The rage in her eyes was instant, a terrifying electrical surge. I’d only brushed her arm by accident. “Who the hell do you think you are?” Bess’s voice was a whip-crack. “How dare you even think about touching what belongs exclusively to Sawyer?” Sawyer Maxwell. Her childhood sweetheart. Her idealized other. “You filthy, shameless thing, I’ll teach you a lesson you won’t forget!” She ordered her security detail to break my legs and then demanded I be branded with the word “WHORE” across my torso—a detail I won’t linger on, except to say the searing pain was a kinder memory than what came after. Then came the ransom: a $15 million fine for “emotional distress.” I became a ghost, working seven jobs—from Uber shifts to bar-backing—scrambling for every penny to repay the debt. Yet, my existence itself was a constant embarrassment to her. Finally, she had me locked in a security-coded, soundproofed room in the basement to “reflect.” It was dark, suffocating, and the constant white noise was designed to disorient. My son, Noah, seven years old and terrified, managed to sneak me out when the guard took a break. For that small act of courage, Bess had him stripped, brutally beaten, and then thrown to the Rottweilers. “The damn bastard! How dare he defy my orders! This is the consequence!” I watched, paralyzed, as Noah’s small body was savaged. I collapsed, crawling toward Bess, begging, my throat raw with apologies. I pleaded for a sliver of medicine, anything to save him. She simply sneered, tossing a new bill at me—a monstrous $200 million. “You two pathetic wastes of space owe me this much, and you have the gall to ask me for money?” Her eyes were cold, bored. “Clear this debt within twenty-four hours, or go plan a funeral for that little animal!” My heart turned to ash. I sold my blood for a few hundred dollars and crawled back home only to find Noah’s body already cold. At the exact same time, news ripped through the City’s Elite that my wife, Bess Sinclair, had spent a colossal sum—hundreds of millions—to host a global art exhibition for her beloved Sawyer. I clutched Noah’s broken remains. The tears were an avalanche. The grief was a blunt knife, carving bone-deep into my soul. In the sterile corner of the emergency room, my son lay still, lifeless in a pool of his own blood. His small body was covered in wounds, his face barely recognizable. I knelt beside him, hands shaking, wanting to hold him but afraid to cause more pain. A tidal wave of agonizing pain washed over me, threatening to drown me whole. Nurses and orderlies walked past, completely ignoring me, too busy sharing the latest gossip, their voices high-pitched and excited: “Oh my god, spending a fortune just to make her childhood sweetheart smile? Is this what real wealth looks like?” “Of course. Only a genius painter like Sawyer Maxwell is worthy of a top CEO like Bess Sinclair!” “Seriously, I’m weeping for someone else’s love story!” Their jarring, oblivious chatter felt like slow, deliberate torture. I touched the thin wad of cash in my pocket. Not enough to buy a decent urn. In my despair, I had no choice but to call Bess. After an interminable wait, her furious voice blared through the receiver: “Damon Kincaid! You actually have the nerve to call me!” “My punishment was a chance for you to correct yourself! Who gave you permission to run away?” “You damaged the lock on the room, so you owe me another fifteen million! If you don’t pay, I’ll have the guards find that little bastard and finish him off for good!” It was always a ridiculous reason. Always a new layer of humiliation. For seven years of marriage, Bess had invented endless ways to shame me. I was used to it, but then a man’s voice cut in, familiar and sickeningly smug: “Damon, old boy, you know you have to take your medicine when you mess up.” Sawyer. “Sister was merciful not to kill you. Can’t you just learn how to be a good boy for once?” A sharp, searing spike of pain pierced my heart. But for Noah, to bury my son, I ground my last fragments of dignity into dust. I spoke, my voice barely a whisper: “Please, lend me a thousand dollars more. I’ll find a way to repay you.” “I just want to bury No—” Bess’s shriek was hysterical, cutting me off: “Shut up! Don’t use that little animal as an excuse! Even dead, he’s not worth a single penny of mine!” “I’m warning you, if you don’t pay up, breaking your legs will be the least of your worries!” The roar nearly shattered my eardrum. I slid powerlessly to the floor, tears streaming down my face. Around me, the nurses’ laughter continued to ripple. On the large screen visible outside the window, a loop played: Bess and Sawyer in a lavish embrace, a sweet, triumphant kiss. In that moment, everything inside me died. I used my last cash, kneeling until my knees were bruised and my forehead bloody outside the funeral home. They finally, begrudgingly, agreed to cremate my son. The roaring fire consumed everything. It burned away the last vestige of hope I had left, reducing it all to dust. I couldn’t even afford the urn. I stripped the shirt from my back, wrapping my son’s ashes inside, and carried him home. The moment I pushed open the front door, the cloying, clashing scent of perfume and stale cologne hit me. I gagged, a primal wave of nausea hitting me, and stumbled toward what used to be Noah’s small bedroom. Clothes were scattered everywhere, expensive silk and leather shoes, tangling around my ankles. They felt like mocking chains, celebrating my failure. I shook them off, but the filthy trace of their affair clung to me. The pain was so sharp it made my whole body tremble. I fought to keep the sobs down, reaching under Noah’s bed to pull out a creased, worn photograph. In the picture, I was smiling, holding Noah tight. Behind us, Bess stood with her back turned, her expression distant. She had always been cold to him. This stolen shot was his only cherished possession, his only memory of his mother. All I could do now was let it accompany him on his final journey. I carefully placed the photo inside the wrapped ashes and prepared to leave. Footsteps echoed just outside the door. “Well, well. If it isn’t the Sinclair house dog. Did someone peel you off the floor and send you home?” Sawyer leaned against the doorframe, his eyes full of contempt. I looked at him coldly, offering no response, just tightening my hold on the bundle in my arms. His eyes narrowed. He stepped forward, reaching out to snatch the makeshift shroud. “What did you take!” I held on desperately. “Don’t touch my things!” Sawyer let out a dismissive laugh. “What in this house is yours, Damon? Nothing.” “Even your wife is mine. A man who’s useless as you are should just kill himself.” He lifted his chin, proudly exposing the fresh, crimson marks of intimacy on his neck. It was a blatant provocation. Normally, I would have fought him to the death. But now, all I wanted was to give my son a proper rest. I didn’t even lift my eyes, numbly trying to move past him and out the door. Sawyer suddenly erupted. He brutally kicked me hard in the lower back, yanked my hair, and tore the shirt—the bundle of ashes—from my grasp. “You dead weight! You don’t get to take anything of mine!” As he pulled, the shirt ripped, and the pale gray dust scattered across the hardwood floor. I let out a raw, desperate shriek, scrambling on my hands and knees, trying to gather the ashes with my bare fingers. A stiletto heel slammed down, crushing my hand. I followed the line of the leg up, meeting Bess’s gaze. She looked down at me, her eyes openly disgusted. “Damon Kincaid, you are truly repulsive.” Her icy voice was a razor blade slicing straight into my soul. I bit down hard, but the pain was too profound to articulate. Sawyer draped himself around Bess’s waist, feigning distress. “I just worried Damon might take something by mistake, but he suddenly lunged at me.” “I shouldn’t have interfered, I guess. After all, Damon is the man of the house… I deserve to be attacked.” I reached for the photo, my voice a painful, broken plea. “I’m sorry. I just want my things back.” “I promise I’ll disappear. I won’t ever appear in front of you again.” Bess’s eyes fell to the picture under her foot. She bent down, picked it up, and shook the ashes off it. The image of us became clear. She gave a small, light laugh, then, without a hint of hesitation, she tore it in half. “No!” I screamed, my eyes blazing with despair. “A useless piece of trash paper, and you treasure it so much. How pathetic.” The fragments drifted down, mimicking the pieces of my shattered heart. I raised my head, my throat hoarse. “Bess Sinclair, that was my son’s last memory! How could you destroy it?!” A flicker of doubt crossed Bess’s face. “Last memory?” I pushed myself up onto my knees, meeting her gaze, my lips trembling. “Noah is dead. Are you satisfied now?” A moment of heavy silence. I foolishly thought I might see a spark of remorse in her eyes. Instead, she laughed—a sudden, sharp bark of pure delight. “Good! That little mistake should never have existed.” “You weren’t actually expecting me to clean up his body, were you?” Her high, cutting laughter was a knife twisting in my heart. I froze. My vision blurred. A loud, ringing static filled my brain. Bess kept speaking, her words without a hint of human decency. “He’s dead, so what? Why are you telling me? Can I resurrect him?” “He had that idiot’s blood—your blood—in him. He was lower than a stray dog. He was a burden alive, and now he’s finally out of the way!” I covered my ears, desperate to block out the hateful sound. An endless, freezing coldness crept up from my feet. The last thread of hope I held snapped completely. She was truly incapable of guilt. Incapable of a single moment of regret. I clenched my fists, my nails digging deep into my palms. Blood traced paths down my fingers. “Bess Sinclair, do you even have a heart?” “Noah was your own flesh and blood! He was so small, and he’d fall asleep clutching your photo, calling for his mother!” “What crime did he commit for you to hate him so much you wanted him dead?!” My words hung in the air. Bess’s hand lashed out, an open-palmed slap across my face. “Who do you think you are to lecture me?!” “You two pathetic leeches, you eat my food and wear my clothes, and you dare to defy me?” “His crime was having a useless father like you!” I held my burning cheek, a trickle of blood wetting my lip. Sawyer stepped forward, a smug look in his eyes, but feigned concern. “I’m so sorry, Damon. I honestly didn’t know you’d wrap ashes in a shirt.” “But a dead person’s remains are bad luck. Why don’t I help you clean it up?” He reached for a handheld vacuum. A surge of hot adrenaline hit me. I lunged at him. Before I could reach him, Bess’s kick caught me square in the chest. I went flying backward, landing hard, coughing up blood onto the floor. “You dare to touch Sawyer?” “If you ever lay a hand on him again, I will make you beg for death!” I gasped for air, clutching my chest. My eyes were filled with desolate emptiness. “Bess,” I choked out. “Let’s get divorced.” She laughed as if I’d told the funniest joke. “Divorce? While you still owe me money? You think you have the right?” “Until the debt is paid, you are not leaving the Sinclair estate!” I gritted my teeth, pushing off the floor through the blinding pain. My eyes were wet, but I refused to let the tears fall. The kind, gentle Bess I married had died in the past. It was a pathetic joke that until today, I’d still hoped that she might remember our good times and that we could somehow return to what we once were. Through my blurring vision, I looked at her, my tone utterly final. “Fine. I’ll pay.” The moment the words left my mouth, I grabbed the heavy, decorative letter-opener from the side table and plunged it into my abdomen. The sound of the blade tearing skin and muscle was sickeningly loud in the silent room. Bess frowned, her pupils suddenly widening. I swallowed the metallic taste of blood and looked at her, a bitter smile on my face. “If I use my organs to pay you back, will that be enough?” Bess froze for a second, then her face twisted in fresh anger. “Damon Kincaid, what the hell are you doing?!” “Don’t think this pathetic trick will make me feel sorry for you!” The intense pain was a fire scorching my insides, yet it was nothing compared to the complete devastation of my heart. My blood pooled on the floor. “Not enough? Then again!” As if I felt nothing, I yanked the blade out and aimed it toward my chest. Bess lunged forward, snatching the letter-opener away. She was furious. “Are you crazy! How much is your miserable life worth anyway?!” “I’m warning you, you owe me every penny, and you will pay it back!” Sawyer, who was cowering behind her, tugged timidly on her sleeve. Bess immediately turned, tenderly wiping a fleck of my blood from his face, before violently shoving me to the ground. “If you want to die, do it somewhere else! Don’t scare Sawyer!” I struggled to my feet, gathering the final trace of ashes and the torn photograph, clutching them to my chest. Holding my bleeding abdomen, I staggered toward the door. “Thank you for letting me leave. I’ll send the divorce papers once the debt is cleared.” Bess scoffed, her voice laced with final contempt. “You? A worthless piece of filth no one would buy even if you tried selling yourself? You’ll never clear the debt in eight lifetimes!” “You’ll come crawling back to beg me!” I said nothing more. I gave her one last, cold look. Biting back the pain to remain conscious, I left that gilded cage. Sawyer held Bess’s arm affectionately, pretending concern while his eyes wished me the worst. “Is he just leaving, Gen? Should we be worried?” Bess glanced at me, her tone dismissive. “Don’t worry. That parasitic coward is too afraid of death to actually die.” My body swayed in the biting cold wind. But it was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I’m sorry, Noah. Your dad failed you… I stumbled down the street, two long trails of blood marking my path. Ignoring the horrified, confused stares of passersby, I crawled to the Organ Donation Center. Lying on the cold operating table, my consciousness began to fade. A fragile smile touched my lips. I’m sorry, son. I couldn’t protect you. Let your father use this broken body to ensure you rest in peace. … A week later, Sawyer Maxwell’s exhibition opened as planned. Watching the throng of people, Bess felt a strange unease. A cold, nagging feeling that she had overlooked something vitally important. “Bess, what’s wrong? You look awful.” Sawyer walked over, his face etched with worry. She squeezed his hand, forcing a smile. “Nothing. Maybe I’m just a little tired.” When she closed her eyes, a fleeting image of Damon, covered in blood, flashed in her mind. Just then, her phone vibrated. A jolt of pure panic went through her. Her fingers trembled as she pulled out the device. The screen displayed a notification: a transfer of $15 Million.

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My wife and I were the ultimate power couple—both graduates of an Ivy League track, top of our class, with IQs that were practically footnotes in our resumes. Yet our son, Fitch, couldn’t grasp simple addition and subtraction up to ten. I dragged him for ten separate paternity tests, driving myself insane. Every single report was unequivocal: Paternal Relationship Confirmed. I sank into a deep, terrifying self-doubt until I accompanied my wife back to her hometown. There, while idly flipping through her old high school yearbook, a faded photograph tucked inside the pages made my world shatter. The photo showed my wife locked in a close embrace with a stranger—a man whose face bore an uncanny, seven-eighths resemblance to my son. 1 A deathly silence held the living room captive. The only sound was the mechanical tick of the sleek, Danish-design wall clock. I stared at Fitch’s crumpled homework sheet on the coffee table, a vein throbbing wildly in my face. “Ten minus seven. What. Is. The. Answer?” My voice was a low rasp, forced out between clenched teeth, barely suppressing a volcanic rage. Fitch hunched his shoulders, refusing to meet my eyes. He held out his chubby little fingers, clumsily counting, a mumbled mantra escaping his lips. One, two, three… Sweat beaded on his forehead, his small face flushed crimson from the effort and the fear. Finally, he raised his head timidly and ventured a guess: “It’s… two?” The last taut wire in my brain snapped. Rage, a fiery torrent, shot to my head. I could feel my own blood burning. “Serena!” I roared toward the kitchen. My wife, Serena, wearing an apron, hurried out, a handful of fresh green onions in her hand. She took one look at my face and then at our son, who was on the verge of tears, and immediately understood. “Graham, don’t you dare scare him.” She walked over, gently pulled Fitch into her embrace, and stroked his back. “Fitch’s tired now. Why don’t we take a break, okay?” Her soft, soothing voice, her gentle tenderness, only amplified my irritation. I, Graham Vance, had earned my Ph.D. with highest honors at thirty and was now a tenured Associate Professor at a prestigious university. Serena, my wife, had entered that same elite university beside me and was universally hailed as a brilliant mind. We were a match made in the upper echelon, the quintessential power couple. Our union was seen as a deliberate act of genetic optimization, a guaranteed jackpot in the intellectual lottery. Everyone had predicted a child prodigy. Reality had slapped me across the face. Fitch, nearing seven, couldn’t master the most rudimentary arithmetic. I snatched the stack of documents from the side table and slammed them onto the mahogany surface. The papers scattered, the title on the top sheet a fresh, chilling insult: “DNA Paternity Analysis Report.” This was the tenth one. Each result was an ice-cold confirmation: Results support Graham Vance as the biological father of Fitch Vance. Paternal Relationship Confirmed. Those words, in clinical black and white, were a dull, relentless blade carving away at my dignity as a man, as a supposed elite. I looked at the scene before me: the perfect wife, the slow son, a domestic picture that was both warm and incredibly, savagely ironic. My chest tightened with a sense of suffocating absurdity. “Serena, tell me. Why is this happening?” I pointed at the reports on the floor, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “Science tells me he’s mine, but everything I see with my own eyes tells me he can’t be!” My words were poisoned arrows aimed at the woman I thought I knew. Serena’s face instantly paled, drained of all color. She tightened her hold on Fitch, her body trembling slightly. “Graham, how can you say that?” Her tears began to fall, one by one, hitting her son’s soft hair. “You can doubt me, but you can’t doubt science.” She didn’t argue, didn’t fight; she just wept silently. That kind of wordless accusation was worse than any hysterical outburst. Just then, my phone rang. My mother. I took a deep breath, trying to normalize my voice as I answered. “Hello, Mom.” “Graham, how’s Fitch’s schooling going? Has he mastered the new curriculum I sent over?” My mother’s enthusiastic voice grated on my nerves. Every word felt like a pinprick. “He’s… fine,” I hedged vaguely. “‘Fine’ isn’t enough! You need to push him! Your father and I’s greatest achievement was raising an Ivy League Ph.D., and a Vance grandson cannot fall behind! We’ve told all our colleagues he’s destined for the Senate, Graham. A genius mind. You can’t let us down!” Her words felt like a millstone around my neck, crushing the air out of me. I hung up the phone, completely drained. I looked at Fitch. He was gazing up at me with those clear, bewildered eyes, a mix of fear and desperate wanting-to-please in his expression. A sharp pang of guilt pierced my heart. He was only a child. He didn’t understand any of this. But immediately following the guilt was a deeper, corrosive sense of failure and bewilderment, clinging to me like ivy. This home, this house wrapped in expectations and privilege, had become a suffocating cage. “Graham,” Serena suddenly spoke, her voice thick and hoarse from crying. “This weekend, let’s go visit my parents.” She avoided my gaze and spoke softly. “It’s been too long. It will be a… change of scenery.” I looked at her pale profile, my mind a turbulent mess. Getting away from here sounded like a necessary escape. “Fine,” I exhaled wearily. 2 Saturday morning broke gray and heavy. Our family of three embarked on the drive to Serena’s hometown. As we left the gleaming skyscrapers of the city behind, the scenery grew sparse and dilapidated. High-rises gave way to crumbling shacks, smooth interstate to cracked asphalt. The atmosphere in the car was heavier than the weather outside. Serena and I sat side-by-side, having exchanged no words since starting the ignition. In the rearview mirror, I could see her tightly drawn profile and the faint redness around her eyes. An invisible wall, cold and solid, separated us. Only Fitch seemed oblivious to the tension. “Daddy, look! Cows!” “Daddy, that scarecrow is so funny!” He was pressed against the window, excitedly pointing at the vast, desolate fields. He asked an endless stream of innocent, often nonsensical questions. I responded with curt, noncommittal grunts, my mind too consumed by my own chaos to share his simple joy. After three hours of bumpy driving, we arrived at Serena’s childhood home—a small, slightly dilapidated town nestled deep in the forgotten hills of the state. My in-laws were waiting anxiously by the door. Seeing our car, they immediately plastered on welcoming smiles. “Serena, Graham, you’re finally here! Fitch, let Grandpa hold you!” Her father, Stan, enthusiastically took the luggage from me, while her mother, Alice, grabbed Fitch, kissing him repeatedly on the cheek. Their overly effusive warmth felt distinctly off. There was a hint of desperate, careful appeasement behind their smiles, an underlying unnaturalness. The feeling intensified at the dinner table. “Graham’s an Associate Professor now, such an impressive achievement. Our Serena is so lucky.” Stan raised his glass, beaming with what looked like pride. “You must be earning a great deal now, aren’t you? Is the cost of living in the city too much?” Alice served a heap of food onto my plate, her casual questioning thinly veiling a deep curiosity about my status and income. They spoke of my job, my money, as if I weren’t their son-in-law, but a highly anticipated investment. Serena was visibly uncomfortable. “Mom, Dad, just eat. Stop asking so many questions.” She tried several times to interrupt her parents, her face growing increasingly strained. I ate in silence, covertly observing them. I noticed the oddity in my in-laws’ interaction with Fitch. They hugged him, kissed him, and fed him, showing all the usual affection of grandparents. But beneath the surface, I kept catching a fleeting, complex expression in their eyes—a mixture of evasion, pity, and a sharp thread of guilt. It was as if they knew something I didn’t. After dinner, I excused myself, claiming I needed to stretch my legs. I wandered into the yard alone. The house was an old, two-story structure, its paint peeling, exuding a pervasive sense of decay and suppression. I drifted upstairs and pushed open the door to Serena’s old room. It was small but meticulously tidy. The walls were plastered with ribbons and certificates from elementary school through high school—Honor Roll, Student of the Year—a gallery of past glory. Yet, in stark contrast to the wall of honors, the small bookshelf contained almost no fiction or literature, only outdated textbooks. This didn’t align with the image of the well-read Serena I had married. My gaze landed on the desk. On the corner sat a dark blue, hard-backed notebook, its embossed title faded: “Memories: Class of ‘05.” Her old high school yearbook. An inexplicable urge seized me. Driven by a ghost in my own head, I reached out and opened it. The aged paper smelled faintly of dust and mildew. It was filled with old school photos and flowery farewell messages. I flipped through the pages, my heart unmoved by the goofy faces and dramatic teenage prose. Just as I was about to close the book, my fingertip brushed against something stiff. 3 A single, yellowed photograph slipped from between the pages of the yearbook, fluttering softly to the floor. I bent down to pick it up. The background appeared to be the shore of a park lake. In the photo, a young Serena, her hair pulled back in a bright ponytail, smiled a brilliant, naive smile. Standing beside her was a tall, slender boy, his arm draped affectionately over her shoulder. They were pressed tightly together, like any couple in the throes of first love. My eyes locked onto the boy’s face. My heart felt as if an invisible hand had violently seized it, stopping its beat instantly. That man. That stranger… His eyebrows, the curve of his eyes, the slope of his nose, the shape of his lips, even the slightly dull, vacant look in his expression… He was the spitting image of my son, Fitch. Seven-eighths, maybe more, of a match. I was struck by a cold, searing shock, paralyzed from head to toe, my blood turning instantly to ice. Betrayal. The word detonated in my mind like a bomb. All my long-suppressed suspicions, all the desperate, logical acrobatics I’d performed to deny the impossible, had just found their most direct, most cruel piece of evidence. But… the ten paternity reports… The scientific certainty, in black and white, could it all be a lie? An utterly absurd thought flashed: Could Serena have— No. Impossible! The monumental contradiction tore at my sanity. I felt myself spiraling toward madness. I gripped the thin photo, my knuckles white with strain. The edge of the print dug painfully into my palm. Like an enraged bull, I charged down the stairs, the photograph clenched in my fist. Serena was sitting on a small wooden bench in the yard, talking quietly with her parents. Sunlight bathed her, making her look like the gentle, composed wife I thought I knew. “Serena!” I bellowed. I crossed the yard in three strides. My sudden appearance and my distorted face startled them all. Serena jumped up, looking at me with confusion. “Graham, what is it?” I didn’t answer. I just slammed the photograph down in front of her. “Who. Is. This?” Serena’s eyes fell to the picture. In that instant, the color visibly drained from her face until she was ashen. Her body began to tremble uncontrollably. Her lips moved, but no sound came out. It was the absolute terror of someone caught exposing her most shameful secret. Her parents looked even more panicked. Stan practically leaped up, reaching out to snatch the photo from my hand. “Graham, what are you doing! We can talk this out!” I sidestepped him, holding the photo high, the fire in my eyes ready to consume them all. “Talk this out? How can we talk this out!” I pointed from the man’s face in the photo to Fitch, who was staring blankly nearby. “You tell me! What is going on! Why does my son look exactly like him!” My roar echoed in the small yard, startling the birds from the trees. The air solidified around us. My in-laws stood motionless, faces like death masks. Serena swayed, looking as if she might collapse at any moment. Suddenly, all the strength left her. Her composure shattered completely. With a sound ripped from her soul, she dropped to the ground, covering her face with her hands, a long-suppressed, gut-wrenching wail escaping her. “Don’t ask… Please, Graham, don’t ask any more…” She wept uncontrollably, her shoulders violently shaking. “I haven’t wronged you… I truly haven’t…” Her cries, her pleas, that desperate, hollow assurance that she hadn’t wronged me, wrapped my anger and my rationality in a dense fog. I stood in the center of the yard, the photo burning like a branding iron in my hand. I looked at my weeping wife, my terrified in-laws, and my confused son. The answer I needed, the one that could drag me back from this pit of hell, was right there. But they sealed it off with their tears and their silence. 4 That night lasted an eternity. Serena and I slept in separate rooms. I lay on the cold, hard guest bed, eyes wide open, staring into the dark. The yellowed photograph rested on the pillow beside me. In the faint moonlight filtering through the window, I scrutinized the man’s face again and again. Then I opened my phone and pulled up Fitch’s picture. I held the two faces side-by-side, comparing them obsessively. The angle of the eyebrows, the curve of the eyes, the height of the bridge of the nose, the shape of the lips. The more I looked, the heavier my heart sank. The more I looked, the more terrifying the similarity became. This deep-seated resemblance could not be dismissed as coincidence. The thought of betrayal surfaced again, gnawing at my sanity like a poisonous snake. Yet, the ten scientific reports pressed down on me like a mountain, suffocating me. I couldn’t accept a marriage built on deceit, but I couldn’t explain this scientific impossibility either. I felt trapped in a maddening paradox, with no clear way out. From the adjacent room, I could hear Serena’s muffled, persistent sobs. The sound was broken, like a persistent little feather, endlessly tickling my already frayed nerves. I pulled the blanket over my head, trying to block out the sound, but it seemed to penetrate the walls, drilling into my ears, giving me no peace. I finally drifted into a chaotic, shallow sleep only as the night gave way to morning. I was awakened by the first crowing of a rooster. It was barely dawn. I rubbed my aching neck and stepped out of the room to find the house eerily empty. Serena was gone. My in-laws were gone. There wasn’t even breakfast waiting on the table. A cold tide of dread instantly washed over me. Where had they gone? Had they fled, taking their secret with them? Panic surged. I grabbed my jacket and bolted out the door. The village was quiet in the early morning, only a few elderly people walking with tools toward the fields. They shot me curious glances, a stranger in their midst. I stopped an elderly woman sweeping her porch, trying to keep my voice calm. “Excuse me, ma’am. Have you seen Serena and her parents?” She looked up, her clouded eyes taking my measure, and then she quickly looked away. “The Sue family? Oh… they might have… gone up the mountain.” Her words were evasive, and she immediately resumed sweeping, clearly unwilling to say more. I persisted, asking a few other people chatting nearby. Their reactions were uniformly evasive. They either claimed ignorance or their eyes darted away, their silence deafening. This collective secrecy only intensified my spiraling suspicions. What were they all hiding?

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My name is Connor Reynolds. I let them take it all. My mother, Dr. Elaine Harrington, a surgical titan, had wielded the scalpel herself, convinced—or so I thought—that this radical orchiectomy was the only way to save me from a terminal prostate cancer diagnosis. The surgery had been successful, they told me. But the anesthetic was supposed to numb everything, and as I drifted in the twilight of consciousness, the low murmur of voices pierced the fog. The assisting surgeon and a nurse, trading casual gossip. “Professor Harrington really put her son through it, didn’t she? All that to make the adopted one feel better.” “A complete waste, yeah. Heard his wife, Veronica Stone, the corporate shark, practically ordered it. Nothing left. A shell of a man.” The shock was a physical blow, a violent, full-body tremor that had nothing to do with the lingering drugs. I was an iceberg breaking apart. The first thing I did when I found a shred of consciousness was to fight the restraints and demand answers. My wife, Veronica, was there, the picture of cold, cutting glamour, her arm looped casually around her protégé, Ashton Bell. Her laugh was low, cruel, and laced with contempt. “What’s wrong, Connor? You used to mock Ashton for being too ‘delicate,’ remember? Now you’re the one who finally learned a lesson about being weak, didn’t you?” I lunged forward, but my mother’s hands were instantly on my shoulders, shoving me back onto the sterile sheets. “Connor, stop. Ashton has a difficult background. You’ve been handed everything your whole life. Losing a little bit of yourself is a small price to pay for a little perspective.” My own daughter, Mia Reynolds, chimed in, her voice annoyingly petulant. “That’s right, Dad. Now that you’re… like this, it’s high time you stepped aside for Uncle Ashton.” It was then that the system, which had been silent for years, suddenly roared to life in my mind. [SYSTEM ALERT: Mission Complete. Immediate Reality Exit Protocol initiated. Confirm physical demise for extraction?] A cold, bitter laugh escaped me. A decade of my life, poured into this family, all of it a carefully woven lie, a cruel, elaborate sham of deep affection and rescue. Why should I care if they lived or died? I hit the confirmation. The system’s voice was instantly synchronized. [EXIT PROTOCOL ACTIVATED. THREE DAYS after your physical demise, this novel-world’s inhabitants will be erased. Bonus: $700 Million USD & Full Health Reinstatement in Original Reality.] … The thought of going home filled me with a primal, desperate joy that eclipsed the searing agony of my post-surgical wounds. I fought the tubes and wires, struggling to climb toward the window. Every movement sent a fresh wave of tearing pain across my body. I looked out at the city—Harbor City’s neon glow, a million distant lights—and not a single one was lit for me. I needed out. I sped up, dragging myself across the floor. A soft, mocking chuckle stopped me. I looked back and saw Mia, leaning against the doorframe. “Why are you getting up, Dad? You’re supposed to be resting.” She wrinkled her nose. “You’re not some bad actor. Who are you trying to impress with this pathetic suicide attempt?” “An attempt? Who exactly has been ‘attempting’ to deceive whom?” I stared into her eyes, searching the face so like my own for a flicker of humanity. “It’s not deceit,” she shrugged, a gesture copied directly from her mother. “At most, it was a ‘misdiagnosis’ by Grandma! You don’t have cancer. You’re not going to die. You can stay here with us. Isn’t that great?” Oh, I was supposed to applaud the dismantling of the scam? I turned my back. The night air howled around the edges of the window. I had gone onto the operating table to live. Now, I was climbing onto this ledge to die and truly live again. Without a second thought, I pushed my body forward. But the relief of the fall never came. Mia screamed and activated the emergency call button, then gripped my hand with surprising strength. “Dad! What are you doing! Hold on!” “Let go,” I rasped. She dug her heels in, the veins standing out on her neck. “No! Dad, it’s just… it’s just that you’re missing a little something. It’s not a big deal! Mom said she wouldn’t mind, no matter what.” I was too weary to listen to the empty promises. I violently shook my body, trying to make her lose her footing. Her eyes welled up. “You’re really going to leave me? Kill yourself?” The fear in her gaze looked genuine, terrifyingly real. I yanked her hard, my eyes freezing over. “If you can’t bear to let me go, then come with me.” I pulled harder, drawing her body over the edge with mine. The color instantly drained from her face. She went limp, the strength leaving her arms. I knew then: she was truly afraid. Just as I felt the slow, sickening slide toward the pavement, a colossal force dragged me back. Security and medical staff swarmed the room. Damn it. One footstep short. I lay sprawled on the bed, defeated. Mia was hysterical, sobbing uncontrollably. Before I could process her tears, the door burst open. Veronica, radiating a murderous chill, strode past the crowd and stopped by my bedside. “CRACK.” The sound of her palm hitting my cheek was deafening. My head snapped to the side. The sudden, violent movement pulled at my stitches, and blood instantly seeped through the gauze. “Are you fucking insane?” Her eyes were scarlet. She grabbed my jaw, her nails digging into my skin. “Mia is our daughter! You were going to drag her to her death over spite and a tantrum?!” “Connor Reynolds, when will this stop? Do you have no soul?” A cold, hollow laugh escaped me. I was the heartless one? Who told me I was dying? Who tortured me with unnecessary chemotherapy? Who used my supposed ‘cure’ to destroy my dignity, all to appease her pet project? I was too tired to explain. My silence seemed to fuel her rage. She hauled me off the bed and dragged me out of the room. “If you won’t stay here, you’re coming home with me!” I was a puppet, numbly allowing her to push me into the car. One thought was my sole focus: I needed to find another opportunity to execute the exit protocol. Harbor City’s night views flew past the window. The human world was so bright, so full of life, yet none of it was for me. As the car accelerated onto the isolated canyon road, I reached for the door handle. “You’re looking for a death wish!” Veronica roared, slamming the wheel to the right. The car fishtailed wildly, tracing a terrifying curve across the asphalt. I used every ounce of my remaining strength to shove the door open. The biting wind instantly enveloped me. I didn’t hesitate, launching my weak body out. Just as I was about to tumble onto the road, Veronica ripped her hand from the steering wheel and clamped down on me. The car lost all control. With a sickening crunch, the expensive sports car slammed into the roadside guardrail. The violent impact threw us both forward. Veronica’s forehead hit the dash, and a slick crimson line immediately traced the razor-sharp contours of her face. She gasped, her eyes narrowed and dark as coal. “You really want to die that badly?” I stared back, my answer a clear, unwavering steel: “Yes.” She was about to retaliate, but a thick, cloying smell of gasoline hit my nostrils. Veronica’s expression tightened. “Damn it!” Ignoring the blood pouring down her face, she fought desperately to pull me from the mangled passenger seat. I had no instinct for survival left; I hoped the fire would come faster. “Leave me. Just go.” She didn’t listen. With a brutal wrench, she ripped the compressed seat away, snatched me up, and held me tight to her body. The moment we stumbled clear, a deafening explosion ripped through the air. A massive fireball instantly swallowed the wreckage. The heat was a searing wave. She shielded me with her body, her eyes raw with panic and fury. “Connor Reynolds, I’ll say this one more time.” “The Devil won’t take you without my permission.” It was exactly like that warehouse fire, years ago, when we’d been trapped by a rival gang. She’d held me just like this, whispering: “Don’t be scared, Connor. I’m here. You won’t lose a single hair.” I had dedicated my life to her because of that promise, fighting by her side, using the Reynolds’ influence to help her conquer the highest echelons of corporate and underground power. Now, that same protection was nothing but a brutal, suffocating irony. I have no memory of how I got back to the penthouse. The warmth of the house hit me first—a cozy, domestic scene that felt alien and mocking. Ashton Bell was carefully blowing on a bowl of broth. My mother, Dr. Elaine Harrington, stood over him, her face alight with a nauseating affection. “Careful, Ashton, it’s still hot.” They saw us—specifically, the blood dripping from Veronica’s wound. Ashton gasped and rushed over. “Veronica! You’re hurt!” He darted a look at me, his gaze dropping to my lower body, the look of contempt quickly replaced by pity. “This must be Connor, right? Don’t blame him, Veronica. He’s just struggling to accept his condition. We need to be more supportive.” I snapped. I lunged and drove a raw, vicious fist into his face. “Shut up! What right do you have to stand there and fake sincerity?!” Ashton clutched his face, staring at me in shock. Almost instantly, Elaine was in front of him, shoving me backward. I hit the marble floor hard. “Enough!” she shrieked. “Look at you! You are not fit to be a Reynolds heir! We spoiled you so much that you think you can torment Ashton without consequence! This surgery was a lesson, and you’re making a spectacle of yourself!” I looked up at the woman who had once loved me fiercely, and I asked the question that destroyed us all. “Was this your reason for telling me I had a terminal illness? To make me… this?” She didn’t answer. Guilt? No, more like a sense of entitlement. When I first entered this world, Elaine was grieving and fighting the misogyny of the Reynolds Corporation. The system sent me to redeem her. For a long time, we were each other’s salvation. I even considered abandoning my mission to stay. But when I brought Ashton—the poor orphan I had sponsored—into the fold, everything changed. They slowly turned on me. Every genuine concern was twisted into ‘condescending mockery.’ They needed me to suffer to avenge his perceived victimhood. A bitter laugh choked in my throat. I grabbed the fruit knife from the low glass table. I was too slow. Veronica’s reaction was immediate and brutal. She kicked the knife from my hand. “Connor Reynolds, you are addicted to this! Threatening us with death!” Her voice was ice. “I, Veronica Stone, swear that if you just stop tormenting Ashton, you will always be my husband, no matter how much of a freak you become.” I lay on the cold floor, utterly spent. My voice was quiet, definitive. “But I don’t want to be.” The air thickened. The next second, Elaine snatched the Carrington Crest pendant—the heirloom that symbolized the Reynolds’ inheritance—from my neck. Her eyes were filled with nothing but disappointment. “You are not fit to be Veronica’s husband. And you are certainly not fit to be the Reynolds heir!” “After the car crash years ago, I shouldn’t have saved you! Had I known your true nature, I would have let you die then!” That was it. The last shard of my heart shattered. Lying on the freezing floor, I felt hot tears of silent, desperate laughter well up in my eyes. Elaine walked over to Ashton and placed the Crest around his neck. From that day on, I was confined to the cellar, my every chance of suicide removed. Ashton, cloaked in his role as a “psychological counselor,” had free access. “He’s very unstable, Veronica. I’m a doctor; let me help him process this.” Veronica rubbed her temples, relieved. “It’s all yours, Ashton. Just make sure he doesn’t pull any more stunts.” She didn’t see the gentle mask slide off the second the door locked. He pinched my chin, forcing my eyes up. “Connor Reynolds, I always hated how you looked down on me, how superior you thought you were.” He smirked. “Now, you’re not even a man anymore. What right do you have to compete?” I struggled weakly. He laughed softly and injected the cold needle into my arm. “Don’t worry, Connor. You want to die, but I won’t let you. I’ll make you live—right here, a pathetic, broken dog in my shadow.” I lost track of the days, existing in a doped-up haze. Until Mia crept in one night with a bowl of soup, her face falling at the sight of my emaciated state. Perhaps it was guilt, perhaps fear from the window scene. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She awkwardly lifted the spoon to my lips. “Dad… please, just eat something.” I turned my head away from the food, my voice a weak croak. “Just… give me… peace…” The bowl trembled in her hand. My rejection instantly morphed her shame into anger. “Always this! You starve yourself, you threaten to jump—who are you trying to punish? Do you want Mom and me to feel guilty?” I closed my eyes, fighting the onslaught of beautiful memories—her first steps, her joyful cries of “Daddy.” I had to let them all go. Finally, I forced out a single word. “Go.”

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The day I got the confirmation of my second pregnancy, a notification popped up in the family group chat. The sender, a username I knew belonged to my husband’s mistress, had tagged me: “Griffin says you’re the most generous woman, Evelyn, so I’m thrilled to share our husband’s $300,000 ‘Perfect Attendance Bonus’ with the family.” “A small token of appreciation for the three hundred nights I kept him company this year.” “Hope you’re not too deflated about your own little $30 ‘Participation Trophy,’ honey.” “Don’t worry, I know the difference between the Queen and the joker. I’ll stick to my job: making sure Griffin is satisfiedin the bedroom.” “And thank you to the entire Maxwell family for accepting me. I’ll keep up the good work and aim for an eight-figure Christmas bonus next year.” The thread went silent. Even my usually chatty mother-in-law was quiet. Just then, Griffin Maxwell walked in. Seeing the blood drain from my face, he gave me a look of practiced calm. “The girl was insistent about joining the family thread,” he confessed smoothly. “She’s pregnant, Evie, and emotional. I had to manage her feelings. This is my fault, so I have a responsibility to her.” My heart turned to ice. It finally clicked why he had sent me a $30 Venmo an hour earlier, with the note: “Perfect Attendance.” Staring at the husband who had completely forgotten the path we’d walked together, a crushing weight settled in my chest. I knew, with absolute certainty, that I was done with him. 1 Griffin saw my silence and reached for my face, holding it with a sickening, devotional promise. “Evie. You will always be my Primary. My wife in every sense of the word. The woman I respect most.” “No one can touch your position as Mrs. Maxwell. Don’t let this little thing upset you, okay?” I stared at him, hollowed out. In that instant, he was a stranger. The man I’d loved with my whole heart, the man I’d built an empire with, was gone. And the title of ‘Mrs. Maxwell’? I didn’t want it anymore. Meeting his gaze—a patronizing blend of expectation and reassurance—I crushed the tempest inside me and managed a faint smile. “Okay,” I whispered. Griffin let out a breath of relief, attempting to pull me into a hug. “That’s my girl. The most understanding wife in the world. I’m the luckiest man alive.” I stiffened, taking an involuntary step back. His phone rang, stopping him mid-movement. Right in front of me, he answered it, his voice dropping into a soft, concerned murmur. “You threw up again? I’m on my way.” “You want cake? Sure. I’ll have my wife bake one for you. Just try to keep it together, I’m leaving now.” He hung up, eyes full of frantic worry, and addressed me in the tone one might use for a hired hand. “Honey, be a sweetheart and bake Blair one of your strawberry layer cakes. It’s her favorite.” He didn’t give me a second glance, rushing toward the door. I stood there, a punchline to a terrible joke. My mind struggled to catch up. I hadn’t realized my home had been utterly ransacked. The woman who slept with my husband had also eaten the cake—my cake. I had spent months perfecting that recipe because Griffin said he loved it. Now, I understood. She loved it. I pulled out my phone. First, I booked a consultation for the abortion. Then, I texted Harrison Bell, my former law school mentor and now a top divorce attorney: “I want a full divorce, half the assets, and sole custody of our daughter.” The phone was still in my hand when my ten-year-old daughter, Paige, rushed down the stairs. “Mom, seriously? Stop spacing out! Go make Blair’s cake.” “Don’t you know pregnant women can’t be kept waiting? Hurry up!” I froze, as if struck by lightning, and turned to face her, disbelief written all over my face. “You knew? You knew your father was having an affair?” Her lack of concern, her casual dismissal, stabbed me deep in the heart. “Well, yeah. Blair just posted it in the family thread, remember?” she said, rolling her eyes. “Since you know, I’ll be honest.” “Blair is my best friend. She’s completely genuine with Dad and me. I’ve loved her since I was six, Mom, she’s a really great person.” “And she’s giving me a little brother. I really hope you can just try to be nice to her.” 2 Every word Paige spoke was a twist of the knife. I couldn’t comprehend that this was the child I had raised with every fiber of my being for ten years. My hand trembled. My throat burned. I fought back the stinging tears. “You like her?” “Of course! She’s sweet and pretty and fun. Everyone loves her. And don’t blame Dad.” “Just try to understand one thing, Mom: Blair is joining our family. She’s not here to break it up.” She didn’t care about the devastation on my face. With a final piece of self-righteous advice, she turned and headed back to her room. I looked at her retreating back and gave a cold, faint laugh. I deleted the last text and sent a new one to Harrison: “Forget the custody. Just start the proceedings.” The crushing weight in my chest slowly began to lift. I wiped away the tears that fell, giving up on this rotten marriage with a newfound clarity. Griffin called and texted, badgering me about the cake’s progress. I ignored him. Thirty minutes later, I saw the mistress in the flesh. It was her. The girl I had helped four years ago, the one I had pulled from a disastrous situation with her stepfather and given an entry-level job at Maxwell Global. My kindness now felt like a cruel joke. I should have left her to the wolves. I shouldn’t have had pity. “Evie.” She stood before me, hand linked with Griffin’s, smiling sweetly, an image of pure, guileless innocence. Nausea rose in my throat. My hands, hidden in my sleeves, clenched into fists. Initially, I had only planned to target Griffin, believing his betrayal was the greater sin—his inability to control himself. But now, driven by a fury I didn’t recognize, I stepped forward and slapped her across the face. “Blair Hartley! You have a hell of a conscience!” Tears instantly welled in her eyes. She clutched her cheek, a picture of apologetic distress. “I’m so sorry, Evie. You’re right to hit me. I thought… I thought you’d accepted me. I wouldn’t have come if I knew you hadn’t.” She played the victim so well it was sickening. Griffin roared, pushing me back hard. “Evelyn Reid, what the hell! She’s pregnant! How could you hit her!” In fifteen years of marriage, this was the first time he had ever laid a hand on me in anger. The force was tremendous; I fell hard, a sharp, searing pain shooting through my body. More than the pain, I was stunned. This was the man who once cried with sympathy when I accidentally got a minor burn while cooking. Now, he’d shoved me to the ground for his mistress. Blair, ever the peacemaker, bent over us. “Griffin, no, stop. This is our fault. Please, I’m just thirsty for some lemonade. Go get me a glass, will you?” Griffin hesitated, his eyes still blazing with anger at me. She gave him a reassuring look. “Evie’s a kind person. She won’t do anything. Go on, please.” Griffin, who now obeyed Blair like he once obeyed me, glared at me one last time. “Don’t touch her again.” He left, glancing back over his shoulder repeatedly, his anxiety visible. Blair knelt next to me, offering a hand to help me up, her voice a low, vicious sneer that only I could hear. “Hate me all you want. Even if it wasn’t me, it would be someone else. He’s done with you.” Her triumphant eyes raked over my face. “I was actually going to let you stay as the little housekeeper, out of gratitude for the past. But you’re not playing nice, so you can’t blame me.” She smiled in pure self-satisfaction. “But I wasn’t that bad to you, was I?” “Why do you think you got that $30 ‘Participation Trophy’?” “You didn’t know, did you? I convinced him to give you that much. He told me he wouldn’t give you a cent—that a housewife like you was just the Maxwell family’s free nanny.” She stifled a giddy laugh. “Oh, and your daughter said you were just the nanny, too.” “See? He didn’t want to give you anything. I’m the one who begged him to give you the thirty dollars. How good am I to you?” 3 Her smug, wicked face was like something pulled from a sewer. I was trembling with fury, but I gave her a cold, dismissive snort. “You don’t need to provoke me. Even if I give you the title of Mrs. Maxwell, you don’t have the strength to hold it.” A person who only knows how to harvest fruit but never how to plant a tree will eventually reap what they sow. She gave a contemptuous pout. Just as the sound of Griffin’s returning footsteps grew near, she suddenly pulled a small paring knife from her pocket and plunged it into her own abdomen! I gasped, frozen in horror. Before I could move, she pressed my hand onto the handle, screaming in anguish: “Evie, I promised I’d leave Griffin and get rid of the baby! Why are you killing me!” I tried to yank my hand away, but it was too late. Griffin’s foot slammed into my side, sending me sprawling again. “Evelyn! Are you insane?!” My daughter, Paige Maxwell, rushed downstairs. She glared at me, righteous fury in her eyes. “Mom, murder is illegal! Do you want to go to jail?!” Both father and daughter were convinced I was trying to kill Blair. I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “I didn’t touch her! She did that to herself!” They refused to believe me. Griffin was apoplectic. “Don’t you dare lie now!” Blair, struggling to speak through sobs and pain, was lifted into Griffin’s arms. She clung to him, apologizing repeatedly. “I… I’m so sorry, Griffin. Our baby… it’s gone.” Griffin panicked. He yelled at the staff to call the private family doctor immediately. Then, he tried to comfort Blair. “This is my fault, Blair. Don’t worry, you’ll be fine.” He carried her into a guest room, barking orders to a bodyguard. “Watch her! Don’t let her near Blair!” Less than ten minutes later, my mother-in-law, Dorothy Maxwell, arrived, rushing in with a look of pure dread. She marched up to me and slapped me hard across the face. The woman who had been nothing but kind for decades looked like a cornered beast, ready to rip me apart. She jabbed a finger at my nose, her voice low and furious. “If anything happens to my grandson, I swear I will end you!” She didn’t know that she was also cursing the grandchild in my own belly. A lifetime of devotion to her had yielded nothing. “She stabbed herself. I didn’t—” “Mom! Why are you still lying?! I saw you try to kill Blair!” Paige ran out of the guest room, interrupting me, her eyes burning with indignation. Dorothy Maxwell poked my nose again, hard. “You wicked woman! You couldn’t give Griffin a son, so you’re jealous of Blair!” “If you had only given this family a male heir, none of this would have happened!” Paige put an arm around her grandmother. “Mom, you committed a felony. You killed an innocent life. Blair’s baby is gone.” “I can’t just stand by and watch you destroy yourself. I’m calling the police. Don’t blame me for doing the right thing.” 4 I laughed, the sound cold and devoid of humor. “My sweet daughter. My own flesh and blood.” The laughter turned to tears, which tracked paths down my cheeks. Griffin, his eyes bloodshot with rage, yanked me into Blair’s room. The doctor had just finished bandaging her. Blair was a fountain of tears, playing the martyr to perfection. “It was just an impulse, Griffin. I won’t press charges. But… it’s Paige. I don’t want people to think she has a murderer for a mother.” Dorothy, having confirmed the baby was gone, rushed in again, hitting and screaming at me. Then she turned to Griffin, laying down the law. “If you don’t divorce this monster, Evelyn, you’re no son of mine!” She was so agitated the doctor had to sedate her and escort her out. Griffin, his eyes wild, grabbed my throat. “Look how forgiving Blair is being! How can you be so utterly evil?!” I couldn’t speak. My vision began to narrow. The feeling of suffocation intensified. Blair, ever the concerned voice, said: “Evie’s state is a little frightening, Griffin. She looks like my relative who had a full-on breakdown. Maybe before the divorce, you should send her for treatment?” A flicker of cold, calculated cruelty crossed Blair’s eyes, missed entirely by Griffin. At that moment, Blair’s word was his law. He really did send me to a psychiatric hospital. My days were a cycle of electric shock therapy. The piercing, sharp pain made me scream every time. It was during one of these sessions that I lost the baby I was carrying. My son. Griffin came to visit once. He stood outside the iron bars, his face cold. “Don’t think you can do whatever you want just because I loved you. You killed my own flesh and blood and almost killed Blair. You need to stay here and repent.” “This is your last chance. If you ever harm Blair again, I’ll be the one to send you to a real prison.” The mention of the baby made his eyes well up with pain. I stood in my patient’s gown, watching him, my heart utterly calm. Seeing my silence, he grew impatient. “Why aren’t you speaking? What are you thinking, Evelyn Reid?” A new, profound depth entered my eyes. I spoke softly. “I was just thinking about what happens when a person loses absolutely everything.” “Then you’ll stay right here and behave. As long as you’re compliant, the title of Mrs. Maxwell is still yours.” I smiled, an empty, private gesture. He didn’t realize that the “person” I was talking about losing everything was him. A wild, insane plan was blooming in my mind. He simply saw it as me finally submitting. That night, Blair called me on a blocked number. Her voice was thin and soft, deliberately trembling. “Husband, I’m so afraid Evie will get out and try to stab me again.” I heard Griffin kiss her over the phone. “Don’t worry, baby. She comes out when you say she comes out.” Blair pressed him. “Can she just stay in there forever? I’m afraid our happiness will end if she leaves.” “Yes. Whatever you say.” Griffin agreed without a second of hesitation. My expression didn’t change. I just gave a low, quiet chuckle. They didn’t know that Harrison had already filed the necessary paperwork. I could leave anytime. At 1:00 AM, I stood beneath the $10 billion headquarters of Maxwell Global and lit the match. I watched the skyscraper—the edifice Griffin and I had built brick by brick—erupt in a blazing inferno. Griffin woke up at 7:00 AM to a barrage of frantic calls. “Mr. Maxwell! Your wife… she burned the headquarters down. All the proprietary data, all the financial archives… they’re gone.” Griffin froze, his blood turning to ice. After a two-second lapse of shock, he sped to the scene. Staring at the charred, smoky ruin of his commercial empire, he could barely breathe. His eyes were bloodshot, but his voice was eerily calm as he asked his associate: “My wife. Where is she?” The associate, who expected him to vow to kill me, looked like he’d seen a ghost. “She ran, sir. She—” “Is she hurt?” Griffin interrupted, his voice tight. Stunned that Griffin was worried about my safety, the associate handed him a small video camera. “She left this, sir. She said it was a ‘gift’ for you.” The word “gift” was delivered with extreme caution. Griffin, pale and heavy with dread, took the camera. He watched the screen, and his world collapsed.

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My mental break started the day Delaney Shaw cheated again—this time, with her assistant. The world had gone blurry, and suddenly, the fruit knife on the kitchen counter looked like the only path to quiet. “Why are you hurting yourself? Doesn’t she love you anymore?” I looked up. Sixteen-year-old Delaney, the girl who was my anchor, was walking toward me, her eyes wide with a familiar, aching concern. “Tell me who she is,” she whispered, her voice fierce. “I’ll take care of her.” I stared into the clear, bright sincerity of her teenage eyes. I couldn’t speak. Silently, I pointed toward her face. Later, it was the older Delaney who checked me into the psychiatric facility. In a brief, lucid space between the heavy doses of stabilizers, the Girl sat beside my bed. She watched the woman outside the window—the woman with her face—and the light in her eyes died, inch by agonizing inch. Then she spoke, her voice strained but lethal: “I don’t care who she is. I’m going to kill her.” Sixteen-year-old Delaney never lied to me. I knew she meant every word. … When Delaney pushed the door open, a faint scent of men’s cologne and cigarette smoke drifted in with her. Her gaze snagged on the fresh gauze wrapped around my wrist, and her expression tightened, a quick flicker of irritation. “Callum Grant, I was gone for ten minutes. Can you not cause trouble for me?” She reached out, yanking the gauze with a motion that was pure, impatient annoyance. I flinched back instinctively, covering my chest with my arms. “Someone already bandaged it for me,” I mumbled, low. Her hand froze mid-air. The look she gave me settled into a deep, weary exhaustion. In the beginning, when I first started talking about someone protecting me, Delaney used to think it was just my condition worsening. She’d hold me tight, her eyes red. Now, my pain was simply a heavy, unwelcome burden. “There’s no one here, Callum. How much longer are you going to keep this lie up?” She didn’t wait for an answer. She grabbed my wrist violently. Her fingers didn’t soften at my tremor; they tightened, almost as if punishing me. She ripped the gauze away, tearing the blood-caked scabs clean off. Sweat beaded on my forehead from the pain, but I held my hand steady, displaying the wound. I forced the words out in a shaky whisper: “I haven’t lied to you since I was fifteen, Lan. You know that.” She met my eyes—eyes I knew were filled with a broken, shattered light. Something in her own gaze shifted, a fleeting moment of self-doubt. She turned to leave. “Did you?” I called after her retreating back, a familiar sting in my nose. “Did you lie to me?” Delaney’s back stiffened in the doorway. She wouldn’t turn around. She offered no reply. Sixteen-year-old Delaney was terrible at lying. Thirty-year-old Delaney knew that silence was her deadliest answer. A few seconds later, she barked into the hall. “Ms. Jenkins, take every sharp object in this room and dispose of it. If I see Mr. Grant with anything like this again, you’re out of a job.” Ms. Jenkins, the housekeeper, walked in with a mop. As she gathered the blades, she muttered under her breath, “When will the poor man get better? The mistress is going through so much.” Going through so much? I looked at the weeping, angry red lines on my wrist. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Delaney, I thought, you don’t love me anymore. Why won’t you just let me go? Why drag this out? Before the thought finished, Brooks Jennings, the assistant, walked into the living room without removing his shoes. He moved like the man of the house, raising a hand naturally to straighten Delaney’s collar, which I’d tugged. Even with blood pooled on the carpet, his expression remained perfectly gentle and concerned. “Mr. Grant, if you have a moment of clarity, you need to let Delaney off the hook. She’s suffering. The rest of us can see it.” He spoke, then took a step closer, a false concern on his face. The faint tobacco scent that clung to Delaney earlier grew heavy, making my stomach churn. I bent over, dry-heaving. In my blurred, desperate state, I lunged, trying to grab Delaney’s pant leg. But the instant my fingertips brushed the fabric, Brooks gave an exaggerated gasp and stumbled, clutching his stomach. Seeing me move, Delaney instinctively shoved me hard. I fell backward onto the floor, the fresh wound on my wrist dragging across the coarse carpet. Another blossom of scarlet bled onto the fibers. “Is it your ulcer acting up? I’m taking you to the ER.” They left, Brooks leaning heavily into her. Just before the door closed, Delaney glanced back at me. Backlit, I couldn’t make out her features, but I understood her look. It was a release, the kind of relief you feel when a suffocating weight is finally lifted. Our love was finished. Her new love was just beginning. Perhaps Ms. Jenkins was right. Maybe being with me really had been too much for Delaney. As the thought formed, the Girl in the school uniform appeared before me again. She looked at me, and tears streamed down her face. She reached out to touch me, her fingers shaking in the empty air. “Callum Grant, you are the best man I’ve ever known. Leave her.” I raised my hand, gently covering the Girl’s eyes. My palm met a ghost of cold emptiness. “I’ll go with you.” As the crushing, familiar feeling of suffocation hit, I felt myself truly fall into a spectral embrace. Only there, with sixteen-year-old Delaney, was I safe. Only there, was I still loved. Being loved by Delaney was my proudest superpower in high school. When I was fifteen, the Grant family lost everything. My parents died. The rich kids who used to kiss up to me cornered me outside the school gates, laughing as they ripped my uniform apart. It was sixteen-year-old Delaney who arrived with a phalanx of security, her face cold with rage, pushing through the crowd. The sunset that day was red as blood. She pointed at the bullies, pinned to the ground by her guards, and screamed across the pavement: “Get over here!” “Callum Grant! Don’t be afraid! Get behind me!” When I finally stumbled to her side, her usually arrogant face was etched with a profound tenderness. Her gaze, when it landed on me, was a burning, almost painful heat. “Callum, don’t be afraid. You still have me.” She gently brushed a tear from the corner of my eye. The warmth of her touch lingered, so hot I wanted to cry again. “Callum Grant, I, Delaney Shaw, will never lie to you. I will be loyal to you forever.” The girl’s vow was absolute, making my heart tremble. But I didn’t know then that a promise is only truly genuine the moment it is spoken. The year after our wedding, that love was slowly devoured by the bottomless pit of my family’s inherited debts. She spent almost her entire inheritance. The heat in her eyes vanished, replaced by a bottomless, sunken exhaustion. My mind, after a long drift through memory, became starkly clear. It was our fifth wedding anniversary. I put on the white suit she loved, and I waited from sunset until well past midnight. There were no flowers, no embrace. Only the sterile chill of the room, punctuated by the noisy live stream of the Shaw Group’s annual gala on my phone screen. In the vast crowd, I found her instantly. She was smiling, soft and beautiful. Brooks was carefully fastening a necklace around her throat. The camera zoomed in. It was a pendant, a star and moon design. A crescent of silver cradled by tiny, inlaid diamonds. My breath stopped. It was the exact design I had sketched in my notebook when I was fifteen. The day Delaney confessed her love to me, she pointed at that sketch, her voice trembling. “Callum, when I’m rich, I’m going to have this made.” “The stars never lie to the moon.” “Just like I will never break my word to you.” Now, she had made it. And she was letting another man put it around her neck. On the screen, Delaney touched the pendant at her collarbone, a shy smile gracing her lips. “Thank you, Brooks. This is the most thoughtful gift I have ever received.” She didn’t say more. But the look she gave Brooks was so doting, so utterly charmed. It was the same look I had only ever seen on her sixteen-year-old face. After that time, I never saw her smile like that again. It seemed even stars could fall. Even the moon could be abandoned. Before the suffocating realization could truly sink in, the live stream moved to the charity auction. The host’s voice boomed: “Next on the block: the ownership of the Grant Family Legacy Fund.” Watching the numbers jump on the screen, I panicked. My fingers were shaking so hard I could barely dial her number. The moment she picked up, my voice was a broken plea, a humiliation: “Delaney, I accept that you don’t love me anymore. I’ll sign the papers, I’ll go.” “Please, just help me one last time. That fund is the last thing my parents left me. I just want to—” A brief silence followed, then her cold voice: “Callum, haven’t I done enough for you?” I tried to beg, but the line clicked dead. On the live feed, the auctioneer’s gavel struck the wood with brutal finality. “Congratulations to Brooks Angel Investments! Sold for thirty million!” The camera cut to Delaney in the audience. She raised her champagne flute calmly, a toast in Brooks’s direction. The lights caught her profile—elegant, indifferent. She sold the last remembrance of my parents just to earn a smile from Brooks. I didn’t scream. I couldn’t even cry. A pressure was building in my chest, a tight, crushing knot that made me cough sharply. A rush of metallic sweetness flooded my throat. I collapsed onto the floor, staring blankly at the dark stain blooming on the carpet. Delaney, you are ruthless. As my consciousness faded into despair, the soft voice of the Girl returned. She sounded more panicked than I was. “Callum! Run! Don’t look back!” “Leave her! I can’t watch her hurt you anymore!” The long night brought no sleep. Sometime before dawn, Delaney stood by my bed, her expression complicated as she stared at the nightstand. Despite her order to destroy all the blades, there sat a perfectly peeled apple. The peel was one unbroken curl. That kind of careful patience belonged only to the sixteen-year-old Girl. I sat up abruptly, thinking the Girl had visited me in my sleep. I lunged, wrapping my arms around the figure from behind, burying my face in her neck. “You left after peeling the apple. I thought you weren’t going to stay with me today.” Delaney’s body went rigid. My sudden embrace seemed to have thrown her completely off balance. After a long silence, she did something truly unsettling: she tentatively patted my back. The motion was stiff, almost investigative. “Callum, are you having nightmares again?” Hearing Delaney’s voice, I shrieked and shoved her away, scrambling back until my back hit the headboard. “Get away! You aren’t her!” A shadow loomed. Delaney knelt beside the bed. She stared at my terrified eyes, her thumb tracing my cheek, her voice uncharacteristically soft. “It’s just me. There’s no one else here.” “I know you’re upset about the gala. But I swear, as soon as I deliver Brooks’s baby and give him a payout, I’ll come home and stay with you. I’ll make things right.” “Will you come with me to the board dinner tomorrow? Please?” The grip on my wrist loosened, waiting for my consent. I looked up, tears blurring my vision. My voice was a raw plea. “Delaney, let’s get a divorce.” The sudden warmth in her eyes died instantly. I felt her rage, but it morphed instantly into something almost pathologically possessive. As if fearing a loss, she pulled me into a hard embrace. I forgot to fight. Then, a single, hot tear landed on the back of my hand. In the haze, I could almost see the younger Delaney crying for me, whispering desperate words to stop me from leaving. Trembling, I reached up and wiped the tear from the woman’s cheek. My touch was tender, as if soothing a fragile dream. “Okay… I won’t go. I’ll go with you.” “Delaney, stop crying.” The next day, Delaney took me to the high-society dinner. The moment she turned to network, Brooks approached, a glass of champagne in hand. He leaned in, his smile a cruel taunt. “Mr. Grant, I really envy you. You can lose your mind and still get kept by her.” “Oh, and by the way, I never wanted that pathetic little fund. Dead people’s things are bad luck. Delaney found it annoying—a painful relic. She just tossed it my way to deal with.” I focused intently on his thin, moving lips. The taut string of sanity I’d been clinging to finally snapped. “You’re despicable, Brooks.” I couldn’t stand the blatant mockery. I pushed him. It wasn’t a hard shove, but Brooks let out an exaggerated yelp, stumbling backward. The massive champagne tower behind him crashed to the floor. The sound of shattering glass was a deafening explosion, silencing the entire ballroom. “Callum Grant! Have you lost your mind?” Before I could even process what happened, a storm of anger hit me. A vicious slap cracked across my face. The noise of the impact was sharp and final. Total silence descended. The blow was brutal. A rush of blood filled my mouth. A drop of red trickled from the corner of my lip. I landed in the scattered shards, my palms cut and bleeding. But I registered no physical pain. Because Delaney was carefully helping the whimpering Brooks to his feet, her gaze never once falling on me. In front of everyone, the Girl in the school uniform stumbled toward me again. She fell to her knees, desperately trying to pull me up. But her hands passed through my body, again and again. Her voice was a ragged, sobbing scream, lost in the rising murmur of the crowd: “Stop it! Delaney, you bastard, stop hitting him!” “Run! Callum, run!” “The Delaney you knew doesn’t love you anymore! You’re going to die!” I obeyed the Girl. Without thinking, I scrambled to my feet. Ignoring the gasps of the guests, I bolted from the ballroom, running like a frantic animal. I had nowhere to go, but I kept running. Suddenly, a stiff card was pressed into my hand. In the dim light of a streetlamp, I saw it: a one-way ticket to a southern city. The flight time was in two hours. Clutching the ticket—my only lifeline—I raced toward the gate, reaching it just as boarding began. Then, a strong hand clamped down on my shoulder. “Callum Grant!” Delaney had caught up. Brooks was panting next to her. I held up the ticket, which had appeared from nowhere. My voice was a desperate, wet plea. “Delaney, let me go… please.” “If I stay, I’ll die.” Delaney’s eyes widened at the impossible ticket. A flicker of doubt and surprise crossed her face. Perhaps the ticket was too real, or perhaps my desire to leave was too absolute. Her grip on my shoulder actually loosened by an inch. In that instant, she almost turned back into the Girl who cared. “Fine. If you want to leave so badly…” Sensing her regret, Brooks grabbed Delaney’s arm in a panic, his eyes darting to her stomach. “Mr. Grant is hallucinating, Lan. He’s completely unhinged.” “If you let him run off and he circles back, what if he hurts the baby?” At Brooks’s words, the momentary softening in Delaney’s eyes vanished. She looked away from me, snatching the ticket from my hand and tearing it to shreds right in front of my face. The paper confetti drifted down like snow. She didn’t offer an explanation. Her voice dropped, colder than the wind. “You won’t die. Not while I’m here.” … The steel door of the Residential Treatment Center slammed shut, followed by the heavy clank of the deadbolt. I looked straight into her eyes, repeating my grim forecast. “Delaney, I will die here.” She stood outside the visitation window. She didn’t spare me a second glance, offering only a cold promise: “When I give birth to the baby, I’ll come get you.” Her footsteps echoed down the empty corridor, utterly ruthless. I stopped crying and beating on the door. I knew the Girl’s prediction was true. I was going to die here. The sound-activated light in the hallway flickered violently, an electrical hiss filling the air. Before Delaney had gone too far, a deafening crash erupted behind her. The heavy, reinforced steel door to my room was violently kicked inward, torn from its hinges by sheer brute force. The spectral form of the Girl, still in her school uniform, appeared, helping me to my feet. She stepped out, one slow step after another. Delaney spun around. In that single glance, she saw the most terrifying sight of her life…

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The Stone family fortune had finally imploded. I wore the soaked, silk dress as armor and bait, going to tempt Kellan Blackwood. I smiled like a fox, my foot hooking the cuff of his bespoke trousers. “Mr. Blackwood, do you need anything… tuned up?” He pushed his glasses up, but didn’t touch me. He simply pushed open a discreet door, pointing to a wall of tightly clustered photographs. “Vesper. My sweet, wild thing. You finally walked into the cage.” … The rain fell with a grim, finality, sounding like a death knell for the Stone legacy. I stood in the hushed reception room, completely drenched, the expensive silk clinging to my skin. I glanced at my reflection in the glass: battered, yes, but the figure underneath was still lethal. I knew I tasted better than the impeccably covered, perfectly respectable women who orbited Kellan Blackwood. Just three hours earlier, my family’s empire had collapsed. The only life raft I had was a crumpled business card bearing the name: Kellan Blackwood. The heir to the Blackwood dynasty—the man who fingered his Tibetan prayer beads and smiled while he devoured his enemies whole. The door clicked open with a soft, ominous ding. The lights were off in the high-end horology atelier, save for a single desk lamp. Kellan sat in the pool of light, his bespoke shirt buttoned tight against a throat you wanted to claw open. He wore glasses and held a pair of tweezers, repairing a watch. The look was so severely ascetic, so intensely forbidden, it made me want to tear his composure to shreds. He didn’t spare me a glance: “We’re closed.” I flipped the deadbolt. Click-clack. The sound, in the suffocating silence of the rainy night, felt like a private invitation. I walked toward him, deliberately allowing a trail of water from my skirt to drip onto his antique marble desk. “Mr. Blackwood.” I placed my slender, pale wrist right in his line of sight. “The watch is fine. But I’m broken. Can you fix me, Mr. Blackwood?” Kellan stopped. He slowly removed the jeweler’s loupe. His eyes, dark and frighteningly empty of any recognizable human emotion, fixed on me. He looked at me the way an engineer looks at a pile of salvaged scrap metal. His gaze traveled down my body, stopping at my wet ankles. The cold air conditioning was too much. I shivered, goosebumps rising. “Cold?” My eyes instantly welled up. I bit my lip. “Freezing.” I climbed onto the desk. Crash! The priceless gears and microscopic springs he’d been working on were swept into the trash bin by my thighs. I met his gaze, my damp foot hooking the fine fabric of his trousers, inching upward, leaving a slick, accusing watermark. “Kellan Blackwood, turn the AC off. I’m cold.” He didn’t move. He simply watched my rebellious foot, and I swore his dark eyes tightened slightly. The next second, he tossed the tweezers and his tailored suit jacket came flying, enveloping me completely. The scent of cedar and fine leather, underscored by the metallic tang of watch oil—pure, intoxicating masculine power. He called me by my full name, his voice guttural and low: “Vesper Stone.” “The Stones are dust. And you still have the audacity to be this feral?” I poked my head out of the jacket, my finger tracing slow, lazy circles on his palm. I smiled like the predator I was pretending to be. “If I don’t act feral, how will I scare off the queue of women desperate to crawl into your bed? You have high standards, Mr. Blackwood. The obedient ones bore you.” Kellan smiled—a chilling curve of the lips. His rough thumb rubbed against my lower lip, pressing hard, as if trying to scrub away the veneer of my composure. He leaned in close. “Fine.” “Since you’ve delivered yourself to the slaughterhouse, don’t expect to walk out clean.” Kellan kept me, but he didn’t touch me. He threw me into a guest room, treating me like a prized but disposable possession—fed, clothed, and utterly ignored. He never crossed the threshold of my door. I knew his game: he was trying to starve the hawk. He expected me to cave under the loneliness and crawl into his bed, begging for attention. Dream on. The Stone legacy was broken, but Vesper Stone’s spine was still intact. A week later, I was at the City Ballet, the principal dancer, the one and only Swan Queen. But there was always a common wren trying to steal the spotlight. Charlotte Holloway, Kellan’s supposed “Golden Girl”—the Legacy Circle’s ideal wife, the woman who perfected the art of demure performance—walked into the rehearsal hall. She was his patron saint, and inherently, my antithesis. She had come on Kellan’s behalf. She wore a pristine white Chanel suit, carrying a cup of designer coffee as she approached me, her face a mask of strained sympathy. “Vesper, I heard about your father. My deepest condolences.” I ignored her, continuing my stretches. “Are the security guards dead? What riff-raff are they letting in here?” Charlotte’s smile faltered, then snapped back into place. “I was just dropping off some documents for Kellan, and thought I’d check in.” She held out the coffee. “It’s a fresh brew, Vesper. You look exhausted.” I eyed the cup. “Is that… a drive-thru refill? Charlotte, the Stones may be broke, but my palate hasn’t filed for bankruptcy yet.” Charlotte’s hand froze mid-air, mortification written all over her face. “It’s artisanal, single-origin…” I waved my hand dismissively. “I don’t care if it was hand-ground by a monk in Tibet. I won’t drink it.” “And tell me, Charlotte, did you bathe in that? It smells like desperation mixed with duty. It’s cloying, Char. It’s loud.” The air solidified. Charlotte’s eyes instantly glassed over, and she bit her lip, looking utterly persecuted. “Vesper, I know you’re hurting. I don’t blame you for lashing out…” Just then, the sound of measured footsteps arrived at the doorway. Kellan Blackwood, surrounded by his executive entourage, had arrived. Charlotte looked saved. She rushed toward him. “Kellan.” Her voice was soft, laced with a wounded tremor. “I was only trying to be kind, offering Vesper coffee, but she…” Tears pooled in her eyes before she could finish the sentence. She looked so carefully victimized, as if I hadn’t just insulted her taste in caffeine and fragrance, but had physically struck her. The entire room went silent. Everyone was waiting for the show: Kellan punishing the reckless troublemaker (me) for his perfectly compliant childhood sweetheart (her). Kellan glanced at the coffee cup, his brow furrowing slightly. Charlotte thought he was about to erupt and rushed to cover for me, feigning generosity. “Kellan, don’t be hard on Vesper. She’s just…” “Who let you in?” Charlotte froze. Kellan took a slight step back, his expression pure disgust. “This room lacks proper ventilation. And the… scent… is indeed overwhelming.” Charlotte’s face went chalk white. Kellan walked past her without a glance and stopped in front of me. I was sitting on the floor and looked up at him, defiant. “Kellan, your toxic runoff is loud. Can you throw it out?” He looked down at me, then unexpectedly bent, lifting his hand to gently wipe the sweat from my forehead—a gesture so tender it seemed impossible. “Was it disturbing you?” I leaned into his leg, complaining softly. “Yes. My head hurts, my feet hurt. Everything hurts.” He scooped me up in one swift motion, carrying me bridal style. “Then practice is over.” “Clear the room.” As he passed Charlotte, he delivered a chilling epitaph: “From now on, no unauthorized personnel are allowed in here.” “Especially those bringing a strong odor.” Charlotte stood rooted to the spot. Her coffee cup slipped from her fingers, shattering on the ground, staining her white suit. She stood there, a ruined monument to propriety. I nestled into Kellan’s chest and gave her a slow, wicked smile. Charlotte, you lost. Being good and compliant gets you nowhere. Only the favored get to be tempestuous. Once in the car, Kellan didn’t take me back to the villa. He drove to his private archive, his forbidden sanctuary—the place that held his most valuable treasures and his deepest madness. I watched his profile. “Kellan.” “I want a tattoo.” His hand, which was flipping through a file, paused. “Of what?” I climbed onto his lap, my fingers tracing the hard line of his throat. “Your name.” “Tattooed… somewhere only you are allowed to see.” Kellan tossed the file, removing his glasses. His eyes were dark and deep as an abyss. “A name is too simple.” He gripped the back of my neck like a handler holding a cat’s scruff. “We’ll ink a sigil.” “A sigil for what?” “An anchor for a wild thing. A charm to bind a demon.” I laughed, a tremor running through me. “I’m a demon?” He lowered his head and bit my collarbone, a hard, possessive nip. “Yes.” “The ruinous little demon sent to destroy my perfect composure.” In the archive, there was no machine. Only a row of silver needles and a dish of vermillion ink—stark red, like freshly spilled blood. I was pressed onto the marble table, my skirt pushed high, revealing long stretches of cold, pale skin. The placement was cruelly intimate, starting at my hip bone and spiraling down, disappearing into the deepest part of my thigh. He used no anesthetic. The first needle pierced my skin, and I gasped, a cold sweat breaking out. “It hurts…” I tried to pull away, but his hand clamped down on my hip, unyielding as iron. His voice was a raw, frightening whisper. “Bear it.” The tip of the needle punctured the dermis, the red ink bleeding into the raw tissue. Each microscopic prick was a fresh incision, a deliberate act of flaying. Kellan was methodical, his expression as intent as a sculptor carving a holy icon. But what he was etching onto me was a madness. It was too much pain. I sank my teeth into his shoulder, refusing to let go, the metallic taste of blood spreading in my mouth. Kellan didn’t flinch. His needle plunged deeper. He leaned close to my ear, his voice a low, seductive evil. “Vesper Stone.” “Wear my mark. This skin, this soul, is Blackwood property. This life, even in death, you are my ghost.” In my delirium of pain, I thought it was a vow of love. Later, I would discover the truth. That Sanskrit sigil wasn’t a ward against a demon. It was “Oblation.” I was the sacrifice. He was the consuming god. The tattooing took three agonizing hours. When it was over, I felt like I’d been dredged up from the deepest water. The side of my body was swollen and throbbing, the scarlet scripture wrapped around my hip like a shackle, a curse. Kellan brought a mirror. “Beautiful?” I looked at my reflection: pallid skin, the demonic flash of red scripture—an unearthly, breathtaking image. I managed a weak smile. “Exquisite.” “Anything you leave on me, Mr. Blackwood, is.” Kellan kissed the raw wound, sending a violent shudder through me. He looked into my eyes. “Remember this pain.” “Dare to run, and I will have this piece of your skin framed.” Before the wound had fully healed, Kellan took me to a high-society charity gala, and I was his sole companion. The East Coast elite went into a frenzy. Kellan Blackwood, the untouchable titan, had finally been claimed. I deliberately chose a black silk gown with a dangerously high slit. With every step, a flash of that scarlet sigil on my thigh was revealed. It was a seductive promise, a brazen display. I wanted everyone in this city to know: Kellan Blackwood was mine. At the gala, several men approached me. When I was the Stone heiress, they kept a respectful distance. Now that the name was worthless, their eyes changed, treating me like a high-end call girl up for auction. A ghoul of a hedge-fund manager, Mr. Van der Veer, sidled up, his oily gaze drilling into my exposed thigh. He smiled a greasy smile, his hand reaching for my hip. “Miss Stone, short on cash?” “Stick with me, and you’ll forget what a budget is.” My stomach churned, but I returned his smile with pure, poisonous charm. “Mr. Van der Veer is offering to keep me?” I didn’t move, letting his hand get closer. Kellan sat across the table, a thin smile on his lips, his eyes regarding the man with the chilling detachment of a serial killer. Just as the dirty hand was about to make contact with my skin. Smash! A wine glass exploded on the marble floor right next to Van der Veer’s shoes. Red wine splashed everywhere. The room froze. Kellan slowly wiped his fingers on a linen napkin, not even looking up. “My apologies. My hand slipped.” Van der Veer’s face was bloodless. “M-Mr. Blackwood…” Kellan ignored him, simply crooking a finger at me. “Come here.” I walked over, sinking down obediently next to him. Under the tablecloth, Kellan’s hand found me, pressing directly onto the freshly scabbed scar tissue of my tattoo. The pain was a white-hot spear. “Ngh!” I couldn’t suppress the sound, my face instantly draining of color, cold sweat beading on my forehead. Charlotte, who was at our table, leaned forward with false concern. “Vesper, are you alright?” “I… I’m fine.” I gripped the tablecloth, biting back a scream. Kellan’s fingers twisted, tracing the painful swelling with malicious intent. It was agonizing, yet strangely thrilling. My legs were too weak to hold me, and I collapsed against him, outwardly looking like I was leaning in for a kiss. To outsiders, it was a display of passionate public foreplay. In reality, it was a subtle, brutal interrogation. He spoke close to my ear, his voice impossibly gentle. “Having a stimulating conversation, were we?” “N-no…” Tears finally welled up. “Kellan… let go… please…” His fingertip dug into my flesh. “This is exactly what you deserve for trying to leave my orbit.” “You are wearing my sigil. You are my haunting. Don’t let the feral dogs outside catch your scent.” “Next time, I will find a heavier, permanent chain for your throat.” I looked at his profile, a chill running down my spine. He meant it. This absolute madman was capable of anything. The final piece of the gala’s auction was a rare Patek Philippe antique, a piece Kellan had been searching for three years. Charlotte raised her paddle. “Thirty million dollars.” She bid an astronomical sum, then turned to Kellan, smiling the perfect, dutiful wife smile. “Kellan, I know how much you adore this one. I want to buy it for you.” The crowd murmured their approval of Charlotte’s generosity and deep devotion. Kellan said nothing. Charlotte took his silence as agreement, her smile widening. She even glanced at me, her eyes screaming: See? I can support his business. What can you offer? Only your body? The sight of her poised, triumphant face made me sick. Trying to show off her wealth? Comparing her devotion to mine? Fine. The gavel dropped. Sold. Charlotte walked toward Kellan, holding the watch like a sacred artifact. “Kellan, a little gift.” As Kellan reached for it, I stood up, snatching the watch from her hand. I weighed the antique in my palm, my smile wide and utterly innocent. “Oh, it’s truly gorgeous.” Charlotte gasped. “Vesper Stone, what are you doing? That’s Kellan’s!” I played with the priceless piece, my smile turning cruel. “His?” “But I don’t like it.” And then, I let go. Shatter! Thirty million dollars reduced to a pile of expensive dust. The silence was deafening. Charlotte shrieked. “Vesper Stone! That was a three-year search! Do you have any idea what you’ve done? You chaotic, spoiled brat! What right do you have to be here?” I ignored the yapping dog, keeping my eyes locked on Kellan. I was gambling—betting whether I was his favorite possession or merely a disposable annoyance. Kellan looked down at the fragments on the floor. He slowly stood up, not even sparing Charlotte a glance. He grabbed my hand, his brow deeply furrowed, his voice tight with alarm. “Did you cut yourself?” I was stunned. He cared about my hand, not the thirty million dollars? “The mechanism is delicate. You could be sliced.” He gently inspected my fingers, sighing in relief when he found no injury. He massaged my fingertips. “Next time you want to hear glass break, tell me. I’ll hire someone to smash it for you.” “Don’t use your own hands. If you are hurt, I will be upset.” Charlotte stood there, pale and rigid. “Kellan… you…” Kellan looked at her as if she were a smudge on the wall. “Also,” he said. “I don’t accept donations. Especially not trash offered by women I have no use for.” I had won. But the victory tasted like ash. The way Kellan looked at me wasn’t like a lover. It was like a collector looking at a fragile, priceless artifact. This kind of affection felt like asphyxiation.

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On our wedding night, Weston Raymond suddenly confessed to his infidelity and presented me with two choices. Either I could look the other way for the duration of the marriage, and he would compensate me handsomely, or we could divorce immediately. After seven years together, I assumed he was joking. It wasn’t a joke. Post-nuptials, he quickly established what I came to call a “transactional marriage.” When the betrayals mounted, he used money to buy out my hysterics, my furious screams, my collapse. When I was grieving a miscarriage, he used money to buy out the life of the child we lost. Even when my mother was hospitalized with a serious illness—and his latest mistress, Kira, texted her intimate photos of them in bed, triggering a heart attack that rushed her into surgery—he maintained a chilling indifference. “Ten million dollars,” he said, his voice flat. “To buy out your mother’s broken heart.” “If that’s not enough, I’ll raise the price.” I didn’t answer. I stood guard outside the operating room for a day and a night. The moment the doctor announced my mother’s death, I dialed Weston’s number. “I want a billion dollars.” This time, what he was buying out was no longer something trivial. It was the last ember of love I had for him. 1 The phone line went silent for a moment, then I heard a faint, unmistakable sound of a woman’s breathlessness in the background. A moment later, Weston’s footsteps moved to a quieter place. His voice, when it came, was a razor-sharp sneer. “A hundred million? Talia Quinn, have I been too generous these past three years? Did that make you think you had the leverage for an absurd demand?” “Your mother just got a little rattled by a photo. Even if she were actually dead, she wouldn’t be worth a dime more than ten million, do you understand?” Was she not worth it? I thought even ten billion couldn’t buy back my mother’s life. And now, she really was gone. Weston didn’t give me a chance to speak, hanging up the phone with a decisive click. The screeching static pierced my eardrum and lodged itself in my heart. I turned and walked into the morgue, looking at the stillness beneath the white sheet covering my mother. A wave of bone-deep cold washed over me. I bent down and hugged her icy body. Instead of my mother’s gentle, fragmented words of concern, all I could hear was the doctor’s regretful sigh. “If not for the massive shock that led to the sudden heart failure, the patient would have been ready for surgery soon. Her recovery looked promising.” “It’s a great pity. It was just so sudden…” Sudden, indeed. Just three days ago, I was nestled in my mother’s arms, crying and promising her that as soon as she was discharged, I would divorce Weston and cut him out of my life for good. I never imagined that death would arrive faster than fRaymondom. When my mother was rushed to the operating room, Weston had shielded Kira behind him. “Kira didn’t do it on purpose. Your mother’s health was already failing; she couldn’t handle the shock.” “Talia Quinn, you’re just making a scene for money, aren’t you?” “Ten million dollars. Is that enough, or not?” The ruthless sound of his voice hammered in my skull, tearing my heart into two ragged pieces. I trembled, clutching my mother’s cold corpse, and the tears I had suppressed for so long finally broke, one after another, splashing onto her closed eyelids, forming a shallow pool of pure despair. “Mom… I was wrong… please wake up…” “I don’t love Weston anymore… I’ll divorce him… We’ll go home, just us, we’ll go home…” When the sobs finally turned to dry retching, I knelt on the floor, convulsing in pain. Fearing I would collapse completely, a nurse gave me a sedative. When I woke up, my heart felt like ash. I picked up my phone and called Weston again. He answered immediately, his voice heavy with the certainty of victory. “Figured out the right price, have you?” “Yes,” I said softly. “Ten million dollars.” Ten million. It was enough to buy out the heart that had pulsed for Weston for the last decade. It was enough. 2 Having received the answer he wanted, Weston was satisfied. His voice lifted with a self-congratulatory cadence. “That’s my girl. That’s the sort of class and composure a Raymond wife should have.” “As long as you keep being this compliant, I’ll make sure to come home on time every day.” The Weston of eighteen would have been mortified to hear those words. He was the boy who chased the school bus on his bike, begging me to be his. He was the man who knelt on the sidewalk, offering me a ring bought with his first startup funds, asking me to marry him. At eighteen, he’d pedaled me around the entire lake, shouting his promises into the wind. “I, Weston Raymond, swear by everything, I will love Talia Quinn for the rest of my life.” The night wind must have been too harsh, scattering those earnest, youthful vows. Now, only the wreckage remained. I wouldn’t fight him anymore. I didn’t want him anymore. After the cremation, I held my mother’s ashes, letting a final, single tear fall. “Mom, we’re going home, and we’re never looking back.” Back at the house, I carried the urn upstairs to pack my things. Kira slinked out of the master suite, wearing my silk nightgown, leaning suggestively against the doorframe. In the past, I would have exploded. Now, my mother was dead, and so was my heart. There was only numbness and silence left. Seeing my lack of reaction, Kira intentionally pulled down the neckline, revealing a constellation of aggressive hickeys on her throat, trying to provoke me. “Wes said this marital bed was custom-ordered, and when I mentioned it last night, he actually let me try it out.” “It’s very comfortable, so big and soft.” It was true, Weston had customized it. But ever since he confessed his infidelity on our wedding night, and I stubbornly decided to fight him, that bed had been home only to hysterical screams and endless tears. My face remained expressionless. I spoke with a deathly chill. “Get out.” Kira’s smug expression froze, then she recovered, letting out a dismissive scoff. “I don’t know what you have to be so proud of. Wes obviously doesn’t love you. You cling to him and refuse to divorce; you’re an embarrassment to women everywhere!” “If I were you, I’d just jump off a bridge and die. At least you’d leave a little impression on Wes’s heart.” She paused, the smirk turning cruel. “And your mom? A daughter so self-pitying and pathetic—she deserved to be six feet under.” My head snapped up, a flash of red-hot fury replacing the numbness in my eyes. “Say that again.” Kira snorted. “I said it! Your mom deserved to die—” Before she could finish, I slapped her across the face. My palm was shaking, burning. Kira grabbed her cheek, registered the pain, and then lunged, wrenching my hair and slamming my head against the wall with a sickening thud. The world spun violently. I clung to the urn, refusing to let go. Seeing this, Kira realized what I was protecting and began frantically trying to wrest the box from my grasp, her nails digging into my arm. Just then, Weston emerged from the bathroom, frowning. He yanked Kira and me apart. Kira immediately shed her aggression, pointing at the slap mark on her face and dissolving into theatrical tears. “Wes, she hit me! And she tried to smash that ugly box over my head!” Weston’s face hardened, ignoring the bloodied scratches Kira’s nails had left on my face and neck. “Talia Quinn, apologize.” I gasped in pain, forcing the tears back into the corners of my eyes. “Over my dead body.” Weston suddenly raised his hand, aiming for my face. I lifted my chin, daring him to strike. He didn’t hit me. Instead, his hand shot past my face, snatching the urn from my arms with brutal force. He raised his arm high and hurled the vessel to the floor. I lunged to catch it, but I was too slow. CRASH! The deafening sound of shattering ceramic. My heart burst open in my chest. 3 I crawled on my hands and knees toward the fragments of the urn, my hands shaking uncontrollably. My mother’s last words echoed in my mind. “Tal, please divorce Wes. All I want is for you to be happy…” What exactly had three years of desperate refusal bought me? Only another thousand daggers of pain. My eyes were bloodshot, but I couldn’t produce another tear. I could only futilely pick up the broken pieces, trying to put back what couldn’t be mended. The next second, Weston lifted his foot and ground it down, crushing my mother’s remains. I went insane, pounding his shin with my fists. “Get out! Get out!” “Everyone, get out!” Weston didn’t budge. He looked down at me and sneered. “It’s just a miserable, cursed container. Why are you having such a meltdown over it?” “Look at you, Talia. You look like a lunatic.” Kira wrapped her arm around his, whining affectionately. “Wes, she hit me pretty hard. Just a broken box seems too easy on her, doesn’t it?” Weston chuckled, indulgently. “What do you want to do?” “Give her ten slaps back, to make it even.” Weston smiled, then his tone turned ice-cold, the words striking my ears like pellets of hail. “Did you hear that, Talia? Kira wants satisfaction.” I looked up sharply, glaring at him through my red-rimmed eyes. He paused, then curled his lip. “What’s with the drama? You haven’t cried like this in ages. All this fuss over a broken container?” It was only then that I realized my face was slick with tears. The man squatted down, brushing a tear away from my cheek. His action was gentle, but his tone was purely arrogant. “Name your price. Buy out the box.” I started to laugh—a dry, horrible sound. Buyout. It was always a buyout! In Weston’s eyes, everything I possessed—my feelings, my loyalty, my memories—could be bought and sold. Four years ago, on our wedding night, I couldn’t accept his terms. I screamed and raged. Weston ignored my breakdown, called another woman, and left me alone in the custom bed. Before midnight, photos of them blanketed the web. I, his wife, became the city’s laughingstock. I sat there until dawn, clutching the images. When he called, his voice was just as dismissive as it was now. “Can we discuss the terms now?” “Talia Quinn, I’ll give you the status, the name, and the money. You’re just being gRaymondy if you also expect my exclusive loyalty.” I couldn’t comprehend how he could promise me everything, only to turn around and label me the gRaymondy one. I refused to let go, dragging him through the wreckage. Every time I was hurt, he bought out my pain with money. This time, let him pay to buy out the entire relationship. I looked at Weston and repeated the number. “A billion dollars.” The word left my mouth, and Weston burst into laughter. “Talia Quinn, have you lost your mind? Is this junk so valuable? Does it contain, what, a human life?” I gripped the shards of the urn in my palm, the irony choking me. Kira giggled sweetly. “So sorry, Miss Quinn, but Wes can’t give you that billion.” “He just bought me ten diamonds from South Africa for my birthday crown, and they were a hundred million each. Exactly one billion, actually.” The last vestige of reason I held on to snapped. The ceramic shards dug into my palm, drawing blood. I shot up, lunging to stab Kira in the face. I was a second too slow. Weston quickly shielded her, shoving me hard. I stumbled back, crashing into the stair railing, and a gush of warm blood immediately streamed down my forehead. Weston didn’t even glance at me. He was too busy frantically checking Kira to see if she was hurt. Kira huddled in his arms, cautiously cradling her abdomen. “Wes, my stomach hurts. The baby isn’t hurt, is it?” I looked up, stunned, staring at Kira’s small bump. She immediately panicked. “Wes, what do we do? She knows about the baby! She looks terrifying. She wouldn’t hurt the baby, would she?” Weston turned back to me, his eyes filled with fierce wariness. “Talia Quinn, one last chance. Name a price.” A thousand poisonous, hooked vines attacked me from all sides, piercing my heart. In that moment, whether it was a billion or ten million. I didn’t want the money anymore. I just wanted to vanish from Weston Raymond’s world forever. 4 My silence only confirmed Kira’s fears for Weston. He was convinced I would hurt her child. His voice was glacial. “Talia Quinn, I’ll give you three days. Give me a satisfactory answer.” “Don’t forget, your mother is still in the hospital.” But wasn’t my mother’s urn currently being ground under his foot? I started to weep with silent laughter, watching him carefully gather Kira into his arms and carry her away. The massive, empty house was left to me alone. Ignoring the blood dripping from my forehead, I knelt on the floor, using a bottle to collect the remnants of my mother’s ashes. My vision was clouded with despair. After retrieving my ID and bank cards, I took off the princess-cut diamond engagement ring I had worn for five years. As I set it down, I could faintly hear Weston’s proposal promise. “Tal, give me a chance to protect you for the rest of my life, okay?” It turned out “the rest of my life” was fleetingly short. As the night deepened, I took only a small bag and walked out the door. Two security guards appeared instantly, forced me into a black car, and drove me to a private, isolated facility. I fought and screamed, but the guard’s voice was devoid of emotion. “Mr. Raymond said he’s giving you three days.” “If you haven’t softened by then, you’ll stay here for good.” The door slammed shut. CRASH! I hammered the door until my knuckles bled and my voice was raw, but the guard never opened it. I was locked in that mental health facility for three days and three nights, which felt like three centuries. The only people I saw were the staff. Whenever I neared hysteria, they would hold me down and forcefully inject me with sedatives. When they left, the silence was absolute, broken only by the rambling wails of a patient in the next room, chipping away at my last defenses. I felt myself truly slipping into madness. I began to hallucinate. I saw my mother, looking at me with a heart-wrenching pity. “Tal, how did you let yourself become like this?” I also saw the young Weston. He stood by my bedside, gently stroking my hair. “Tal, when you’re better, I’ll take you to see the biggest hydrangea fields.” On the fourth morning, the drug’s effects began to fade. I opened my eyes groggily to a bouquet of hydrangeas. For a moment, I thought the eighteen-year-old Weston had come to rescue me. Then I saw the man by the bed, his expression cold and hard. “Have you made your decision?” I slowly sat up, my face numb. “Yes. I have.” Weston nodded, satisfied. “How much will it cost for you to accept the child?” “Don’t worry, even after the baby is born, I’ll still come home on schedule. Nothing will change…” “One dollar.” I calmly interrupted his rambling. Weston froze, disbelief etched on his face. Then, displeasure. “Talia Quinn, are you playing games? You would never ask for a single dollar.” “I want one dollar.” I held out my hand, my voice firm. “Give me one dollar, and you can have children with anyone you want. I won’t interfere again.” Weston ground his teeth, seemingly infuriated but also amused by my audacity. He pulled a hundred-dollar bill from his wallet and flung it at my face. “Fine! Fine, you win!” “You better stick to your word!” With that, he kicked a chair aside, signaled for the guards outside to leave, and turned away. I retrieved my bag and confirmed its contents. Then, I strode out of the facility. The moment I stepped past the iron gate, I threw the hundred-dollar bill high into the sky and never looked back. Weston’s assistant told him I had left the facility, and his first assumption was that I had gone home. However, when he arrived at the house, I wasn’t there to greet him, nor was his favorite dinner on the table. A sudden dread seized him. He called his assistant. “Didn’t you say Talia was released? Why isn’t she here?” “Mr. Raymond, I didn’t say Mrs. Raymond went home.” “Then where could she be? Her mother is still in the hospital…” Before he could finish, the assistant’s voice came back, laced with shock. “Mr. Raymond, the truth is, Mrs. Raymond’s mother passed away four days ago. Resuscitation failed. Didn’t you know?”

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1 I was scrolling through Instagram when I stumbled upon a post from an actress in my husband’s latest film. It was a photo dump from the wrap party. [Thanks for the amazing wrap gift, Nathaniel!] The last photo in the carousel was a close-up of a perfume bottle on her makeup vanity. A silver bottle, engraved with my initials. I deliberately liked the post, then immediately called my private doctor. “I need to change my prenatal appointment to a termination.” Next, I posted an Instagram story, visible only to my Close Friends list. The first slide was a picture of my signature on the procedure’s consent form. The second was the cover of a set of divorce papers. The caption read: [Ten years ends today.] … “Aurora!” The anesthesia was just wearing off when I saw Nathaniel standing in the doorway of my hospital room, his face a mask of cold fury. He was clutching his phone, the screen displaying a screenshot of my Instagram story. “We’ve been trying for a baby for two years. We’ve seen every specialist, tried every treatment, and we finally get pregnant! And you throw it all away because of a bottle of perfume?” He strode to my bedside, his finger practically jabbing me in the face. “And this garbage you posted! Are you not happy unless you’re making a public spectacle of our lives?” My body felt weak, and a dull ache throbbed in my lower abdomen, but I managed to push myself up to a sitting position. I looked at him calmly. “Did you sign them?” “What?” “The divorce papers.” I nodded toward the folder on the nightstand. “They were delivered to your studio three days ago.” “Nathaniel,” I said, my voice flat. “There’s a line of women from here to Paris who would kill to have your child. You can drop the act with me.” That remark shattered his composure. He swept the nutritional meal a nurse had just brought in off the table. The rich chicken broth splashed across the floor. “Aurora! What the hell is this really about? Is it just about some stupid bottle of perfume? Isabelle mentioned she liked the scent, so I gave it to her! It was nothing! Is that really a reason to kill our baby and demand a divorce?” “I gave it to her.” He said it so casually. I looked at him, and my mind flashed back ten years. I had just finished my first role with actual lines. The paycheck was a measly eight hundred dollars. To celebrate, I spent an entire afternoon at a high-end boutique, and finally, using half of my living expenses for the month, I bought a limited-edition bottle of ‘Silver Iris.’ That night, I carefully spritzed it onto a tester strip and posted a picture of it online. “My very first perfume, to commemorate my very first role.” Three minutes later, my phone rang. It was Nathaniel. “Aurora, you bought perfume?” The disapproval in his voice was so thick I could feel it through the phone. “That ‘Silver Iris’? It’s over three thousand dollars a bottle. Do you have any idea how much I’m spending right now trying to land that supporting role in the new Pierce film? I need every cent for networking.” His words stunned me. The hand holding the tester strip began to tremble. “I… I used my own savings. And I already set aside my living expenses for the month…” “You set them aside?” Nathaniel scoffed. “Aurora, can you stop being so vain? Are you going to eat that perfume? Or do you think that just because you’re with me now, you can start throwing money around?” The call lasted twenty minutes. I sat there, the phone hot against my ear, watching the scent on the paper slowly fade, and then I deleted the post. In the ten years since, Nathaniel’s pay went from five thousand an episode to thirty million a film. He bought me bags, watches, and jewelry, but never again did he buy me perfume. Once, at a brand event, the organizers gifted us a full set of their new fragrances. I picked one up and lingered on it for a moment too long. On the car ride home, Nathaniel spoke, his voice cool and distant. “Some people haven’t landed many roles, but they sure have developed expensive tastes. What is it now? Starting a collection?” I quietly put the bottle down. From that day on, I never mentioned anything related to fragrance in public again. I told myself he just didn’t care for perfume. That he was just blunt. That he just wasn’t… thoughtful. Until I saw that bottle of Silver Iris in Isabelle’s Instagram post. It was sitting carelessly in the corner of her vanity, next to lipsticks and compacts, like any other ordinary object. And in the background of the photo, Nathaniel was leaning in, speaking to her, a gentle, tender smile on his face that felt like a knife in my gut. In that single moment, a decade of self-deception crumbled into dust. It wasn’t that he didn’t know how. It wasn’t that he wasn’t capable of it. It was just that his thoughtfulness, his indulgence… it was never meant for me. “Just because of a bottle of perfume?” Nathaniel looked at me as if I’d told the world’s most pathetic joke, his expression twisting. “Aurora, Isabelle is new to the industry. The director was tearing her apart on set every day. I just felt sorry for her and gave her a small gift as encouragement! And you’re going to get an abortion and divorce me over something so trivial?” “Are your pregnancy hormones messing with your head? Are you thinking clearly?” He paused, then a look of dawning comprehension spread across his face, his lips curling into a sneer. “Oh, I get it.” “You’re just using this as an excuse. This is your revenge for me calling you vain all those years ago, isn’t it?” “Wow, Aurora. Ten years, and you’re still holding a grudge.” He let out a short, sharp laugh. 2 “Fine. You want perfume? Is that it? How many do you want? I’ll have them clear out the entire boutique and deliver it to you right now.” “Yes,” I said, looking straight at him. The numb space in my chest suddenly erupted with a sharp, stabbing pain, but my voice was unnervingly calm. “It is because of a bottle of perfume. Exactly that.” “So what, Nathaniel? For one bottle of perfume, I will get rid of your child and I will divorce you.” “You’re being completely irrational!” Nathaniel slammed the door on his way out. Three hours later, my hospital room was filled with perfume gift boxes. A delivery man, sweating profusely, was trying to take inventory. “Ma’am, a Mr. Knight ordered every bottle of Silver Iris from every boutique in the city. It’s one hundred and twenty-seven bottles in total. Where would you like them?” I signed the delivery slip and stared at the mountain of exquisite boxes filling the room. My phone buzzed. A message from Nathaniel popped up: [Is that enough for you?] I could picture the look on his face as he sent it—brows furrowed, lips pressed into a thin line, radiating an air of impatient charity. I didn’t reply. I just blocked his number. The validation and respect I had craved for a decade had finally arrived, piled up in this absurd, insulting fashion. It was nothing short of a mockery. I called my best friend, Zoe. Her voice on the other end was hushed. “Aurora? I’m in the middle of a shoot. What’s up?” “Zoe,” I said, looking out the window. “Last year, you said that if I ever left Nathaniel, you’d take me to Iceland to see the Northern Lights. Does that offer still stand?” There was a few seconds of silence on the other end. “Are you serious? You’re really leaving him?” “Aurora, Nathaniel is at the top of his game. He has all the connections, all the resources. If you leave now, you’re throwing away ten years of struggle. You’re just going to hand it all over to the next girl who comes along.” Zoe was the one who told me not to get involved with Nathaniel in the first place. And now, she was the one worried I’d get the short end of the stick. I smiled softly. “Since I’ve decided to leave, it means I’ve already let it all go.” “Alright then,” Zoe’s voice firmed up. “Whenever you’re ready, we’ll go.” “Soon.” After hanging up, I went home and took my documents from the nightstand. Just as I opened the safe, I heard the front door open. A final text from Zoe came through: [Once he signs, we’re gone.] Liquidating stocks, dividing property. Even if I had to start from scratch, I wouldn’t starve. I picked up my suitcase and walked into the living room, only to find an unexpected visitor. Isabelle, dressed in a delicate white dress, stood timidly beside Nathaniel, her fingers clutching the cuff of his sleeve. She took a tentative step forward as if it took all her courage. “Aurora… I’m so sorry.” Her voice was thick with tears, her wide, innocent eyes glistening. “I didn’t mean to show off by posting that. I was just so happy… Nathaniel has been so kind to me, teaching me how to act, giving me gifts… I just got carried away and I made you upset. Please don’t be angry…” Isabelle suddenly bowed deeply, her shoulders trembling. “Please don’t divorce him. Nathaniel really, really loves you. It’s all my fault…” She wept beautifully, as if she were the victim of some terrible injustice. I took a step back, avoiding her bow, and lifted my eyes to Nathaniel. He was looking down at Isabelle, and the look in his eyes—a sort of pained, restrained tenderness—was something I had never seen in ten years. Suddenly, the whole thing just felt pathetic. “What exactly are you sorry for?” I asked calmly. I wasn’t going to be painted as the villain. I had no desire to see the headline #AuroraHayesBulliesNewcomer trending tomorrow. So I was direct. “This grand gesture of yours,” I said, gesturing to her bow, “is it a genuine attempt to save my marriage, or is it an act to pressure me into letting go for good?” “We’re both women. We both know how these games are played. There’s no need to put on a show for me.” “I’ve already decided to get a divorce.” I turned to Nathaniel, meeting his stunned gaze. “And my mind won’t be changed by someone’s tears or apologies. You, of all people, should know that about me, right?” Nathaniel’s face darkened. But Isabelle suddenly rushed forward and grabbed my wrist. “Aurora! Everyone on set is saying you got jealous because of my post, that you got an abortion and are filing for divorce just to put me in my place, to show Nathaniel who’s really in charge! I don’t believe them. I know you’re not that kind of person…” I had thought Isabelle was just a moderately ambitious newcomer. Clearly, I had underestimated her. Every word she spoke was a carefully crafted nail in the coffin of my reputation, sealing the image of me as a jealous, petty bully. As expected, Nathaniel stepped forward, his eyes flashing with anger. “That’s enough, Aurora!” “Isabelle is apologizing to you like this, and you’re still cornering her. Don’t you think you’re going too far?” I looked at Nathaniel, at the face I had loved for a decade. There was a time when I believed that wherever he stood, there was light. I had willingly softened every edge, lowered every standard for him. Looking at him now, he was just another selfish, hypocritical man. 3 I pulled my wrist from Isabelle’s grasp, took the divorce papers from my bag, and spread them on the coffee table. “If you really want to protect her, then act like a man. Sign the papers and let’s get divorced. Don’t stand here gaslighting me about bullying a newcomer.” I shot a cold glance at Isabelle, who was now hiding behind Nathaniel, sobbing. “Ambition is a good thing. Since your ambition has brought you this far, you might as well go all the way and win the man.” My tone was so calm that a flicker of panic crossed Nathaniel’s eyes, but his words remained defiant. “You’re being completely unreasonable!” “Am I? Don’t you know the truth?” My gaze fell to the hand he was using to shield Isabelle. “You know better than anyone that I can’t tolerate filth in my life.” “When something gets dirty, I throw it out.” I held out a pen to him. “If you want to retain any shred of my respect, sign it.” I had chased after Nathaniel for ten years. A decade ago, my parents died in a case of medical malpractice. It was Nathaniel who ran from hospital to hospital with me, who met with lawyer after lawyer, who grabbed the attending physician by the collar and demanded answers. But halfway through the lawsuit, the hospital produced evidence that my father had an undisclosed medical history and that my mother had been disoriented when she signed the consent forms. My lawyer advised me to accept a settlement. I refused. I stood outside the courthouse and cried until I nearly passed out. It was Nathaniel who picked me up and whispered in my ear: “Aurora, you are not alone.” “I’m here. If the sky falls, I’ll hold it up with you.” In the end, I signed the settlement. I took the compensation money, along with the money from selling my parents’ house, and gave it all to Nathaniel for acting classes, for networking, for landing roles. My friends all called me a fool. They said a woman who spends money on a man is cursed for three lifetimes. But I held Nathaniel’s hand and said, “To spend it on Nathaniel, I’d be cursed for ten.” Nathaniel cupped my face in his hands and made a solemn promise: “Aurora, I will never make you regret this.” Ten long years. We went from a basement apartment to a penthouse in the city center, from unknown extras to him holding a Best Actor award. Every step was a struggle. But Nathaniel’s tenderness, it seemed, had only existed in those few short months after my parents died. Nathaniel looked at my resolute face, and a powerful sense of unease washed over him. He instinctively reached for me, but was interrupted by Isabelle’s sobs. “Aurora,” Isabelle said, her eyes red, but her voice surprisingly clear. “You can call me a homewrecker. You can call me shameless. I’ll accept it all.” The fragile, helpless girl from moments ago was gone. She now looked me straight in the eye. “I have feelings for Nathaniel. Anyone would be drawn to a man as wonderful as he is. My feelings are honest and out in the open. But unlike you, I would never use his love for me as a weapon to act so recklessly.” “Everyone knows he’s spoiled you for ten years, and you repay him by getting rid of his child? That’s just cruel.” Her words extinguished the last flicker of hesitation and pity in Nathaniel’s eyes. “Aurora, are you sure you want this divorce?” The person who knows how to hurt you the most always knows exactly where to twist the knife. “Don’t forget,” Nathaniel said, pouring salt on my oldest wound, “you don’t have a family anymore.” “I am the only family you have left.” “If you leave me, you will be completely and utterly alone in this world.” I have a deep-seated fear of people talking about my parents, of the vicious whispers that I was a jinx, that I was cursed to bring ruin to my loved ones. It was Nathaniel who used to stand in front of me, throwing punches at anyone who dared to gossip. It was him who held me tight during countless nights when I broke down, whispering: “You are not a jinx. You are my destiny. I will love you enough for your parents too. I will never change.” Now, that same man looked at me with cold eyes. “There’s no smoke without fire. With a personality like yours, who could possibly stand you?” “No wonder your parents left so early.” That sentence shattered my last line of defense. I slapped him, hard, across the face. “You bastard!” My vision blurred. The pain in my chest was so intense it felt like my heart was splitting in two. I had scrimped and saved, passed up every opportunity and connection for him, stood by him through years of obscurity, only to be called a jinx in the end. How could I not break? How could I not be devastated? He stared at me for a few seconds, then a slow, cruel smile spread across his face. “Fine, Aurora. You’ve really outdone yourself.” “You want a divorce, right?” Nathaniel snatched the pen and scribbled his name on the agreement. “Then let’s get one!” “And don’t you dare come crawling back to me!” He threw the signed papers in my face, then turned, grabbed Isabelle’s arm, and stormed out. I bent down to pick up the scattered pages and let out a soft, broken laugh. “Nathaniel, this time, it’s really over.” As I boarded the plane, my screen lit up. A series of calls from Nathaniel’s different numbers. I looked at it for a moment, then switched my phone off. Goodbye. 4 Thinking I was just throwing a tantrum, Nathaniel booked out the city’s largest luxury perfume boutique. Isabelle posted another nine-photo carousel on Instagram. In the photos, she was smiling radiantly, a wall of perfume displays behind her. The caption read: [Some people are just born unworthy of the best. They only deserve secondhand things.] Nathaniel had always been the one in control. In our relationship, all he had to do was be himself. I would automatically fill in the gaps, make the excuses. Just like ten years ago. Even though he knew I just wanted to commemorate my first role, even though he knew I bought that perfume with my own money. He still had to crush my spirit. At my moment of greatest happiness, he had to put me in my place, to remind me: “You are not worthy.” He needed to call me vain, to watch me feel guilty, to wait for me to apologize. In the beginning, our friends warned him to back off, not to push me too far. But over time, he became known in our circle as a master at managing his wife. At dinners, men would ask him for his secret to keeping a woman so devoted. He would take a sip of his wine and smile coolly. “Give her a taste of sweetness at her moment of deepest despair, and she will see you as her savior. After that, no matter what you do wrong, she will find a way to forgive you on her own.” Nathaniel was no fool when it came to people. He had spent his life reading others, and he knew exactly how to exploit a person’s vulnerabilities. He had practiced on me for a decade. And it had worked. So he watched Isabelle’s post go live, watched the likes and comments roll in, knowing he didn’t have to lift a finger. Mutual friends would soon be calling me, acting as his messengers. All he had to do was wait for me to come to him, head bowed in apology. And so he waited. Nathaniel waited for two weeks. He didn’t get my apology. Instead, he got a letter from my lawyer. “Mr. Knight.” My attorney sat across from him, pushing a folder across the table. “This is the share transfer agreement Ms. Hayes has asked me to handle. She is requesting to purchase your 35% stake in the studio at market value. If we do not receive a response within one week, we will file a motion with the court to compel the sale.” Nathaniel stared at the documents, his fingers tightening into a fist. “Where is she?” “Ms. Hayes has gone abroad to clear her head.” The lawyer smiled politely. “As for her destination, I’m afraid I can’t disclose that.” “Clear her head?” Nathaniel shot to his feet. “She just had a termination two weeks ago, and she’s flying abroad to ‘clear her head’? Is she trying to kill herself?”

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My wife’s college buddy has a sports system, and it’s bound to me. As long as I lie still, he can keep moving forever. All his fatigue? It transfers directly to me. So, my wife ties me to the bed while he runs a marathon… and wins. She even drugs me with sleeping pills, so he can finish a two-mile swim without breaking a sweat. My body is falling apart, while he’s raking in prize money and accolades. And my wife? She just sneers at me. “Look at Ryan,” she’ll say. “He’s built like a rock. And you? You’re so useless, your muscles are turning to mush.” I stay still, he keeps moving? If I stay perfectly still… he can just keep moving… indefinitely? Fine. The night before New Year’s, they made plans to ring it in together. All night long. So I went to a research hospital, signed a waiver, and had myself cryogenically frozen for one year. I’m going to make sure their special New Year’s celebration lasts the entire year. Let’s see them break a world record. 1 Sophie walked towards me, another wide cloth strap in her hand. It was a familiar routine. Every time Ryan had a competition, she would tie me down first. When I tried to struggle, her voice would drop to a gentle murmur. “Hush now, sweetie. Just cooperate. It’s only for a few hours. I’ll lie here with you.” I stared at her, bewildered. “Sophie, what in the world are you doing?” She didn’t answer, just pushed me down onto the bed. My body was completely immobilized. On the TV, a marathon was being broadcast live. Sophie’s friend from college, Ryan, was one of the runners. I watched with a deepening frown. Not ten minutes in, a sharp, aching burn shot up from my calves, the kind you get after sprinting three miles. The soreness was so intense I couldn’t stop a groan from escaping my lips. I tried to get up, but Sophie held me down with surprising strength. She cradled my head, a smile playing on her lips. “Just bear with it, honey. I’ll give you a massage.” As her fingers kneaded my cramping muscles, her eyes were glued to the TV, shining with excitement. On screen, Ryan was running with an effortless, steady pace, not a bead of sweat on his face. He was a stark contrast to the other runners, who were panting and drenched. The faster he ran, the more agony I felt. Every one of his strides sent a fresh wave of pain through me, as if I were the one running—no, it was worse, more exhausting than if I were running it myself. Whenever I felt like I was about to break, Sophie would press down harder, pinning me to the bed. I don’t know how much time passed, but finally, the announcer’s voice boomed, “And we have a winner!” Ryan crossed the finish line and was immediately swarmed by a crowd. Sophie let out a sigh of relief and finally untied me. Ryan accepted the trophy, then beamed at the camera. “Sophie, my angel, did you see that? I won! I have to thank you. Knowing you’re there for me, day or night, gives me all the strength I need.” I looked up at Sophie. She stood by the bed, her face a mask of pride, joy, and relief. And I trembled with a rage that consumed me whole. 2 I was a dead weight on the bed, without the strength to even lift a finger. I watched Sophie casually toss the cloth straps onto the sofa, my voice raspy with exhaustion and suspicion. “Sophie, why did you tie me up?” She was bent over, changing her shoes. She froze for a second, and when she turned back to me, the excitement from the broadcast was gone, replaced by a cold impatience. “I told you to cooperate. Why do you ask so many questions?” A bitter smile twisted my lips. The ache in my body hadn’t faded, and every word was an effort. “Cooperate? You trussed me up and made me lie here in agony, and you call that ‘cooperating’? And you, spending your days and nights with Ryan… what exactly are you two doing?” Sophie’s brow furrowed into a harsh line. “What are you implying? Ryan is just a friend from college. He’s under a lot of pressure training for his competitions. What’s wrong with me looking out for him? He’s a gifted athlete, a champion bringing home medals. And you? All you do is lie here and let your imagination run wild.” I repeated her words, my heart clenching as if squeezed by an icy fist. “Looking out for him? You ‘look out for him’ by tying me to the bed? Am I just a pawn in your little game?” “Don’t be ridiculous,” Sophie snapped, her tone hardening. “I told you not to overthink it. He’s like a little brother to me. Ryan won the championship. It’s a huge honor. You should be happy for me, but instead, you’re sitting here wallowing in jealousy. Is that really necessary?” I opened my mouth to argue, but my throat felt tight, and no words came out. It was always like this. Whenever Ryan had a competition, she’d find some excuse to make me stay put, either claiming I was overworked and needed rest or concocting some other bizarre reason to keep me immobilized. I used to dismiss it as my own paranoia, but this time was different. The searing pain of being bound, the bone-deep fatigue, and the sight of Ryan running so freely on TV… it was all like a thousand tiny needles, pricking me into a state of horrified clarity. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. My health was deteriorating. The slightest movement left me breathless, yet Ryan seemed more energetic than ever, raking in awards. There had to be a connection, something I was missing. Just then, a knock came from the door. Sophie’s face instantly lit up with a warm smile, and her voice softened with a tenderness I hadn’t heard directed at me in a long time. “Ryan! You’re here! Come in, you were amazing. I almost cried watching you win.” Ryan walked in, his steps light and bouncy. His eyes fell on me, and a smirk of pure mockery spread across his face. “Still in bed, Marcus? You should get up and move around a bit. It’s not healthy to lie around all day. Look at me—you gotta keep moving to stay strong.” He casually waved the trophy in his hand, its golden gleam stabbing at my eyes. Sophie looked at him with an expression of pure adoration, then turned her cold gaze on me. “Well? Aren’t you going to get up and make Ryan something to eat? Lie there any longer and your limbs will just waste away.” 3 There was no way I was making them dinner. In the end, Sophie cooked some instant ramen. As I drifted in and out of a pained stupor, I could hear their hushed whispers from the living room. They must have thought I was sound asleep. Their voices were low, but the words drifted into the bedroom with chilling clarity. “Sophie,” Ryan said, his voice laced with a confident smile. “I’m definitely going to win the three-thousand-meter swim tomorrow. After I get the prize money, how about we spend New Year’s Eve together? You know you’re my only New Year’s wish, right?” Sophie’s reply was a little flustered, almost shy. “Ryan, your stamina is incredible. You just ran a marathon, and now you’re ready for a three-thousand-meter swim tomorrow. But… spending the whole night together… I’m not sure I can handle that.” Ryan chuckled softly. “Don’t worry, my angel. I’ll be gentle. We’ll have the whole night to ourselves. What do you say?” After a brief pause, Sophie’s voice returned, hesitant. “But… I just can’t shake the guilt. Maybe I should just divorce him. It feels so wrong doing this behind his back.” Ryan’s tone shifted. “Sophie, you can’t divorce him now. This sports system I have… it’s bound to him. It only works if he’s lying perfectly still. All his fatigue gets dumped on Marcus, and that’s how I win these championships.” My world froze. Ryan has a system? And it’s bound to me? I held my breath, pressing my ear against the headboard, and fumbled for my phone to start recording. Ryan’s voice softened again, becoming persuasive, coaxing. “If you divorce him, how will you control him? What if he runs off or refuses to cooperate? The system would be useless.” “Sophie, just wait a little longer. After a few more major competitions next year, we’ll have enough prize money and fame to set us up for life.” “By then, he’ll be a wreck anyway. A vegetable who can’t even walk. If he… passes away… no one would suspect a thing. Once he’s gone, we can finally be together, openly. I’ll marry you.” Sophie hesitated for a moment before letting out a soft laugh. “Okay. I’ll listen to you. You focus on your race tomorrow. I’ll make sure he stays put. And tomorrow night… we’ll have our New Year’s Eve. I’m all yours.” “You’re the best, Sophie,” Ryan purred. “But you have to time it right. You need to get him up and moving after my race is over, or I won’t be able to stop either.” “Don’t worry,” Sophie replied softly. “I know the rules. Don’t let him stay still for too long, or you’ll be stuck in motion. I understand.” Lying in the darkness, a glacial coldness seeped into my bones, as if my blood had turned to ice. So that was it. That was why I was getting weaker and weaker while Ryan was an unstoppable champion. That was why Sophie was always finding ways to keep me in bed. It wasn’t paranoia. It wasn’t me being jealous. I really was just a pawn in their game. A stepping stone for Ryan’s success. A tool to be used and then discarded. 4 The next morning, the TV in the living room was blasting the sports channel, showing the pre-race preparations for the three-thousand-meter swim. I leaned against the headboard, the aches from the previous day still clinging to me. Sophie came in, holding the same cloth strap from yesterday, her expression blank. “Lie down, Marcus. Cooperate.” I frowned, my voice hoarse. “No. I’m not doing it.” She froze, and her brow immediately tightened. “What’s gotten into you? It’s just for a few hours. Just tolerate it.” She reached for my arm, but I yanked it away. Sophie stared at me for a few seconds, then, as if an idea struck her, she turned and left the bedroom. She returned a moment later with a glass of milk, her tone softened, laced with a familiar, deceitful sweetness. “Fine, no straps. Here, drink some milk. You look like you didn’t sleep well.” As she held the glass out, the faint, chemical smell of a pill mixed with the scent of milk hit my nose. A cold smile touched my lips. Sleeping pills. Her go-to trick. I turned my head away, avoiding her hand. “I don’t want it.” Sophie’s patience finally snapped. Her face twisted into a snarl. “Marcus, are you determined to fight me on this?” From the TV, the commentator’s excited voice announced that the swimmers were in position and the race was about to begin. Sophie grew more frantic. Her eyes were locked on me when she suddenly pointed out the window. Instinctively, I glanced over. The next thing I knew, a blinding pain exploded at the back of my head. I whipped my head back around to see her holding a glass ashtray, its edge smeared with my blood. I gasped, my voice shaking with disbelief and fury. “Sophie, you bitch!” Then, everything went black. I don’t know how long I was out. I was jolted awake by Sophie shaking me. The throbbing in my head was relentless, and waves of dizziness made it hard to open my eyes. “Wake up. Stop playing dead!” It was Sophie’s voice, tinged with a cheerful lightness. I forced my eyes open. Through my blurry vision, I saw the awards ceremony on TV. Ryan was holding another trophy, a triumphant grin plastered on his face. Sophie stood by the bed, a proud smile on hers. “Ryan won again! See? I told you he could do it.” I tried to move my fingers, to push myself up, but felt something sticky on my cheek. I reached up and my hand came away covered in blood. Sophie’s eyes remained fixed on Ryan on the screen. “You’re bleeding,” she said without turning. “Do you need to go to the hospital?” Gritting my teeth, I summoned every ounce of strength I had and struggled to sit up. Every movement sent a fresh spike of pain through my skull, and my vision kept blacking out. I stumbled to the doorway and looked back at Sophie. She was still standing there, her gaze locked on the TV, without the slightest intention of even helping me to the door. “I’m spending New Year’s with Ryan tonight. Don’t wait up,” she said, her voice full of anticipation, her back still to me. I gripped the doorframe, a chilling cold spreading through my veins. You two are spending New Year’s Eve together? I stay still, he keeps moving? He can keep moving… indefinitely? Fine. I will give you two a New Year’s Eve you will never, ever forget. 5 Before I left the apartment, I slipped a small digital recorder into Sophie’s purse. Then I went to the nearest urgent care to get my head wound treated. After they stitched me up, I walked straight to the hospital’s research wing. I remembered scrolling on my phone a while back and seeing an ad for volunteers for a long-term cryogenic study. It was for a full year, and during that time, no one had the authority to terminate the experiment. At the time, I’d dismissed it as a bizarre piece of trivia. I never imagined it would become my salvation. The director’s office was simple, his desk buried under stacks of papers. When I walked in, he was organizing files. He looked up. “Here to inquire about the cryogenics trial?” I nodded and asked if it was possible to start tonight. The director pushed his glasses up his nose and handed me a waiver. “We can. The rules are firm: once the process begins, you’ll be frozen for one year. There will be no contact and no early termination. Are you absolutely sure about this?” I picked up the pen and signed my name without a moment’s hesitation. As midnight approached, my phone buzzed. It was a video call from Ryan. I stared at the screen for a second before swiping to answer. The screen filled with the view from a hotel balcony. In the distance, an amusement park glittered with colored lights, the Ferris wheel a vibrant beacon in the night sky. Ryan appeared, wearing a bathrobe, his hair still wet. He leaned into the camera, a smug, triumphant smile on his face. “Hey, Marcus. Sorry you couldn’t join us tonight.” He panned the camera around, giving me a clear view of the large bed behind him. He grinned. “Sophie’s just taking a shower. She’s agreed to be my special ‘New Year’s gift.’ It’s going to be an unforgettable night. I’ll spare you the live feed of what happens next, wouldn’t want you to get the wrong idea, you know?” Just then, Sophie’s voice called out from the bathroom. “Ryan, sweetie, can you bring me a towel?” Ryan’s smirk widened. He lowered his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Sophie’s calling me. Gotta go, buddy.” The screen shook as he moved. I heard his gleeful laugh. “Coming, angel!” The call ended. At that moment, the director informed me that everything was ready. I stood up, walked over to the cryogenic pod, and activated the live-stream function on the recorder I’d planted in Sophie’s bag. It had a low-power mode that could supposedly last for a month. A full year would have been better. That would have been quite a show. I lay down inside the chamber and gave the doctor a thumbs-up. He nodded and pressed the activation button. A frigid mist began to fill the pod. I closed my eyes, ready for my consciousness to be suspended in ice, with only one thought echoing in my mind: Get ready for 2026, Sophie. Ryan. I hope you enjoy every single second of it.

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My ex-boyfriend, Seth, is my brother’s roommate. My brother, Jonathan, transferred me my monthly allowance with a string of curses. “Happy now? You’re only with me for the money!” Seth saw the message and immediately sent a transfer of his own, adding two zeros to the amount. “I’m bigger than him. I can make you happier.” Seth thought my brother was my new boyfriend. He’d made a bet with his friends that he could snap his fingers and win back a gold-digger like me. I knew he was up to no good. When Seth offered me his black card, I refused it. When my brother offered me a half-off coupon, I took it. When Seth offered me a meticulously chosen designer gift, I refused it. When my brother offered me half a pack of leftover tissues, I took it. Seth finally lost his mind. “Is my money cursed or something? Will it kill you to spend a single penny of it?!” 1 My brother cursed me out as he transferred my allowance. “Happy now? You’re only with me for the money!” I didn’t dare breathe a word, a sly, sycophantic grin plastered on my face on the other end of the line. The second the money hit my account, I loaded it all onto my meal card. I’ve always had a massive appetite. There was an all-you-can-eat buffet that opened up downstairs from my childhood home. Less than a month later, the owner skipped town in the middle of the night without a word to me. When my family stocked up on snacks for the holidays, my parents would take turns standing guard outside my door. Bought a snack you didn’t like? Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it. Can’t finish your dinner? Just leave it, I’m here. The greatest charm of a mature woman is her ability to solve problems. My mom always said that since I came along, our family has never had to eat leftovers. The year I graduated high school, my dad asked me where I wanted to go to college. I immediately said I wanted to go to my brother’s university. My brother froze, then instinctively clutched his meal card in terror. Red alert! Incoming disaster! Every month, I scrape and save every penny just to treat my stomach right. But without fail, by the end of the month, I’m broke. When that happens, I usually have to find some odd jobs that pay by the day and include a meal. My brother couldn’t stand the thought of me running all over town at all hours, so he’d grit his teeth and transfer me a hundred bucks from his own allowance. The moment his “disaster relief funds” came through, I’d transform into his number one fan girl. But before I could lay on any more flattery, two new notifications popped up on my phone. Another transfer notification appeared, this one adding two zeros to my brother’s one hundred dollars. It was immediately followed by a text from my ex-boyfriend. 【I’m bigger than him. I can make you happier.】 2 It was noisy on my brother’s end of the call; it sounded like someone was calling his name from outside the dorm room. He tossed his phone on the desk and went out, forgetting to hang up. Through the open line, I heard Seth’s voice. Someone next to him started jeering. “Can you believe her? The second she breaks up with Seth, she’s already latched onto someone else. Hah.” “And Seth just drops ten grand on her? That fickle bitch doesn’t deserve it.” Seth just laughed, a lazy, unconcerned sound. He narrowed his eyes, his long fingers toying with his phone. “A girl like Holly? I could snap my fingers and have her crawling back to me.” I stared at the ten thousand dollars that had just landed in my account and fell into a deep thought. When I first got to campus, my life revolved around eating. My social media feed was basically a walking advertisement for every restaurant in a five-mile radius. Whether it was a discount for getting enough likes or a free drink for sharing a post, if there was a food-related perk, I was on it. Someone said I was like a restaurant hustler. The rumor got more and more ridiculous, until people were saying I scammed guys into taking me to specific restaurants so I could get a kickback. I have no idea where Seth heard this story, but he decided to descend from the heavens like an avenging angel to deliver my punishment. “Go out with me,” he’d said, a halo practically glowing above his head. “I’ll pay for all your meals. How about it?” Was this a food-based relief package from above? That sounded pretty righteous to me. I nodded so fast my head almost fell off and immediately agreed. Seth had set all sorts of traps, planning to expose my “true colors” in public. He asked me to take him out to eat. That day, he was dressed to the nines—a perfectly pressed suit, shoes shined to a mirror finish. He was ready for a five-star restaurant, but I dragged him to a grimy street food alley instead. The spiciest ramen in the city. Extra-hot wings. Fiery grilled kebabs. My face was flushed and my mouth was on fire. I turned to him and asked, “Thrilling, right?” Seth just sat there, looking at me like his entire digestive system was about to combust. He kept trying to test me, and I kept dragging him back to that night market. In the end, faced with a choice between delivering heavenly justice and saving his own ass, Seth chose the latter. He broke up with me. My free meal ticket was gone. I was genuinely bummed about it for a long time. It wasn’t until one of Seth’s friends let it slip that I finally learned the real story. The more I thought about it, the angrier I got. Son of a bitch. There are always people trying to take advantage of honest, good-hearted women like me. Even the ten thousand dollars now felt tainted. Was this some new kind of humiliation play? Wary of a trap, I cautiously sent the money back. On the other end of the line, the electronic notification voice announced the ten-thousand-dollar deposit. The chaotic dorm room was suddenly plunged into a dead silence. My brother came back from whatever he was doing. He picked up his phone. “Holly, someone just gave me a couple of half-off coupons. You want them?” I never turn down a bargain. “Yes!” Seth silently picked up his phone and typed me a message. 【Do you want my black card?】 The moment he hit send, a red exclamation mark appeared. You have been blocked by this user. My brother chatted with me as if he were sorting through junk. “I’ve got half a pack of tissues left here.” “I’ll take it!” “I won a ‘one dollar off’ prize from a drink I bought last time.” “Gimme.” “These crackers I bought are a little stale.” “That’s fine, I don’t mind.” “Seth, stop trying to swing from the rafters!” “Okay… wait, what?” My brother ended up putting together a whole box of his “junk” for me. On my way to pick it up, I heard a rumor that someone in the men’s dorm had engaged in a spirited tug-of-war between his neck and a ceiling beam. Ah, youth, I thought with a sigh. The dean and the campus nurse were fussing over Seth, but he remained silent, his head bowed. As he passed my brother, Jonathan was still busy talking to me. “Don’t run your mouth in front of my girlfriend, okay? I don’t want her to know about our relationship.” Having secured my loot, I grinned like an idiot. “Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone know about… us.” My brother was trying to win over a girl who lived in the dorm across from his. After I found out, I’d spent days whispering sweet nothings about him in her ear, trying to boost his image. If she knew we were siblings, all my praise would just sound like biased bragging. But Seth overheard us, and his face went through five different shades of pale. He looked from me to my brother, his expression a complex mess of emotions. “Jonathan… what exactly is the relationship… between you two?” My brother, ever the honest one, replied, “She’s my sister.” Jonathan took our dad’s last name, and I took our mom’s. Since he didn’t know I even knew Seth, he didn’t bother to explain further. Seth looked at me, then back at my brother. A sarcastic smile twisted his lips, and his voice dripped with acid. “Oh, so she’s your sister.” He pulled a utility knife from his pocket and held it to his wrist. “I think there’s a bug under my skin, right here. It keeps jumping. I’m just going to… pick it out.” The dean, horrified, bellowed, “THAT’S YOUR DAMN ARTERY!” 3 On top of his own living expenses, my brother now had a new dating budget to manage. And because of me, he still had to set aside some “disaster relief” funds every month. I felt a little guilty. So when I saw a flyer for a daily-wage hotel cleaning job, I signed up immediately. I wanted to save up enough money to buy my brother a pair of sneakers he’d been wanting for ages. When he found out, he was moved to tears, saying his little sister had finally grown up. I worked all day, and by the time I got off, it was already dark. I stood by the side of the road and called my brother. “It’s a little remote out here. Can you come pick me up and drive me back to campus?” “Find a place to wait for me,” he said. “I have to drop off your sister-in-law first. I’ll be there in about fifteen minutes.” “Okay,” I replied and waited by the curb. A few minutes later, a black Porsche pulled up in front of me. The window rolled down, and I saw Seth’s face. He looked me up and down, then glanced at the hotel behind me. His brow furrowed, and the usual lazy smile on his face faded. “Why are you out here alone? Where’s Jonathan?” Just seeing Seth’s face made a fire ignite in my stomach. It was all my fault for being so greedy back then, letting this venomous fox play with my feelings. My voice was unintentionally sharp when I replied, “He went to see his girlfriend.” Seth let out a choked laugh. “So he just abandoned you like that?” I scratched my head. The question felt weird, but also… not entirely wrong? I didn’t know how to answer, so I just stood there silently. “Get in. I’ll take you back to school.” Seth opened the passenger door for me. Once I was in the car, I quickly texted my brother to let him know he didn’t need to come, that someone was giving me a ride. I sat in the passenger seat and glanced at Seth. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, revealing a silver chain around his neck. A sleek, metallic pendant glinted in the dim light, swaying with his movements. My eyes followed it down, getting stuck on the sliver of collarbone visible at the opening of his shirt. “Why are you doing this?” Seth’s voice was cold, but I could hear the anger simmering beneath the surface. I assumed he was talking about my cleaning job, disgusted by my line of work. “What would a rich guy like you know? If it wasn’t for the money, who would want to do this kind of thing?” Seth’s hands tightened on the steering wheel, and he asked through gritted teeth, “For a hundred lousy bucks?” “That’s right! For a hundred lousy bucks!” I answered, full of righteous indignation. The work was dirty and exhausting, and I had to deal with all sorts of weirdos, but the pay was great! And it included a meal! Seth demanded, “Then why didn’t you take the money I gave you?” “Is my money cursed or something? Will it kill you to spend a single penny of it?!” I wanted to! God, I wanted to! But my brain had decided to be logical for once, and by the time my senses returned, the money was already gone. But I couldn’t admit that now. That would be pathetic. I put on an air of detached elegance and said with a faint smile, “Because it wasn’t appropriate.” Seth closed his eyes, a look of utter despair on his face. He whispered, so softly it was almost to himself, “And he is?” My phone buzzed in my pocket, the ringtone drowning out his words. I answered, and my brother’s voice came through the speaker. “Holly, are you back on campus yet? Who’s driving you?” I glanced at Seth. He shook his head, signaling me not to mention his name. So I lied. “A coworker is giving me a ride. We were heading in the same direction.” My brother told me to text him when I was safely back in my dorm. I agreed. Seth pulled up to the campus gate. I thanked him and got out of the car. Just as I was about to close the door, I heard his hoarse voice. “Holly, do you really have to go down this path? Anything he can give you, I can give you too.” Give me what? A daily wage? This damn fox. He always knew exactly how to find my weak spot. But then I remembered his smug words from the dorm room, and a fresh wave of anger washed over me. I slammed the door shut, leaving him with a single, sharp word. “No!” Back in my dorm, I was scrolling through my phone when I saw a new post from Seth. 【My entire life has been ruined by a scumbag.】 Me: “?” What now?

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