt Carol immediately chimed in. “That’s right! Your father is looking out for you, as any parent should. It’s only you who’s so ungrateful, treating your dad like dirt.” The other relatives nodded in agreement. “Yes, yes, your father cares about you.” “A parent has to be involved in things like this.” “Letting people know you have family, so they won’t dare to mistreat you later…” I gave a cold laugh and delicately placed a soft piece of stewed rib into Mrs. Davies’ bowl. “Worried I won’t be well-off?” I smiled faintly. “You’ve barely cared about me all these years. Why the sudden surge of parental concern?” I put down my chopsticks with a sharp clink. Mrs. Davies gasped and quickly pulled my hand under the table. “Child, how can you say that? Meeting the two families before marriage is customary, it’s proper etiquette!” I looked at Mrs. Davies. The worry in her eyes was genuine; she only ever wanted me to be happy and secure. I turned my hand and gripped her calloused, warm one. “Grandma, you just have to come with me.” “I’ve already told him I don’t have any parents.” Clatter. It was the sound of my father’s bowl hitting the table. Mrs. Davies gasped, tightening her grip on my hand. “You!” Aunt Carol shot up, her movement so fast that she knocked her chair over. She rounded the table and, before anyone could react, slapped me hard across the face. 3. “Are you insane!” Mrs. Davies shrieked, instantly standing up to shield me, but the enraged Aunt Carol shoved her hard. Elderly and frail, Mrs. Davies stumbled backward. “Grandma!” My heart seized. I stepped across the floor and caught Mrs. Davies, then turned and shoved Aunt Carol with all my might. She hadn’t braced herself and let out a surprised yelp as she fell backward onto the floor. “Try touching her again, I dare you!” “This is an outrage!” Carol sat on the floor, her finger shaking as she pointed at me, wailing at Dad and Mrs. Davies. “Brother! Look at this daughter you raised! Look what this old witch has taught her!” “Say that one more time, and I swear I’ll kill you!” I took a step forward, and Mrs. Davies held my arm in a death grip from behind. “What are you doing? What are you going to do?” The relatives who had been siding with Carol jumped up, led by an older uncle figure who was pointing his finger in my face. “There are plenty of us here. You dare to attack your own aunt?” I looked at their faces, full of indignation and scorn, and ironically, I smiled. “Why the act? Who here doesn’t know what you two are doing today?” I turned to Carol on the floor. “My father gave you money years ago to check in on me. You took the money. How many times did you actually come by?!” “Shut up!” Dad yelled, his voice cutting and sharp. He walked over and pulled the still-crying Carol up. “Your aunt didn’t take you in as a child because she had her own family to raise, and you were better off temporarily with Mrs. Davies!” “And look at this ungrateful viper! She’d be a menace if she lived with anyone!” a female relative spat. “You think I wanted to go to her house?” I looked around at all of them. “I’m done talking to you all. Take your gifts and get out!” “Ava, stop it, listen to me! This is your father, your aunt, your only blood family…” Mrs. Davies was nearly sobbing, pulling me hard behind her and profusely apologizing to Dad and the relatives. “She’s still young, she doesn’t know any better, she’s just speaking out of anger.” “Grandma, you don’t have to apologize to them.” “You are my only family. From now on, only you!” “This is a sin! How did such a disgrace come out of the Miller family!” The older uncle figure pounded his chest in anger. The room was a chaos of raised voices and accusations. Just then, my father, his eyes red-rimmed, reached into the inner pocket of his coat and threw a bank card onto the table. 4. “Enough! You want money, right? This is everything I’ve saved, little by little, over the years. Ten thousand dollars. It’s all for you!” “This is half my life’s blood and sweat… You’re my only daughter, how could I not love you! I wanted to establish myself out there, make big money, and then bring you to live a grand life, in a big house…” Mrs. Davies covered her mouth, and Aunt Carol and the relatives all held their breath, looking at me. I stared at the card for a long moment, then slowly raised my eyes to look at him, a slight, cruel smile curving my lips. “Ten thousand dollars, saved over half a lifetime, and that’s the grand future you’ve painted for me?” “Then you must be… an absolute failure.” Dad stared at me, the pain in his eyes shifting into disbelief. “Ava… what exactly do you want?” I slowly and deliberately stood up. “Simple.” “Buy me a house in Silverton County. Pay it in full. Then take your useless, trashy pictures and get out.” “From this moment on, we’re even. We owe each other nothing.” “Ava, you’ve lost your mind!” Mrs. Davies shook with anger, her voice pitching high. “You can’t do this, this is your father! There must be a limit to your temper tantrums!” I pulled my hand free from hers. “I’m just asking you, will you do it or not?” My father’s voice trembled with shock. “Ava, I couldn’t afford a house if I sold my own life!” “It must be this old witch who put her up to this!” A woman who hadn’t spoken much suddenly pointed at Mrs. Davies and yelled. “Why else would a good girl turn out like this? She’s the one who taught the child to disown her own father!” “God knows what kind of nonsense she’s been feeding the girl all these years!” “That’s right, she looks kind, but she has a venomous heart!” A barrage of accusations instantly flooded toward the elderly Mrs. Davies. She opened her mouth, trying to defend herself, but was too upset to utter a single word. I looked at them, these people so ready to throw mud at the one person who had actually raised me. A violent rage surged up inside me. “It has nothing to do with Mrs. Davies! Today, I’m asking him for a house, to pay off the debt he owes me from the last fifteen years!” I spun around, my eyes red, staring hard at my father. “You can’t afford it? Then as far as I’m concerned, your daughter is dead!” “Take your pathetic card, your pathetic photos, and get out! Don’t let me see you ever again!” My father stood there, his hands tightly clenched, then suddenly slammed his fist onto the nearby table. “This is unbelievable!” Aunt Carol was the first to jump up, pointing at me and cursing. “Your father wasted his money on you all these years! All that education for nothing!” She grew more frantic and suddenly stormed into my room. “Look, everyone, look at how she lives!” Carol’s voice boomed from my bedroom. “These clothes, these shoes, all these expensive books! What here wasn’t bought with her father’s money? She’d be nothing without him!” Then came the sound of things crashing—she was rummaging through my closet and desk. Mrs. Davies stumbled after her, her voice tearful. “Don’t go through the child’s things, come out of there!” My heart tightened, and I quickly rushed over to help the nearly collapsing Mrs. Davies. As I reached the doorway, I saw Carol violently throwing a few books and articles of clothing onto the floor. The room was a mess. Mrs. Davies, her eyes full of tears, followed behind, trying to pick things up. The elderly uncle figure, who had been mostly quiet, also followed, frowning as he looked in the doorway. His gaze swept over the wreckage and then settled on the corner of my desk. The manila envelope lay there. He walked over and picked up the envelope. “Are these the photos Gary sent back?” He was holding the corner of the envelope, perhaps a little too tightly, just as he was about to speak. CRACK! The seam of the envelope suddenly tore open, and the several carefully printed color photographs scattered like confetti, drifting to the floor in front of everyone. One of them landed perfectly, right next to my father’s mud-stained work boots. Dad looked down at the photo by his feet, and for a few seconds, time seemed to stop. “Oh! How did that get here!” “Don’t look, nobody look!” Aunt Carol, who had been screaming moments before, froze. The group of self-righteous relatives fell silent.

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A week of travel had left me hollowed out. Dragging my exhausted body and my suitcase home at three in the morning, I was ready for nothing more than a scalding hot shower. But the blast of water, set to a precise 113 degrees Fahrenheit, hit my skin like a brand, making me gasp and jerk back. My husband, Holden Kincaid, a decorated Marine Captain and a drill instructor at the Academy, was a human furnace. His water temperature never, ever, crossed 104 degrees. The scorching setting belonged to my cousin, Cassidy Lane—the one who was “chronically fragile and always cold.” In that instant, the truth of my marriage hit me with the force of a thousand-pound weight. What followed wasn’t hysterics. It was a surgical, calibrated plan. While he and my “delicate” cousin played out their nauseating charade, I calmly divorced him, reclaimed my career as a sought-after clinical dietitian, and watched my life skyrocket. When he finally realized the elaborate deception he’d fallen for and came crawling back, I was standing at the pinnacle of my professional world, next to a man who truly valued me. “Audra, I was wrong. I didn’t know what I had when I had it…” “Captain Kincaid,” I told him, the words ice on my tongue, “what you don’t fight for, you don’t deserve.” 1 The Scorching Water Three in the morning. I twisted the key in the lock, the click echoing in the pre-dawn quiet, and dragged my suitcase into the foyer. A week of back-to-back consulting appointments had completely drained me. All I wanted was to melt into a familiar hot bath and wash the exhaustion out of my bones. The house was silent. Holden was at the base barracks, which was our normal. As a Marine Captain and the senior drill instructor, his schedule was rigid, his routine as reliable as a Swiss chronometer. I walked into the master bathroom. The soft, buttery glow of the vanity light was a small comfort, the sight of his electric razor and the expensive, wood-scented moisturizer I’d bought him a familiar pattern of domesticity. Everything looked exactly as I had left it. I stripped off my clothes and reached for the shower knob. “Agh!” A torrent of scalding water hit my shoulder, the heat stinging my skin, forcing me to flinch backward. I stared at the spot where the water had struck. My heart, in one swift beat, felt like it was seized by an invisible hand. My breath caught in my throat. On the digital temperature gauge embedded in the wall, the red numbers glowed clearly: 113°F. The blood drained from my face, a slow, sickening creep of ice through my veins. Holden. My husband. A man whose fear of being burned was legendary—a man his company referred to as a “human boiler” because of his body heat. He showered in water that was barely warm, never touching 105 degrees. Three years of marriage. I had adjusted that water temperature for him countless times. His habits were etched into my muscle memory. In this house, besides him and me, only one other person had ever used a temperature that high. My distant cousin, Cassidy Lane. She was the picture of fragile femininity, perpetually cold, requiring baths so hot they steamed the mirrors, claiming anything less would make her catch a cold. Six months ago, she’d graduated college and arrived on our doorstep with a story about wanting to “make it in the city,” and Holden, with his ridiculous hero complex, had insisted she stay in our guest room indefinitely. A week ago, when I left for my business trip, Holden had told me he was moving into the barracks for a week-long, intensive, no-contact training exercise. So, who had left the shower set to 113°F? I gripped the edge of the cold marble counter, fighting the sharp, piercing pain in my chest that threatened to buckle my knees. I forced my vision to sharpen, scanning the room like a forensic technician. The air, usually scented with my crisp citrus body wash, carried a faint, cloying whiff of sweet gardenia—Cassidy’s signature perfume. My eyes settled on the small trash can tucked in the corner. I pulled on a disposable glove and began methodically sifting through the contents. A few used cotton pads, an empty yogurt cup, and then—at the very bottom, beneath the crumpled tissue—I spotted it. I pinched a single, long hair between my gloved fingers. It was straight, slick, and jet black. Not my thick, ash-blonde waves. It was exactly the color and texture of Cassidy Lane’s hair. I shut off the searing water, letting the cold air envelop my naked body. The sting of the hot water was long forgotten, eclipsed by the brutal, paralyzing cold that had settled deep in my core. I didn’t cry. I didn’t feel the urge to scream or even question him. The evidence of his betrayal was as undeniable as the scorch mark the water had left on my skin. I quietly wrapped the hair in a paper towel, tucked it deep into the zippered compartment of my toiletry bag, and went to the bedroom. I pulled the blackout shades and lay down in the total darkness. My mind, despite the exhaustion and the monumental shock, was unnervingly clear. Holden Kincaid, the man who had promised me loyalty, devotion, and forever. We were over. But I wasn’t going to simply walk away. The war he had started with his casual betrayal, I would finish. I would draw the final line—a flawless, devastating masterpiece of a period. 2 The Silent Accusation I woke up at seven, precisely on schedule. Holden usually returned from the barracks around eight to change and grab the breakfast I always prepared. I walked into the kitchen and pulled out his usual ingredients: kale and spinach, chicken breast, two eggs, and a small cup of organic blueberries. As a clinical dietitian, I had perfected his diet, maintaining his body composition at peak performance. At eight sharp, the lock turned. Holden’s tall, powerful frame appeared in the doorway, clad in his crisp fatigues. His short military haircut was immaculate, his brow stern, but his eyes softened when he saw me. He paused, a flicker of surprise in his expression. “Audra? You’re back? You didn’t say anything.” He started to walk toward me, the familiar move to pull me into his arms. I smoothly stepped past him, avoiding the contact, and set the breakfast plate on the table. “Just got in. Didn’t want to mess up your routine. Go shower, breakfast is ready.” His arm dropped, a slight, almost imperceptible frown on his face, but he shrugged it off and headed to the bathroom. A moment later, I heard his voice, laced with mild annoyance. “Audra! Why is the water boiling hot?!” My chest tightened, but my expression remained neutral. He emerged, his hair dripping, his handsome face marred by a familiar impatience. “Did you forget to set the thermostat again?” I slid a glass of lukewarm water across the table to him. My voice was utterly flat. “Really? I felt the same thing when I showered yesterday. Nearly burned myself. I figured you must have accidentally messed with the settings before you left.” Holden’s gaze flickered away, a noticeable tremor in his control. He gulped the water, his voice slightly muffled. “Impossible. I hate hot water. You must be mistaken.” He was such a clumsy liar. I didn’t press him. I simply watched him eat. He ate quickly, but his concentration was shot. His eyes met mine several times, only to dart away immediately. Finally, he wiped his mouth with a napkin and prepared to get up. “Holden,” I said. The single word, quiet yet firm, froze him in place. “We need to talk.” I reached behind me, pulled out two pre-printed documents from the cabinet, and placed them in front of him. The title, in stark black font, stared up at him: PETITION FOR DISSOLUTION OF MARRIAGE. Holden’s expression cycled from confusion to shock, then settled into a furious, uncontrollable anger. “Audra! What the hell is this?” He snatched the papers, his knuckles white with strain. “Because of the water temperature? You’re having a tantrum and calling it a divorce?” “A tantrum?” I gave him a smile that held no warmth. “Captain Kincaid, has all that discipline and training managed to wipe away your ability to tell the truth?” “You!” His face flushed crimson. He was choked on his own words, and then, like a lit fuse, he exploded, tearing the documents into tiny, jagged pieces. The shredded paper fluttered between us, a brief, sterile snowstorm. “Audra, I don’t have time for these childish games!” he spat, pointing a rigid finger at me. “Don’t mistake my commitment for a leash! I hate it when women are paranoid and dramatic!” With that, he slammed out of the house. The monumental thud of the door rattled the windows. I sat there, staring at the scattered remnants of our marriage on the dining table, my eyes void of emotion. He thought I was making a statement. He thought by shredding the papers, he could erase the reality. He was wrong. This was not a negotiation. It was an announcement. 3 Rebuilding the Empire Within thirty minutes of Holden slamming the door, I was wheeling two suitcases out of the house and calling an Uber. There was no hesitation, no glance back. The place that I had meticulously cultivated into a peaceful, perfect home now felt suffocatingly tainted and dishonest. I didn’t head for a hotel. I gave the driver the address for an exclusive, gated community in the city’s suburbs. I rang the bell of a large, custom-built villa. The door opened to reveal a man in his late forties, elegant and composed, whose face broke into a look of genuine surprise and respect when he saw me. “Audra! What a surprise!” “Mr. Prescott,” I replied, nodding with a slight smile. “I have some private matters to attend to and need a quiet place to work for a while. If you have a guest house available?” Harrison Prescott was a tech and wellness mogul, and my last client before I had retired to focus on my marriage three years prior. In six months, I had taken his constantly traveling, stress-battered body and restored it to a state of equilibrium and peak health. “Available? Of course!” Harrison quickly ushered me inside. “My mother has been struggling with her blood sugar lately. I was literally about to call you to see if you would consider coming out of retirement. It seems fate has stepped in.” Just like that, I settled into the Prescott family’s guest wing. It was less a temporary stay and more an immediate reentry into my former life. Harrison’s mother was a kind, frail woman whose long-term diabetes had taken a serious toll. I meticulously reviewed her logs, scanned her recent lab results, and interviewed her about her daily habits. In a single week, I created a new regimen for her—a menu that was precise, scientifically formulated, and, surprisingly, delicious. I discarded the traditional, restrictive image of a “diabetic diet,” using advanced food synergy to maximize flavor and satiety while keeping the glycemic load perfectly balanced. One week later, Mrs. Prescott’s post-meal glucose spikes had dropped from a troubling 300 to a stable 140. Her energy levels and mood had visibly improved. Harrison’s respect for me was palpable, his eyes filled with professional admiration. “Audra, your expertise is unmatched,” he said, pouring me a cup of imported tea in his garden. “When you chose to step back and prioritize your family three years ago, it was a massive loss to the entire wellness industry.” “That loss can be recouped now,” I said, watching the morning light catch the dew on a hedge of climbing roses. Harrison’s eyes brightened as he caught my meaning. “Audra, are you saying you plan to—” “Yes,” I confirmed. “I’m ready to start over. And to do that, I need a studio.” Harrison immediately stood, a decisive, powerful figure. “Consider it done. I will invest, Audra. Top floor of the highest-rated building in the CBD, cutting-edge equipment, a dedicated staff. You focus entirely on your practice. I’ll handle all the logistics.” I looked at his earnest, trusting face, and a surge of unexpected warmth flowed through me. “Thank you, Harrison.” “Please, Audra,” he chuckled gently. “Call me Harry. And your new center? How about The Ascend Center? It reflects your ability to elevate a person’s health—and your own story of ascent.” “The Ascend Center,” I repeated, testing the name. I nodded. “It’s perfect.” My new career, my new life, had launched with an assertive, powerful momentum I hadn’t even fully anticipated. The smoke from the impending divorce had yet to clear, but I was already miles ahead. 4 The Clumsy Act Holden’s first phone call came three days after I left. He had probably assumed I would be home after a brief sulk, only to realize the house was still and silent, the refrigerator empty. When I answered, his voice was tight with suppressed fury and a tremor of panic. “Audra, where the hell are you? Have you had your little tantrum yet? Get back home right now!” His tone was still the same commanding, non-negotiable bark he used on his cadets. He didn’t ask why I left, or how I was. He only demanded I “return.” I didn’t waste a single word. I hung up immediately and blocked his number. I could picture his resulting explosion of rage. What he didn’t know was that his life of perfect comfort was about to come undone. Without the wife who had prepared everything, his iron-clad physique quickly succumbed to the mundane chaos of daily life.

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The whole scheme was my arch-nemesis’s idea: first, he got dumped by my best friend. Then, he immediately sent his impossibly gorgeous best mate to try and seduce me. Alistair—the mate—had actually snickered when the plan was hatched. “Hooking her will be easier than walking the dog,” he’d said, ice in his voice. Later, of course. A scandalous chat log would leak between the two campus legends: Alistair: Dude, maybe we should just go kneel outside her dorm together? Brooks: Great idea, man. The wounded dog act? They’ll fall for it. The entire student body would follow the drama like it was a premium Netflix series. And I was the unsuspecting lead. 1 Brooks Coleman. The campus icon at Crestwood University. And my arch-nemesis since we were kids. Our entire lives have been a nonstop battle of wits. I’ve practically memorized The Art of War just to keep up with him. But this time, the jerk had truly dug himself into a pit he couldn’t climb out of. Because, the idiot had gone and fallen hopelessly, irrevocably in love with my best friend, Harper. Right now, Harper was slumped over, staring miserably at her phone, trying to craft a reply to her pathetic suitor. The contact ID, BrooksCrestwood01, looked perfectly generic. I couldn’t resist leaning over. “Brooks is so damn pretentious. It’s bad enough his handle includes the university name, but ‘01’? What is he, the number one loser?” Harper reached out, twirling a strand of my hair around her finger, then gently pinching my cheek. “Honey, who said that was the year he was born?” I immediately got it. My face flamed a furious red. Just then, Harper’s phone vibrated with a new voice message from Brooks. She tapped play. “Baby, do you want me to bring you an iced green tea? Extra sweet, just the way you like it.” Ugh. I practically gagged. That was Brooks. The guy whose words were usually laced with arsenic, who’d rather choke on his own tongue than say anything nice to me. Now he was using baby talk for Harper? I clung to Harper’s arm, rubbing my cheek against her shoulder. “Promise me you’re not going to fall for this massive tool.” Harper smelled like high-end vanilla body mist, but her tone was cool as ice. “Don’t worry. I’m about to dump him.” She sighed dramatically. “His specs are top-tier, sure. Perfect jawline, legs for days, solid eight-pack, and money to burn. But his software system? Total fail. He’s all looks and zero game.” She paused, swallowing hard, a complicated look crossing her face. “Besides,” she finished with a disgusted wave of her hand, “he was just too… polished. Like he was modeling in a cologne ad instead of kissing me.” I had to suppress a shiver of pure, unadulterated disgust. Harper, seeing my face, cleared her throat and gave a solemn nod. “It’s mostly for you, Ev. I couldn’t possibly consort with him. We’re in this together.” That’s more like it. Harper’s fingers flew across the screen, typing her devastating reply. “Sorry, Brooks. I have a new crush.” The text box at the top of the screen blinked madly: BrooksCrestwood01 is typing… BrooksCrestwood01 is typing… A minute later, a voice message popped up. His voice sounded thin and defeated. “And this… crush… what does he like to drink?” 2 I laughed until my stomach ached. Brooks Coleman, the arrogant bastard, was officially a simp. The next second, I threw my arm around Harper’s neck and kissed her cheek, snapping a quick selfie. Then, I unblocked Brooks from the small prison I’d put him in. I sent him the photo. The caption was short and sweet: “Could you stop harassing my woman?” In less than three seconds, my phone was ringing—a frantic video call from Brooks. I hit accept. “What is Harper to you?” His voice was glacier-level furious. “Literal meaning, my woman. Oh, and for the record, I prefer the peach white tea, less ice.” I could hear his heavy, ragged breathing through the speaker. “Sydney Maxwell! Do you even know who you like? Guys? Girls? Do you have any idea what you want?” I didn’t even get a chance to fire back. His mouth opened, and the insults poured out like a verbal machine gun. “When you were three, you liked that kid Gavin from down the street. He said he didn’t like you, and you gave him two black eyes!” “In elementary school, you crushed on the student council president. His Xbox handle was ‘StormRider,’ so you changed yours to ‘StormChaserBabe.’ Seriously?!” “In middle school, you got obsessed with that quiet guy in the ASL club. You signed your confession like you were casting a spell. He looked confused, and you thought he was shy! You dated for a month until you learned enough sign language to realize he was rejecting you in increasingly creative ways every single day!” “High school, that long-distance gamer jerk—you blew your college fund on his World of Warcraft gear and then had to beg me for lunch money—” That still made my blood boil. “Which you didn’t lend me, by the way!” He let out a short, cold laugh. “Not only did I not lend it to you, I immediately told your mother, too.” My facial muscles were twitching with rage. “Brooks Coleman, you absolute monster! I’m finding out about this now?!” “Hmph. Good.” Game on. “Fine. I’ll tell you the truth. Harper is my best friend. And I told her to mess with you. She slept with you, found you boring, and decided to dump you.” I took a deep breath, delivering the ultimate knockout blow. “And, by the way? She said you were a disaster in bed.” Brooks’s voice instantly turned tearful, full of genuine, wounded outrage. “She promised she wouldn’t tell anyone! And a few seconds doesn’t count! It was a whole situation!” “…” Amidst my hysterical, victorious cackle, he hung up. Harper looked at me, doubled over in laughter, and offered a shrug. “Well, he admitted it himself. Though, to be fair, later on he was actually—” She caught my death glare and quickly corrected herself. “He was totally average. Completely unremarkable.” 3 Having thoroughly infuriated Brooks, I was in a fantastic mood. I got back to my dorm room, ready for an evening of uninterrupted bliss, when I saw my roommate, Cara, practically shaking her bed frame with laughter while scrolling through her phone. “What’s so funny?” I asked, intrigued. Cara shoved her screen at me. “Look! Your little frenemy, Brooks Coleman, Crestwood’s star quarterback, got secretly filmed drinking his sorrows away last night. It’s got a million likes already.” I remembered how close our high school scores had been. Both our families, dear old friends, had gathered to discuss college applications. It had been sickeningly harmonious. “Why don’t you both apply to Crestwood? You’ve grown up together, it’d be nice to have someone to look out for each other.” Brooks and I sat on the couch, two perfect, obedient children. Brooks, putting on his best act: “That sounds great, Mrs. Maxwell. I’ll listen to you.” Me, smiling my sweetest: “What a wonderful idea, Mr. Coleman. I was thinking the same thing.” The moment we were alone in his bedroom, we both immediately rolled our eyes, the mutual disdain palpable. We settled it with a vicious game of Rock, Paper, Scissors. He won. Brooks went to Crestwood. I went to Eastwood University. 4 Now, I stared at the phone screen. It was clearly a sneaky, low-angle shot. Brooks was the focus, his face blurry and heartbroken. The man sitting opposite him was only a silhouette. But just looking at the broad shoulders and narrow waist, I knew he was an absolute specimen. The background looked like a dive bar just off campus, the table littered with empty whiskey glasses and beer bottles. Brooks was glassy-eyed, his nose red, giving total broken boi vibes. “I hate her, man. I really do. I despise that woman.” The man across from him idly swirled the liquid in his glass. “Oh? Done with the simping?” Brooks waved a wobbly hand. “I’m not talking about Harper! I’m talking about my enemy! We grew up together. I have never met a worse person in my entire life.” The other man seemed to perk up. “Your childhood friend? What exactly did she do?” Brooks started a theatrical, tearful list of my crimes. “When I was one, she dumped my entire can of powdered formula on the carpet when my mom wasn’t looking.” “When I was three, she convinced a bunch of kids to blow up the toilet in the backyard shed, and I got covered in… stuff!” The man across from him winced. “That’s disgusting. Why didn’t you run away faster?” Brooks took a desperate swig of his drink, eyes blazing. “Because she told me there was treasure in there!” The man’s shoulders started shaking with silent laughter. “And now, she sends her friend to steal my girl and completely tarnish the body I was so proud of…” Brooks got more and more emotional, practically sobbing into his glass. The man across from him picked up a bottle to pour a refill. My eyes, however, were instantly drawn to the hand holding the bottle. It was pale, long, and artistically bony. Strong, but perfectly sculpted. The most incredible part was the faint pink flush on the knuckles. As a certified hand-fetishist, I instantly lost my grip on reality. Unfortunately, the video cut out right there. I glanced at the comments section. “Is the jock trying to sell us something? Take my money!” “A man’s tears are the best kind of emotional lubrication.” “Which queen broke this one?!” “Asking for the cute guy’s Instagram across the table!” “Girl above, the jock is offering you his heart, and you want the spare tire?!” The comment section had officially lost its mind. And so had Harper. “Ev,” she squealed, “Brooks crying is kinda hot. I might have to betray you for a little eye candy.” I was just about to tell her to pull herself together. “I think I found a use for that little leather crop I just bought, hehe.” “…” He took my phone, his long fingers moving quickly to type in his handle. After I sent a friend request, he handed the phone back. “I’ll send you the money back as soon as my phone charges in my room.” “No worries, take your time.” “Thanks.” He gave me a quick wave and walked off, holding his bag of chips. I immediately reported back to Harper. Harper was ecstatic. “Is this what they mean by true, fate-dictated love? I want that kind of highway-robbery romance!” The next second, my phone vibrated. A bank transfer notification. The handsome guy had already paid me back. I quickly sent a message: “Hey there, I’m Sydney.” His reply was instantaneous, short, and powerful: “Alistair.” 5 The night I followed Alistair on instagram, my dreams were the color of bubblegum pink. In the dream, those perfectly sculpted, bony hands were feeding me a ripe strawberry. Just as I leaned in for a bite, the handsome face suddenly morphed into Brooks. He smirked down at me. “Good, Syd? I washed it in the communal sink.” I woke up with a gasp, horrified. Gross. It was a terrible omen. To chase the nightmare away, I sent Alistair a cheerful “Good Morning” emoji right away. Less than two minutes later, Alistair replied with a photo. It was a perfectly plated breakfast: whole-grain toast, a sunny-side-up egg, and a glass of warm milk. The caption: “Morning. Just finished my run. Quick breakfast then off to class.” See? This is what a high-value man looks like. Brooks, that smug jerk, was probably still in bed, drooling on his pillow and grinding his teeth. Just as I was about to reply, Alistair messaged again. “I heard the legendary sandwiches at your North Dining Hall are amazing. I’ve always wanted to try them, but I don’t have a meal card for Eastwood.” Was that subtle? No, that was a straight-up invitation. I practically levitated out of bed, typing furiously. “I have one! I’m heading to North Hall anyway. I’ll treat you!” Alistair instantly replied: “Oh, I couldn’t ask you to do that. You just paid me back yesterday, and now I’m asking you to buy me breakfast?” “It’s nothing, we’re friends!” “Well, then… meet you at the North Hall entrance?” “See you there!” I threw my phone down and bolted to the bathroom to wash my hair and put on makeup. Harper was woken by the commotion and poked her rooster-head out from her bed curtain. “Syd, are you in heat this early?” I hummed a tune while applying mascara. “You wouldn’t understand. This is the call of love.” Harper rolled her eyes and mumbled, “Be careful it’s not the call of a con artist.” I didn’t care if it was a con. If he was that handsome, I was ready to be played.

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“Mr. Harrison, I’m tendering my resignation. I’m taking a position at Aether Digital.” The conference room went silent for three seconds. Mr. Harrison’s hand, hovering over his coffee mug, froze mid-air. He didn’t even look up. “Ava Maxwell, what kind of joke is this?” “It’s not a joke.” I placed the resignation letter on the mahogany table. “My last day is next Monday.” He finally lifted his eyes and smiled. I knew that smile too well—the exact expression he’d given me for the past decade, every time I asked for a raise, every time I requested a promotion. “Right.” He pushed the letter back across the table. “You get back to your projects. We’ll talk about this later.” He assumed I would do what I’d always done: swallow my frustration, go back to my desk, and let it blow over. But this time, it was different. 1. My name is Ava Maxwell. I am thirty-five years old. I had been at Apex Solutions for ten full years, starting as an intern and working my way up. My title? Senior Engineer. I started as a Junior Engineer ten years ago, moved to Mid-Level after three, and hit Senior two years after that. And then, nothing. I had been stuck with the Senior Engineer title for five long years. Every year-end review, I was told I was “almost there.” Every time the promotion list was published, my name was missing. Mr. Harrison’s line was always the same: “The budget is tight this year. Be patient, Ava. Next year, I promise, next year we’ll put your name forward.” I had heard that line for five years. I believed it the first year. I held onto hope the second. I started to doubt the third. By the fourth, I was thoroughly defeated. Yet, I stayed. Why? Because I was a pure coder. I wasn’t good at office politics, I didn’t know how to network, and I was terrified of jumping ship. I was thirty-five, with a daughter in kindergarten and a mortgage that was still twenty years away from being paid off. That fear kept me paralyzed. Mr. Harrison knew this. He never worried about me leaving. What happened this morning, though, was the final, devastating straw. In the morning meeting, Mr. Harrison announced the good news: the company had secured its Series C funding, valuing us at $1.2 billion. Everyone clapped. Then he said, “This wouldn’t have happened without the tireless work of our Sales team, and of course, a big thank you to Noah from Product for that beautifully optimized algorithm model.” I sat in the back corner, my nails digging into my palms as I listened. The algorithm model? I wrote that algorithm. Three years ago, the company’s core business hit a wall; the recommendation system accuracy was stuck in the mud. I spent four months rewriting the entire algorithm from scratch. The day we launched, accuracy shot from 67% to 89%. Our daily active users—our DAU—jumped from 500,000 to 3 million. That data secured our Series B funding. But the credit? It went to Noah. He was a recent college grad then, barely knew how to read the code, but he was Mr. Harrison’s guy. Good at building slides. Good at telling the story. And me? I was in the corner, writing code. No one ever asked me for a single word. After the meeting, I Slack-messaged Mr. Harrison: The algorithm was my work. He instantly replied: I know, I know. But internal reporting is about collaboration and teamwork. Don’t worry about the superficial stuff. Superficial? I followed up: What about the year-end bonus, given the C-Round success? He didn’t reply. At noon, I got the HR notification for my annual bonus. I opened it— $500. Five hundred dollars. I stared at the number for three minutes. Last year was $500, the year before was $500, the year before that was $500. I wrote the core algorithm that secured two rounds of funding for this company, and my reward was five hundred dollars. In the afternoon, a message came in from a headhunter. Aether Digital, our main competitor, was trying to poach me. To be honest, headhunters reached out all the time, and I always ignored them. Today, I clicked on the details. The offer: Architect title, double my current salary, plus equity. I read it over and over. Then I opened a document and wrote my resignation letter. At 3 p.m., I knocked on Mr. Harrison’s office door. “Mr. Harrison, I’m tendering my resignation. I’m taking a position at Aether Digital.” He was eating a pastry for his afternoon snack and nearly choked. “Excuse me?” “I quit. I’m leaving next Monday.” He put down his fork, his surprise quickly hardening into a look of arrogant dismissal. “Ava, you’re being impulsive.” I said nothing. “Do you know what the competition is like? They work you harder, the benefits are worse.” He put on his most serious tone. “You’ve been here ten years, Ava. Your foundation is here. You won’t adapt out there.” “I appreciate the concern.” “And you’re thirty-five,” he lowered his voice, the condescension thick. “Truthfully, who is going to hire you at that age?” I smiled. “Aether Digital is.” “Them?” His brow furrowed. “What could that pathetic company possibly offer you?” “Architect, double my salary, and a team to lead.” Mr. Harrison’s composure cracked for a split second. “Impossible. Your technical skills are good, but—” “But what?” He didn’t finish the sentence. I placed the letter on the desk. “Mr. Harrison, here is my resignation. Please sign it.” He didn’t move. “Go back to your desk and cool off.” He was back to his usual detached calm. “Apex has been good to you. You need to think this through.” “I’ve been thinking for ten years,” I said. “I’m perfectly clear.” He waved his hand. “Fine. Go back to work. We’ll discuss this later.” I turned to leave. As I reached the door, I heard him mutter under his breath: “A coder. What kind of wave does a coder think she can make?” I didn’t look back. Ten years. I was finally walking out. 2. When I got home that evening, my husband, Sam Peterson, was making dinner. “You’re early tonight, honey.” “I quit.” The spatula he was holding dropped onto the floor with a clatter. “What did you say?” “I quit. I’m going to the competitor.” Sam froze for a long moment, then bent down, picked up the spatula, and rinsed it under the tap. “Honey, are you… are you serious?” “Dead serious.” He turned off the stove and turned to face me. “What happened?” I recounted the entire day: the $500 bonus, the credit stolen for the algorithm, and Mr. Harrison’s parting shot: “What kind of wave does a coder think she can make?” Sam listened, then was silent for a long time. “Is Aether Digital a solid move?” “It is. The headhunter has been after me for two years. This is the best offer yet.” “The salary?” “Double.” Sam sucked in a breath. “That much?” “Yes.” He fell silent again. I knew what he was thinking. The mortgage. The car payments. Our daughter’s private school tuition. The monthly expenses weighed on us like a mountain. My salary was the main source of income. This decision wasn’t mine alone. “Do you support me?” I asked. Sam looked at me for a long time. “I support you,” he said. “You should have left years ago.” I was stunned. “You know,” he continued, “for ten years, I watched you work until midnight, watched you deal with work Slack on weekends, watched you get robbed of credit and stiffed on raises, and you never complained.” He paused. “But I did.” “I was complaining to the walls. I wanted to tell you for years—that awful company doesn’t deserve you.” My eyes felt hot. “I didn’t dare say it, because I didn’t want to pressure you. But you made the decision yourself today, and I stand behind it.” He walked over and squeezed my shoulder. “Go for it, Ava. Don’t be afraid.” I was restless that night. I didn’t sleep well, not because of fear, but because of a nervous, exhilarating excitement. Ten years. I was finally leaving that place. Lying in bed, my mind raced through memories. Ten years ago, Apex Solutions was a tiny startup. Twenty-something people crammed into a run-down office building. I was the third person on the technical team. We did everything. Wrote code, fixed bugs, set up servers, ran ops. Once, the system crashed, and I stayed up for three days straight, single-handedly bringing it back online. The company grew, slowly. From 20 people to 100, then 500. Funding rounds kept coming; the valuation soared. And me? I was still the “coder.” No. I was wrong. I wasn’t just the coder. Eighty percent of the company’s current core system was built on my foundational code. The recommendation algorithm was mine. The data processing module was mine. The user profiling system was mine. Even the company’s much-touted “Smart Matching Engine” was something I built from the ground up, alone. Every line of that code had my signature. Every commit had a timestamp. But what did it matter? The code was running on the servers; the credit was running on someone else’s PowerPoint slides. I remembered three years ago. We were pushing for Series B. The investors were skeptical of our technical capabilities. Mr. Caldwell, the owner, came to me personally. “Ava, can you build something for me? Something that proves our technical superiority?” I said yes. I spent four months rewriting the recommendation algorithm. The result? You know it. DAU from 500,000 to 3 million. Series B secured. At the celebration party, Mr. Caldwell said, “Sales and Product were instrumental in this round!” He didn’t mention my name once. Afterward, Mr. Harrison pulled me aside. “Ava, everyone knows your contribution, but a celebration is about the big picture.” I asked, “What about my promotion?” Mr. Harrison replied: “Budget is tight this year. Next year, I promise, we’ll put your name forward.” Next year. Always next year. I recalled last year. A new entry-level developer, Ben, joined. Three months into his job, I discovered his salary was higher than mine. I asked HR. “The market is different now,” they said. “Recent graduates are expensive. You have to be understanding.” I had been there for eight years. I wrote the core system. My salary was lower than a new grad’s? HR said, “Ava, compensation is sensitive. Please don’t discuss it.” I didn’t discuss it. But I kept a running tally in my head. When I joined, my salary was $6,000 a month. Ten years later, it was $12,000. A 100% increase. Sounds okay? But industry-wide, a peer with my experience and impact made at least double what I did. What value had I created for Apex over ten years? What did Apex give me in return? A $500 bonus. A meaningless “Senior Engineer” title. And an endless supply of “next year, I promise.” With that thought, the restless excitement settled into a quiet certainty. It was time to leave. Truly time. 3. The next morning, I went to work as usual. Only Mr. Harrison knew about my resignation. I did my job: fixed bugs, wrote code, attended meetings. At 10 a.m., Mr. Harrison called me into his office. “Ava, about yesterday. Think it over.” “I have thought it over.” “Is this about the bonus?” he probed. “I can go to bat for you on that.” “No need.” “Is it the promotion? The spots were genuinely tight this year, but next year—” “Mr. Harrison,” I cut him off. “I’ve been hearing ‘next year’ in this office for five years.” He was speechless. “And,” I continued, “I’m not here to negotiate. I’m here to confirm the separation process.” His face darkened. “Do you realize how many projects will be affected if you walk out?” “I do.” “And you still want to leave?” “Mr. Harrison,” I looked straight at him. “These projects are affected not because I’m leaving, but because you allowed only one person to do all the core development for a decade.” He paused. “What is that supposed to mean?” “Mr. Harrison, I want to ask you a question. Do you know who wrote the company’s recommendation system?” “Well…” He hesitated. “The Tech Department did, collectively?” “No. I wrote it. Alone.” “The data processing module?” “Also me.” “The user profiling system?” “Me.” “The Smart Matching Engine?” “Still me.” His expression shifted completely. “Are you suggesting…” “Mr. Harrison, I’ve worked here for ten years. Eighty percent of this company’s core system code is my work.” I emphasized every syllable. “Every line has my signature. Every commit has a timestamp.” “I… I know these things…” “Do you know what my salary is?” He stayed silent. “$12,000,” I said. “Ten years, from $6,000 to $12,000. Less than a double increase.” “How much value did I create for this company? What data did the investors look at for Series B? What algorithm was written on the Series C slides?” Mr. Harrison’s face grew pale. “Ava, calm down—” “I am perfectly calm,” I said. “I haven’t been this calm in ten years.” I stood up. “I gave you my resignation yesterday. Please sign it.” He didn’t move. “Wait,” Mr. Harrison suddenly called out. “You said you’re going to the competitor?” “Yes.” “What are you taking with you?” I looked at him. His eyes had changed. Gone was the disdain; replaced by pure, cold panic. “Mr. Harrison,” I said. “What are you worried about?” He didn’t answer. “I won’t take the code; that is company property. But what’s in my head is mine.” “What does that mean?” “It means,” I said, slowly, distinctly, “the low-level logic of those algorithms, the architectural design, the optimization philosophy—it’s all in my brain.” “That stuff is backed up everywhere.” “But if I’m not here—” I didn’t finish, but the implication was devastatingly clear. Mr. Harrison’s expression finally shattered. He had just realized something profound: for ten years, he thought I was a disposable “coder.” In reality, the company’s most critical technical asset was walking out the door in the form of one person’s irreplaceable knowledge. “Ava,” he softened his tone. “Let’s talk this through. Don’t rush into this.” “I’m not rushing.” “Look, how about this—I will personally go to Mr. Caldwell about the raise. The promotion? I promise, you’ll be on the list this year.” I laughed. “Mr. Harrison, I’ve heard that promise for five years.” “This time is different—” “It’s always ‘different.’” I cut him off. “Mr. Harrison, ten years is enough. I’ve learned my lesson.” I turned and walked out of the office. Behind me, I heard his voice trailing after me: “Ava, come back! Think about what you’re doing!” I didn’t look back. At lunch, Noah, the junior colleague who took credit for my algorithm, ran into me in the cafeteria. “Ava, I heard you quit?” The news traveled fast. “I did.” “Why? Didn’t the company treat you well?” I looked at him. His expression was genuinely concerned. I realized he might truly not know. He didn’t know I wrote the algorithm. He didn’t know he stood on my shoulders to take the bow. He was just a standard corporate ladder-climber, doing what his boss told him to do. The banality of ignorance, I thought. He didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. He simply didn’t know, or maybe, he didn’t care to know. “Ava?” Noah looked awkward when I didn’t reply. “Did I say something wrong?” “No,” I said. “I’m just tired.” 4. That afternoon, the headhunter messaged me. “Ava, Aether has confirmed. The formal offer should be out next week.” “Great.” “They also want to schedule a technical chat this weekend, just to discuss future architectural direction.” “I’m available.” “One more thing,” the headhunter added. “Aether asked me to specify your exact responsibilities at Apex. Could you outline them?” I thought for a moment and typed out a message: “Core module of the recommendation algorithm—built from scratch.” “Data processing system—sole developer.” “User profiling system—sole developer.” “Smart Matching Engine—sole developer.” “All systems remain online, processing 120 million daily requests.” I added one final line: “Every line of that code has my signature.” The headhunter replied: “Ava, Aether is going to lose their mind when they see this resume.” I didn’t reply. All of that, at Apex, went unnoticed. Ten years. My code was running, processing 120 million requests a day. But my presence? A $500 bonus. Passed over for promotion every year. Credit stolen by a junior. I tried to fight for myself, once. Five years ago, after I was passed over for the first time, I went to Mr. Harrison. “Mr. Harrison, why wasn’t I promoted this year?” “Limited spots, Ava. You need more seniority.” “What seniority do I need?” “Just wait. Next year, it’s yours.” The next year, I was passed over again. The promotion went to a two-year employee—Mr. Caldwell’s nephew. I went back to Mr. Harrison. “Look… some things you just have to understand,” he said. “I can’t discuss it. Next year, I promise, I’ll put your name forward.” The third, fourth, and fifth years were the same. Always “next year.” Always “I can’t discuss it.” I gradually understood: promotions at Apex were never about capability. They were about connections, loyalty, and who could talk their way to the top. And me? I only knew how to write code. What good was that? Code doesn’t speak for itself. Mr. Harrison’s words, “A coder. What kind of wave does a coder think she can make?” meant exactly that. In his mind, technical staff were just tools. Use them hard when they’re useful; replace them when they’re not. After all, you can’t take the code with you. But he was wrong. You can’t take the code. But the person who writes the code can leave. And the knowledge in that person’s head is infinitely more valuable than the code itself. It took me ten years to finally realize that. Ten years to learn one thing: Unappreciated commitment is just self-deception. On Friday, before I left, Mr. Harrison called me in for one last conversation. His attitude was distinctly different this time. “Ava, have a seat.” He poured me a glass of water. “Have you cooled down this week?” “I’ve been perfectly cool.” “I briefed Mr. Caldwell on your situation,” Mr. Harrison said. “He’s taking it seriously.” “Oh?” “The company has decided to grant you a special, immediate promotion opportunity—” “Don’t bother,” I interrupted. “Hear me out. Promotion, raise, team lead—we can negotiate all of it.” I looked at him. “Mr. Harrison, are you offering me these things now because you finally value my work?” “Of course—” “Or because you’re terrified I’ll leave and the system will crash?” He froze. “I worked here for ten years,” I said. “When, during those ten years, did you ever value me?” “Look…” “Ten years, and my salary barely doubled. How much value did I create for this company? Series B, Series C—which round was not secured by my work?” “But when did you ever remember me?” “Only now, when I have one foot out the door, do you come to me with a counter-offer.” Mr. Harrison’s face was sullen. “Ava, that’s a bit harsh.” “Mr. Harrison,” I stood up. “It’s the truth.” “Will you sign my resignation, or not?” He was silent for a long time. “Are you absolutely sure about this?” “I am.” “Then wait.” His tone turned cold. “You can leave, but don’t take anything with you that belongs to the company.” I smiled. “Don’t worry, Mr. Harrison. I won’t take a single line of code.” “But what’s in my head is mine.” “What exactly do you mean by that?” “Mr. Harrison, you may have forgotten, but every line of the core code in that system was written by me. The digital signature is still there.” I looked at him. “If you don’t believe me, you can ask the Tech team to check the commit logs.” “See who wrote the most code over the last ten years.” Mr. Harrison’s face went dark, completely defeated. I turned and left. This time, he didn’t call out to me.

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I got pregnant unexpectedly during the cooling-off period of my divorce from my emotionally distant, mostly silent husband. Hoping to salvage the marriage, I asked, “If we had a baby, would we have been able to avoid this?” Rory Montgomery’s voice was as flat as a straight line on an EKG. “The outcome would be the same.” I nodded, the realization a cold, painful ache in my chest, and managed a desolate smile. Three months later, I went for a check-up at the clinic. And, of course, that’s when I ran into Rory. He was there looking for a colleague in the OB-GYN department. He froze when he saw me. His colleague, an older doctor, asked him, “Acquaintance?” Rory’s eyes were locked on me. His knuckles were white against the clipboard he was holding. “My ex-wife.” 01 Good news: I was pregnant. Bad news: We were in the middle of our divorce cooling-off period. My best friend, Mina, gets all the major updates first. I snapped a picture of the pregnancy test and sent it to her. Her reply was an entire screen of capital-letter obscenities. “Is it Rory’s?” I rolled my eyes. “Whose else would it be?” Mina chuckled knowingly. “Well, then, what the hell are you two divorcing for?” I hung up the phone and walked out of the clinic, the city noise immediately assaulting me. My mind was looping back to the fight Rory and I had two weeks ago. Though ‘fight’ wasn’t really the word. A fight requires two people to be equally engaged. Between Rory and me, it was always a one-woman show—me, unloading. He, for the most part, maintained a horrifying, impenetrable silence. The reason for the blowout was typical. I’d spent another night out with friends and gotten dropped off at the condo in the morning. Rory’s reaction was to call our family doctor and then head straight to his shift at the hospital. He was a doctor. A specialist, in fact. My husband. Why couldn’t he stay and help me sober up? Why couldn’t he handle the dry-cleaning for my ruined dress? Why… wasn’t there even a single word of accusation? What did I even count for in his life? I nursed my resentment, waiting for him to come home from the hospital. But Rory didn’t return until noon the next day. I finally snapped. I threw a ceramic mug against the hardwood floor and demanded to know what he meant by all this. He calmly lifted his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot, and he looked profoundly exhausted. “What drama are you starting now, Zoe?” he said. I almost laughed—a nasty, wounded sound. “Don’t you have anything to say to me?” Accuse me. Yell at me. Be hysterical. Anything. Just don’t be a still, calm, empty well. Rory paused, his gaze briefly sweeping over the scattered pieces of the broken mug on the floor. When he looked back up, his voice was heavy. “No.” That was it. I lost it. Emotion flared up, blinding me. “Fine. Let’s just get divorced.” Rory stood absolutely still, just staring at me. A flicker of panic ran through me. But the words were out. My pride wouldn’t let me back down now. So, I lifted my chin and met his gaze defiantly. After a long stretch of silence, Rory’s voice was dry, almost a whisper. “Alright.” Then, he simply turned and walked upstairs. I was left there, paralyzed. It took me a full minute to process that he had agreed—just like that. He let go so easily? As I came back to reality, a shard of glass from the broken mug pierced my skin. The sudden pain made me gasp. Staring at the familiar fragments, I suddenly understood why Rory had looked at the floor for so long. That mug was the first gift I ever bought for him. 02 Irritable and lost, I drove back to the condo. My father had bought the place for me. Rory, not having the means to afford it, had moved in only after my father had finished ridiculing him and ordered him to. A little while later, one of my contacts—a frenemy—texted me Rory’s hospital shift schedule. It was almost time for him to get off. I rushed out, making sure to grab the pregnancy test report. A hidden surge of anticipation rose in my chest. What would Rory look like? What would he say? He’d probably be stunned senseless. I didn’t even realize I was smiling. At the Metropolitan Hospital, I found his familiar sedan in the parking garage and waited. Half an hour later, his tall figure appeared. Rory was wearing a trench coat. His expression was cool, aloof—he looked like a robot running on minimal operating power. I watched him approach, a greedy hunger rising in me. Since we’d filed the initial paperwork at the courthouse last week, we hadn’t seen each other. He looked thinner. The dark circles under his eyes seemed deeper. I felt a sudden, fierce urge to lock him up in the condo, keep him away from everything. Away from the hospital, away from his ridiculous job, away from anything that took his energy and time. I was about to get out of the car. Then, I saw a woman run up to him from behind. My eyes narrowed. I stopped moving. Outside, they stood there, talking. I couldn’t hear what they were saying, but then I saw it—the slight, almost imperceptible curve of a smile on Rory’s lips. The report in my hand instantly crumpled, the paper gaining deep, permanent creases. In the year we’d been married, I had never seen Rory show any unnecessary emotion. He was always calm, cold, or simply oblivious to me. Even in bed, he was clinical and dispassionate, treating the act like an obligation to be fulfilled. But now. He smiled. He was smiling at a random woman. It felt as though something I’d begged and starved for was being casually picked up by someone else. Before I could fully react, the woman got into Rory’s car. A cold laugh escaped me. No wonder he agreed to the divorce so easily. He couldn’t wait to start his next chapter, apparently. In a moment of self-torture, I followed their car discreetly. I kept guessing their destination. A hotel? Rory’s new apartment? The result was a surprise. Rory only dropped her off at the entrance of a residential building. Then, he drove away. I hesitated for a moment, then sped up to follow. I managed to cut him off in the parking garage of the condo. He must have spotted my car earlier. He stopped and waited for me. “What is it?” I bit my lip, the words—who is that woman? and I’m pregnant—all getting tangled in my throat. I was about to speak when his phone suddenly rang—a harsh, immediate sound. I answered it impatiently. On the other end, a guy’s voice teased, “Princess Z, I’ve got a divorce celebration party lined up for you. All your favorites are here~” I saw Rory’s jaw instantly clench. 03 Seeing the stormy look on his face gave me a twisted sense of gratification. I was about to hang up, but I stopped myself, deliberately saying, “Oh, I’ll be there in a bit. Got some irritating stuff to deal with first.” I hadn’t even finished speaking when Rory turned to head for the elevator. I quickly hung up the phone and followed him. “What is your relationship with that woman?” Rory didn’t answer. His strides got longer. I hated this attitude the most. I trailed after him. “I’m telling you, we’re not officially divorced yet. You’d better remember the prenuptial agreement, or my father will—” Rory suddenly stopped. I slammed into his broad back. My nose stung violently, and tears welled up immediately. Rory was still facing away from me. His voice was low and rough. “I have always kept your father’s words in mind.” His tone was hard to read—a hint of disgust, perhaps a touch of numbness. I didn’t have time to process it. My fingers clutched the crumpled report. I was hesitant, yet strangely nervous. I collected myself and cautiously tried the question again. “If we had a baby, would we have been able to avoid this?” For me, the child was meant to be the culmination of our love. I had wanted one since we got married. I wasn’t sure why it hadn’t happened. We were both perfectly healthy. But I’d resigned myself to letting things happen naturally. Then, this baby arrived. Right on time for our impending divorce. A rare surge of shy hope rose in me. I held my breath, waiting for his answer. The next second, Rory simply replied, his tone chillingly distant. “The outcome would be the same.” The words hit me like a physical blow. The report I was ready to pull out suddenly became a mangled mess in my hand. The outcome would be the same? He truly didn’t care about me? Or his own flesh and blood? I gave a bitter, self-mocking laugh. Right. Rory never loved me. Why would he love a child born to me? My pride, however, wouldn’t allow me to show weakness. I pinched my palm, fighting back tears. “You’re right. A baby from you would probably be disgusting. I should look for a better father.” After dropping that low blow, I practically fled back to my car. Tears streamed down my face, blurring the images on the ultrasound report. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry… Mama shouldn’t have said that about you. You’re not disgusting, you’re my precious baby…” “It’s all your awful father’s fault. He just doesn’t love us…” 04 Back at the condo, I smashed the framed wedding photos on the wall. When the rage cooled, I was left with a tragic thought: a seed planted in bad soil can’t bear good fruit. I met Rory in college. I was visiting some of my friends at his university. I saw him speaking as the student representative for his cohort. Under the harsh spotlights, Rory wore a plain white button-down shirt. The hall around him seemed to darken, the light pooling on his face, making him the only focus. He read his speech, his voice clear and cool, just like him. My hair stirred slightly. I remember thinking, How can there be a breeze when all the windows are closed? Then I realized: Oh. It’s my heart beating. After that day, I launched an aggressive pursuit of Rory. The more he rejected me, the more obsessed I became. Eventually, I think I forgot whether I truly loved him or was just fighting for my pride and the sheer refusal to lose. Rory was the hardest person I’d ever tried to chase. Money? He didn’t care. Power? He wouldn’t submit. Love? He seemed to have plenty of that, just not for me. I pursued him relentlessly for four years. The most intimate we ever got was a forced kiss. Sometimes, I had a cruel thought: Could I be the one to bring him down from that pedestal? Perhaps the universe heard me. In his first year of graduate school, both his parents were diagnosed with serious illnesses that required urgent, expensive care. I saw it as my opportunity to break through his defenses. But Rory refused my financial help. He said his advisor would find him contacts in the industry. I was enraged, giving up on this ancient tree that refused to bend for me. On my 25th birthday, I had a perfect excuse to get publicly drunk without people suspecting it was over a broken heart. But my father delivered a massive gift. “That boy you like? I brought him home for you,” he said. With my father’s ruthless, swift intervention, Rory and I got married. I told myself he must have liked me a little. Otherwise, why would a man of such integrity agree? But it only took a few months of marriage for me to realize something was wrong. Rory’s attitude toward me was no different than before. He was still early to rise and late to bed, only answering when I asked a direct question. I couldn’t stand his coolness. One night, I tried to slip him a little something. Rory, completely calm, called a cab and headed straight to the ER. I only managed to consummate the marriage after literally tying him to a chair out of pure force. After that, Rory became even colder. No matter what I did, he accepted it with an eerie calm. I performed like a clown, desperate for his attention, only to be met with endless apathy. 05 When I told my father about the divorce, he showed no significant reaction. Instead, he said, almost with relief, “You two were never a good match. It’s better to let go sooner.” I forced a tight smile, not daring to tell him about the baby. I suspect my father had a hand in it, but news of my divorce quickly spread through the Chicago social circles. The men who used to swarm me suddenly reappeared. I was ready to turn them down. But a sudden surge of resentment gave me a cruel idea: I accepted an invitation and chose a restaurant near Rory’s hospital. As luck would have it, he was there for a staff dinner. When he walked past my table, where I was with one of the guys, his eyes didn’t even flicker in my direction. I gritted my teeth, staring daggers at his retreating back. When I saw him get up to use the restroom, I casually followed. Rory saw me and calmly looked away. Just as I was trying to figure out the most hurtful thing to say, he spoke first: “If your period is coming soon, you should skip the crab.” I was stunned. I instinctively remembered the two days before my period, when the cramps would leave me writhing in pain. Rory would always take time off to stay home with me. I gave a bitter laugh. I felt nothing but contempt. We were getting divorced. Why was he still pretending to care? I was frustrated. I nudged his leg lightly with my foot. “You still haven’t picked up your things.” Rory bent down and brushed the dust off his trousers. “Throw them away.” I clenched my fists. “Right. They’re just junk anyway. I have no use for them.” Rory fell silent. He had already walked out of the restroom but came back in. “If they’re useless, can I have the opal pendant back?” I stared at him, incredulous. That cheap opal pendant was the only thing Rory had ever given me—he shoved it into my hand on our wedding day. Though I despised its negligible value, I hadn’t thrown it away. It was sleeping alongside my designer jewelry in a box. And now? He dared to ask for it back? My chest heaved. I felt a sudden, visceral urge to choke him. I’m selfish. What’s mine is mine. So I said, “I already threw it out.” Rory flinched, then gave me a long, deep look. I couldn’t read the complex emotion in his dark eyes. But I could sense the drop in the air pressure around him. What was he angry about? I should be the angry one! 06 After that ugly confrontation, we didn’t communicate again. Wait, that’s not right. We did. He called to tell me to go to the courthouse for the official divorce. I overslept and missed the appointment. Then, I blocked his number. Three months later, my belly was beginning to show. I was planning on going to my regular clinic. But then, on a whim, I changed my mind. I efficiently checked in for my appointment, my eyes constantly scanning the room. But no. He wasn’t there. I gave a self-deprecating chuckle. When my name was called, I went in. The baby was healthy and cooperative. The doctor complimented the quality of the father’s sperm. I scoffed internally. Too good, apparently. I was about to leave. But then, I ran into Rory—he was there to see a colleague in the OB-GYN department. He froze when he saw me. I clearly saw the shock in his eyes. His colleague, noticing the tension, joked, “Acquaintance?” Rory’s Adam’s apple bobbed. His gaze fell on the ultrasound report sitting on the colleague’s desk. He finally spoke, his voice low and strained. “My ex-wife.” The air went dead. His colleague was completely taken aback. But professionalism took over, and the doctor finished the conversation. Rory stood there the whole time, listening to every detail. A strange, complex feeling welled up in me. If we hadn’t been getting divorced, this is exactly what it would have been like. As I left, Rory looked visibly upset. He changed out of his scrubs and followed me down to the parking garage. “Why didn’t you show up for the divorce?” My earlier good mood evaporated. Asshole! That’s the first thing you say to me?! He truly didn’t care about the baby? I ignored his question and snapped sarcastically, “Can’t you tell I’m pregnant?” Rory’s expression remained flat. “I see. So, why didn’t you go?” I felt like Rory and I were a match of dynamite and a lighter. We couldn’t touch without exploding. I gave a cold laugh. “Dr. Montgomery, are you really not suspicious that this child might be yours?” As the words left my mouth, Rory’s expression darkened even further. I was satisfied to see his discomfort, yet the victory felt hollow. I was about to tell him the truth—that this was indeed his child. But the next second, Rory looked up, his eyes cold and hard. He said, without a hint of emotion, “I had a vasectomy a year ago. So no, it’s not mine.”

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