The third time the hotel clerk hammered on my door that morning, I lost it. The kind of rage I usually reserve for micromanaging clients, I unleashed on him. “Why in God’s name do you keep coming back? Is it really that difficult to let a paying guest get some sleep? I pulled three consecutive all-nighters to finalize a pitch, and all I want now is a few hours of peace!” Ordinarily, I could tolerate minor annoyances. But he had clearly seen the “Do Not Disturb” sign I’d physically fumbled onto the knob, yet he was determined to wake me up just so they could clean the room on their schedule. I was running on fumes, and my patience was nonexistent. The other side of the door went quiet for a few seconds, followed by an audible, impatient tsk. His footsteps receded. But it wasn’t long before a louder, more aggressive pounding erupted. “Sir! Routine safety equipment check! We have to verify the smoke alarm is functional! Open the door, please!” My head was pounding. I raised my voice, trying to keep a lid on the fire: “It’s fine… I promise the equipment is fine…” I flipped over, pulling the covers over my head, desperately trying to trick myself back into a coma-like sleep. I had barely managed to glue my eyelids shut for ten minutes. Beep! Click-clack! The sound of the lock being overridden violently jolted me awake. 1 The young clerk, Devin, strode straight to the bed and ripped the duvet right off me! A small, smug smile played on his lips as he slammed a clipboard and pen onto the bedside table. “Since you are so certain you require no service, you must sign this form, confirming that you actively refused housekeeping and the safety check!” he declared. “That way, if you experience any loss of property or personal injury in this room, The Prescott Hotel is in no way liable!” I had finished the pitch to that micromanaging client after three continuous all-nighters, and I felt like the last vestiges of my soul had been drained out. I’d barely made it back to the corporate-booked hotel, too exhausted to even unpack my carry-on. Before I sank into a complete blackout, I’d groped for the “Do Not Disturb” sign and hung it on the outside of the door handle. Then I crashed. At that point, I wouldn’t have answered the door for the CEO of High-Rise Consulting herself. But the moment my eyes closed, before I could even settle into the first phase of deep sleep, a distinct, insistent knocking had dragged me back from the edge of unconsciousness. Knock, knock, knock… “Housekeeping. Do you need the room serviced?” A young male voice came through the thick door. My eyelids felt weighted with lead, and my brain was stuffed with wet cotton. I didn’t even have the energy to open my mouth. I buried my head into the pillow and covered my ears with the duvet, praying he would take the hint and leave. KNOCK! KNOCK! KNOCK!! Instead of retreating, the knocking grew more rapid, more impatient. “Sir, please open the door! Housekeeping!” The shout outside the door was louder now, carrying a distinct tone of annoyance and urgency. My precious sleep was thoroughly shattered, and a wave of pure irritation washed over me. I struggled to prop up my heavy body, my throat dry and scratchy. “The sign is out! I don’t need anything! Thank you!” Silence for a few seconds. Just when I thought I was finally in the clear, the voice came back, laced with suspicion: “The sign is out? Are you… are you sure you’re okay in there?” “It’s the middle of the day. We have specific cleaning times. You’re messing up our schedule, and what about the other guests? We are busy, too!” I took a deep breath, trying to stifle the rising blaze of anger. “I paid for the room. All I want is to sleep. Rules aren’t always fixed, are they? I said no. Please, just stop knocking.” “Sleeping? In the middle of the day…” I heard the voice mutter, clearly disbelieving, before raising the volume again, utterly relentless: “Fine, you want to sleep, but you have to be reasonable about our jobs, right? We have protocol. Your lack of cooperation makes things difficult! And frankly, with the door shut like this, who knows what you’re… up to in there?” A burst of raw fury shot to my head, and I started trembling. I fought the urge to yank this unreasonable person through the door and rip into him. I gritted my teeth and forced out the words: “I am sleeping! What else would I be doing! Is this how your hotel treats guests? I swear I will complain!” The person outside seemed momentarily stunned, silent for a few seconds. Just as I thought he was giving up, I heard a very faint, resentful huff, followed by suppressed, but unmistakably clear, snippets of malicious, gossipy dialogue drifting in: “Seriously? What a psycho… why so aggressive…” Another male voice chimed in: “Right? That ‘Do Not Disturb’ sign is up like he’s trying to hide a crime…” “Sleeping with the covers over his head in the middle of the day? Ugh, who knows what shady business he’s running in there…” “I bet he’s working the clock…” “Exactly. Look at how tired he is. Must have been a good night’s hustle…” 2 My fury spiked, an electric shock. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms. Three days of blood, sweat, and tears on a project, and they turn it into some dirty hustle?! How dare they slander me like that? Just because I wanted to sleep behind a simple sign? I was so angry my vision blurred, but I was too drained to physically fight. All I could do was bite back the venomous words at my throat, clutch the covers, and play dead. After a long while, the footsteps finally seemed to fade. Silence. I collapsed back onto the bed, utterly drained. My heart was still slamming against my ribs from the confrontation. My head was splitting. I closed my eyes and focused on steadying my breath, the lure of sleep finally returning. Then, a knocking, more violent and urgent than before, erupted again. BAM! BAM! BAM! BAM! “Open the door! Routine safety equipment check, open up!” It was Devin’s voice again, but this time, the impatience and menace were unmistakable. “Argh!” I let out a low, frustrated growl, lunging upright in bed. My temples throbbed, and my heart raced even faster, jarred by the shock. “Stop knocking!” I screamed toward the door. “I said I’m resting! I don’t need any service! And I don’t need any damn check!” “Do your checks after I check out! Now leave immediately! Or I am filing a complaint right now!” Silence for two seconds. Just when I thought I’d finally broken through his thick skull, his voice returned: “It’s hotel policy! If there’s a safety incident because you wouldn’t cooperate, who takes responsibility? You can’t be this unreasonable—” “Shut up!” I completely snapped. The accumulated stress, anger, and injustice exploded out of me. “I am trying to sleep! Do you understand basic English?” “I am warning you for the last time. If you knock on this door one more time, I am calling the corporate line and getting you fired!” The door finally went quiet. I gasped for air, shaking slightly from the adrenaline of my own rage. Surely, that’s it. Exhausted, I slumped back onto the bed, my heart still thump-thump-thumping like it wanted to break free. My sleep was irrevocably fragmented. And then. Beep! Click-clack! A sharp electronic sound and the mechanical grinding of the lock being aggressively overridden rang out simultaneously. My heart seized up. Blood rushed to my head. BANG! The room door was shoved open with brute force. The massive impact made the door frame vibrate, but the door was caught instantly by the security chain I’d engaged the moment I entered. It only opened a gap of a few inches. “Tch!” A frustrated, irritated sound came from outside. A face appeared in the narrow gap—it was the same clerk, Devin. He strained to peer in, his face a mask of unconcealed annoyance and malice. His voice was sharp: “Oh! The security chain is on, is it? Who are you hiding from? Feeling a little guilty?” “Hiding in your room in the middle of the day? You must really be running some sleazy operation in there, huh?” “Or maybe you’re hiding contraband? Open the chain right now! We have to check!” The last thread of my sanity snapped. I launched myself off the bed, flying to the door. Through the narrow slit, I stared at that revolting face. “How dare you illegally override the lock on my room?!” “Who gave you the authority?! I am a guest here! I paid for this room; it is my private space! You are committing illegal entry! Do you understand the law?!” Devin was momentarily stunned by my roar. A flash of panic crossed his face, but it was quickly replaced by a deepening maliciousness. He was about to retort, but I didn’t give him the chance. My voice went shrill: “I have a congenital heart condition! Your constant banging and now your forced entry has scared my heart into a panic attack! It’s pounding out of my chest!” “If something happens to me right now, if I have a heart attack because you scared me to death! You will be a murderer! Are you prepared to face that kind of charge?!” I gasped for breath: “I was patient! I was willing to let it go, worker to worker! But you’ve pushed me too far! You think I’m an easy target?!” Our furious argument was painfully loud in the quiet corridor. The door of the room next to mine opened. So did the door across the hall. Several guests in pajamas or casual clothes poked their heads out, looking on with a mix of curiosity and eager anticipation. The moment Devin saw the audience, his expression transformed. The aggressive bully vanished. He instantly backed away, his eyes turning red, his shoulders starting to tremble. His voice broke into a heavy sob: “Everyone, please judge! I was just following hotel policy to check the safety equipment, for everyone’s safety…” “And this guest… he… he wouldn’t cooperate, and then he started screaming at me… calling me an intruder, threatening to file a complaint… telling me to get lost…” “We’re just working people! Why is it so hard to do our jobs… Just because we work in service, does that mean we deserve to be looked down on and bullied by guests?” 3 He sobbed dramatically, using the back of his hand to wipe away tears that weren’t quite there. His complete reversal and tearful, twisted version of events instantly won the sympathy of the uninformed onlookers. A middle-aged woman in a robe frowned and spoke up: “Listen, sir, you need to calm down. The young man is just doing his job. It’s not easy…” “Exactly. A quick check is for your own good. Why scream and swear at him?” another man chimed in. “People these days, they complain about everything. Bullying the workers…” someone else muttered under their breath. The baseless accusations pierced me like needles. I was shaking with anger. I locked eyes with Devin, who was still dabbing at his tear ducts, playing the picture of pathetic vulnerability. I snatched the security chain off the latch and stepped out into the hallway, my gaze sweeping over the handful of guests who had sided with him. “You all are quick to jump in, aren’t you?” My voice wasn’t loud, but every word was razor-sharp, squeezed out through clenched teeth: “Fine, then you listen up!” “I have a severe congenital heart condition!” I pointed to my chest, speaking slowly and deliberately. “And right now, this employee, who illegally entered my room and slandered me, has infuriated me to the point that my heart is extremelydistressed! If, in the next second, I collapse here from an emotional heart attack! You…” My finger stabbed towards the guests who’d spoken up, “Your words just now made you accessories! You were the trigger! I will not let a single one of you off the hook. I will instruct my lawyer to sue all of you! I will sue you until you lose everything! Go ahead, keep taking his side!” The hallway fell into immediate, stunned silence. A threat is abstract until it hits close to home. The faces of the righteous, judgmental onlookers instantly shifted. They exchanged panicked, worried glances. The woman in the robe forced an awkward laugh and quickly waved her hands. “Oh, hey, young man, please don’t get upset. I was just speaking casually, no offense intended.” “Yeah, yeah, this has nothing to do with us,” the others quickly echoed, desperate to distance themselves from the potential legal nightmare. Seeing his reinforcements retreat, the tears on Devin’s face evaporated instantly, as if a switch had been flicked off. He quickly wiped his face, his pitiful expression gone. He shot me a venomous glare, let out a cold huff through his nose, and marched away. Watching his back disappear around the corner, and confirming the nosy guests had closed their doors, the extreme tension in my body suddenly released. Back inside the room, I slid down the door panel to the floor, completely drained. My heart was still hammering, and my back was drenched in cold sweat. Finally… quiet? I struggled to my feet, stumbling back towards the bed, plunging my face deep into the pillow. Just as my frayed nerves began to relax and sleep threatened to return. Beep! Click-clack! The sharp sound of breaking metal and the mechanical ‘beep-clack’ of the lock being forced open erupted simultaneously. I shot my head up, eyes wide. The next second, the room door was violently thrust inward. The thin security chain had been clipped clean through by a pair of massive metal pliers. That persistent little ghost of a clerk was back. He charged to the bedside in a few steps and ripped the blanket right off me. All pretense was gone from his face, replaced by a vicious malice and the satisfaction of a job well done. He raised his hand. SLAP! An incredibly loud, crisp slap landed squarely on my face. “You won’t cooperate, huh?! Was opening the damn door really that difficult?!” 4 My cheek was stinging, hot and throbbing. My ears were ringing. I clutched my face, staring in disbelief at Devin standing over the bed. “You! You assaulted me?! Security! I’m calling the police! I’m calling the police right now!” I tried to lunge at him, but the combination of sleeplessness, shock, and anger left my body feeling like lead. My vision swam. Devin deftly stepped back, the smirk instantly wiped away, replaced by a look of manufactured terror. His voice went shrill and frantic as he yelled toward the door: “Security! Help! The guest is attacking me! Help!” Almost the moment his cry ended, two burly men in security uniforms, Ray and Vic, materialized and blocked the doorway. They were clearly waiting. One of them even had a smartphone out, its camera light glaring, aimed coldly at the interior of the room. One of the guards, Ray, frowned and spoke sternly: “Sir! Calm down! Don’t get physical! We received a report that you are highly agitated and showing violent tendencies!” “Violent tendencies?!” I felt like I was going to throw up blood. I pointed to the rapidly swelling side of my face. “Look closely! He broke into my room! He cut the security chain! He hit me! HE did this!” Devin immediately cowered behind the security guards, sobbing melodramatically: “I… I didn’t… I just saw he wouldn’t open the door and I was afraid he was in trouble, so I followed protocol and forced entry to check on him… I gently woke him, and he suddenly went crazy and tried to hit me… I was terrified…” “You’re lying!” I roared. “You are twisting the facts! Is this how your hotel allows employees to commit assault?! I demand to see your manager, now! Immediately!” “See the manager? Fine!” Devin suddenly peered out from behind the guard. There was not a trace of a tear, only a cruel, vicious look in his eye. He gave a malicious little smile. “But before you see the manager, we need to ensure your safety. Didn’t you just say you have a heart condition? And that you were about to die of fright?” “Well, The Prescott Hotel takes the life safety of its guests very seriously!” He suddenly raised his voice, ordering the security guards: “Ray, Vic, this gentleman claims he is having a heart attack and his condition is critical! Notify the emergency services immediately and secure the scene!” “What?!” I was completely blindsided. The two guards exchanged a hesitant look, but they seemed more inclined to follow the instruction. One of them immediately pulled out a walkie-talkie: “Front Desk to command! Emergency situation! Room 816 guest suffering sudden cardiac arrest! Requesting EMS!” The other guard, Vic, stepped forward, his eyes sharp, his phone still aimed at me. “You… you…” A chilling sense of cold horror washed over me. They were painting me as a lunatic, a liar, a disruptive guest trying to extort the hotel. The sheer absurdity of the situation, coupled with the ice-cold fear, gripped me. I had just wanted a few hours of sleep after an all-nighter, and I had been systematically forced into this nightmare scenario. My cheek was burning, and my heart, genuinely, was starting to beat erratically due to the confluence of rage and terror.

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On payday, I stared at the direct deposit notification, counting the zeroes three times just to be sure. Then I marched straight to Accounting, ready to tear into them. The finance manager didn’t even look up. She slid a statement across the counter. “It’s accurate,” she clipped. “The ten-million-dollar bonus was processed. Just not to your account.” She paused, then added with a dismissive roll of her eyes, “Everyone knows the system’s success was driven by the intern, Poppy. Don’t think you can coast on your tenure and steal her credit, June.” The game I’d architected, led to development, and pushed to an international award, which then sold for half a billion? The credit—and the money—was given to an intern? I didn’t waste another second. I slammed the office door open and strode into the CEO’s sprawling corner office. I demanded an explanation from Rod Carmichael. Rod, my boss and the son of the company’s founder, barely lifted his head from his leather desk blotter. “Juniper,” he said, using my full, formal name, “I’ve done a deep dive. The core of the game’s code was written by Poppy Greene.” “She’s frequently here until midnight, and works weekends. What about you?” He leaned back, lacing his fingers. “You check your phone, clock out at five on the dot. Attitude determines outcome, June. And yours has been lacking.” I nearly laughed, a sharp, humorless sound that caught in my throat. 1 “She’s an intern, Rod. Does she even recognize the full code base?” “Enough!” Rod cut me off, holding up a manicured hand. “The company’s decision stands. Everyone’s performance is under my observation.” He pulled a pre-written severance package from his desk drawer. “If you’re not satisfied, you’re free to pursue other opportunities.” My blood ran cold. Nine years of loyalty and sweat, summed up in a single, icy document. I picked up his custom fountain pen and signed my name. Before I walked out, I gave him a final, low threat. “Rod, you listen to me. If you ever have a technical issue, you go find your diligently working, late-night coding Poppy Greene to solve it. Don’t you dare call me.” He just smiled, a small, arrogant thing. “Deal.” As I walked through the open-plan office, I could hear the immediate, aggressive whisper mill start up. “Look, she’s out. Face like a storm cloud.” “Ten million dollars, poof. Anyone would be furious.” “Furious? For what? If she couldn’t secure her own contribution, whose fault is that? Rod is right: attitude is everything.” “Seriously, Poppy is here grinding until midnight. Meanwhile, June clocks out like clockwork, never misses an hour. And she still expected the credit? Give me a break.” Bella Marshall, a coworker who had suddenly become Poppy’s shadow, piped up with a particularly venomous tone. “I think she was coasting on her tenure and finally got found out. She deserves this.” “Totally. She thought the project would collapse without her. Poppy stepped up, and her code is cleaner! I bet June’s ‘lead developer’ title was mostly water weight.” “I heard she was running to the hospital every day last month. Family trouble, maybe?” “Pfft. Who doesn’t have issues? The company is a place for dedication. Poppy’s commitment is the real model.” “She’s obsolete. Getting phased out was inevitable.” “Ten million to Poppy? Earned. We need to encourage the young talent.” “Some people get old, they just need to move aside for their betters.” The spite was thick enough to choke on. The quick, mean pleasure in my downfall was clear. They seemed to have collectively forgotten the nine years I’d spent here—the all-nighters, the technical fires I’d put out, the team I’d built from nothing. All they saw was the last month, when my mother’s unexpected, critical illness had forced me to leave on time. Especially Bella. She used to call me ‘sis,’ and now her voice was the loudest, frothing with accusations of how I was “unworthy” and “blocking the path.” I stopped. I turned. I walked directly to Bella’s desk. She was mid-sentence, a smug, cruel smile plastered on her face. My eyes landed on the corporate mug on her desk. It was a cheap, commemorative thing the company had issued after I led the team to secure a major project win last year—a token of the Excellence Award I had earned for them. I grabbed it. Bella’s jaw dropped in startled horror. With all the strength I had, I hurled the mug against the floor. CRASH! The sound of shattering ceramic exploded through the open-plan office, silencing everything. 2 All the whispers, all the judgment, all the furtive glances—all of it ceased. Bella’s face went from pale to beetroot red. Her lips worked silently, unable to form a single word. I swept my gaze over the rest of the office. They all quickly dropped their eyes, pretending to be busy with their screens. I didn’t say anything. I just turned and walked into my private office. Closing the door behind me, I began packing my personal effects. My fingers brushed against the aging picture frame on my desk—a photo of the team after our first successful game test. Everyone was smiling, genuinely, with the pure spark of creation in their eyes. Now, only ghosts remained. The white-hot rage in my chest began to subside, replaced by a deeper, cold sorrow. Nine years. A decade of my prime. I had given it all to this company. How many nights was I the last one to turn off the lights? How many weekends did I spend in the server room debugging? How many technical firewalls did I lead us through? The award-winning, record-selling game—its core architecture, its initial concept, the most complex algorithms, the foundational code—every single line was my blood, sweat, and tears. Then, last month, my mother was rushed to the hospital. It was serious. The main development was complete by then; we were in the tedious, lower-level technical maintenance and polishing stage. Split between work and the hospital, I had no choice but to delegate. Poppy Greene, the seemingly earnest and timid intern, had volunteered to step up, insisting I prioritize my mother. I was so grateful. I handed off tasks that were mostly grunt work—tedious, repetitive, but necessary for clean-up. I even praised her in the department meeting, calling her proactive and committed. I never imagined that the grunt work I delegated would become the “game’s core” in Rod’s eyes. I never imagined that prioritizing my sick mother would become “proof” of my “lacking attitude.” The office door opened gently, and a familiar figure walked in. It was Poppy. She moved hesitantly toward my desk, wearing an expression that looked like a mixture of guilt and discomfort. “June,” she began, her voice soft. “The ten million… I feel terrible about it. The bonus should be yours. I want to give it back.” I stopped packing, but didn’t look up. I flashed back to her first day: quiet, carrying her notebook, timidly asking for help with coding questions, eyes bright with the desire to learn. “Fine.” I finally raised my head. My gaze was steady and calm as I took out my phone. “Transfer it now. I’ll wait.” The look of performative guilt on her face instantly froze. It was like hitting a pause button on a cheap tape recorder. A flicker of shock and pure annoyance crossed her eyes. She hadn’t expected me to call her bluff. After a beat of uncomfortable stiffness, a smirk replaced the guilt. “June,” she said, her voice now edged with undisguised mockery. “I was just being polite. You actually dare to ask for it?” She let out a brittle laugh. “I earned this money. Rod saw my ability and dedication. The core code is mine; I was the one working the late hours. Why do you think this money is yours?” She swelled with arrogance, looking around my private office with a predatory gaze. “In fact, thank you for vacating the space so quickly.” 3 “From now on, this is my private office.” The petty, entitled grin made her unrecognizable from the humble intern I remembered. “Earned it?” I took a step forward, closing the distance. “Do you mean the ability to swap the variable names on pre-tested interface parameters, reformat the comments, and submit an organized pile of my test cases as your ‘core algorithm’?” “Or do you mean the ability to always be furiously typing irrelevant code—or staring at a document you finished days ago—whenever Rod happened to walk past your desk?” My voice was low and even, but every word felt like a technical jab aimed at her greatest insecurity. These were the details I’d only realized later. She had leveraged my distraction with my mother, the fact that an intern wouldn’t have access to the final core, but would have access to process files and test harnesses. She spent a month meticulously manufacturing the illusion of “deep, even lead, involvement.” Poppy’s face twisted. The manufactured arrogance dissolved, replaced by the hot flush of being exposed. Her cheeks reddened, and her breathing hitched. “You—you’re lying!” she spat, but her eyes darted frantically, confirming my accuracy. “You know I’m not,” I said coldly. “Those ‘core modules’ you submitted as independent work? The underlying function calls and logic are an exact replica of the framework I built, merely encapsulated with some clumsy attempts at ‘optimization’ and ‘fluffy’ comments.” “Do you want me to put my original design specs side-by-side with your ‘work’ on a technical forum and let the industry judge your craftsmanship?” That statement utterly broke her defense. Her greatest weakness was her shallow technical foundation—it couldn’t withstand any serious scrutiny. Rod was clueless and easily fooled by appearances, but the tech community was ruthlessly smart. Poppy’s face drained of all color. Just then, her eyes landed on the old picture frame. The photo was a shot of my mother and me on a trip last year. Her eyes flashed with sudden malice. She quickly reached out and, with a subtle, intentional sweep of her hand, knocked the frame off the desk. It hit the floor with a clean smash, the glass fracturing into pieces. Then, she took a deliberate, stumbling step forward and crushed the scattered glass and the photograph beneath her right heel. “Oops,” she said, in a voice dripping with false contrition. “So sorry, June. I wasn’t watching my step.” All the blood in my body surged to my head. SLAP! The sound was sharp, brutal, and loud. Poppy’s head snapped to the side, and a perfect set of finger marks bloomed instantly on her cheek. “Get out!” The door flew open. “Juniper, what the hell is your problem?” Rod stood in the doorway, his face a mask of iron-grey fury. He must have been passing by and seen the whole incident. Poppy instantly transformed into the perfect victim. Her voice was a shaky sob. “Rod… I… I just came to apologize to June about the bonus.” “I don’t know why she suddenly got so angry… and hit me.” “June!” Rod roared, stepping into the room. “I never imagined you were this petty! The bonus is the company’s decision. If you have an issue, you don’t resort to violence against a colleague!” “Especially not when Poppy was trying to make amends!” “Amends?” I pointed at the floor where the broken glass and the image of my mother lay scattered. “She smashed my mother’s photo and then ground it under her heel. Is that her idea of an apology?” 4 Rod glanced at the mess, his brow furrowing slightly. But his expression immediately smoothed over. “It’s a picture frame, June. It broke. Is that worth physical assault?” “I think you’ve lost your mind over the money. You’re unraveling.” Poppy added a perfectly timed, whimpering sob, looking smaller and more defenseless than ever. “Rod, please don’t blame June… Maybe… maybe I did do something to upset her…” Rod, seeing her plight, grew even more incensed. “June, I gave you a chance. You threw it away.” “Now, pack up your things and get out of this company. Immediately!” I picked up the ruined photo and placed the last few remaining personal items into my bag. My silence, my absolute calm, seemed to throw both Rod and Poppy off guard. They had been expecting an eruption, a frantic defense, a meltdown. I zipped my backpack. I walked straight toward the door. I stopped as I passed Rod. I turned my head and looked at him, my voice completely devoid of emotion. “Rod, remember what you said today.” “I hope you won’t regret it.” “And I hope Poppy is truly as capable as she’s pretending to be.” Rod scowled, about to launch into a rebuttal. I didn’t give him the chance. I walked out, not looking back. There was nothing left here worth grieving. When I got home, my mother, recently discharged, was resting on the sofa. Seeing me home hours earlier than usual and sensing my dark mood, she asked what was wrong. I didn’t hide anything. I told her about the firing, the stolen credit, and the ten million. There was no blame in her eyes. She just pulled my hand into hers and patted it gently. “Then you quit. That kind of company isn’t worth my precious daughter’s effort.” “Health comes first, peace of mind comes first. I have some savings; don’t rush into a new job. Take a break.” Her words were a wave of warmth, finally thawing the numbness that the corporate crush had instilled in my heart. The next few days felt like life in slow motion. Mornings were spent with my mother at the farmer’s market, listening to her expertly haggle for the freshest produce. Late mornings were for the park, clumsily following her movements as she did Tai Chi with the seniors. Afternoons were spent on the balcony, brewing herbal tea, watching the leaves drift in the cup, discussing simple things. It was a long-lost, grounded peace that slowly, gently, began to mend the damage. In this rare quiet, the past nine years began to unspool in my mind like faded film footage, each frame now achingly clear. I remembered the company’s early, desperate days. To crack the technical barrier on our first game, I lived at the office with the core team for three straight months, sleeping on a piece of cardboard under my desk. We didn’t just solve the problem; we architected an optimized solution that far exceeded expectations. That was the company’s first big break, the one that established our technical reputation. I remembered the time a competitor launched a massive attack on our servers, nearly crippling our services and inciting customer rage. I led the team, working forty-eight hours straight without sleep, not only repelling the attack but successfully identifying and locking down the attacker’s vulnerability. That move saved the company millions and put us on the industry map. And the award-winning game— 5 The initial spark came from a dream I’d had as a kid. I spent countless late nights, surrounded by code and data, iterating, debugging, and refining it line by line. The rough prototype was even tested on my home computer. The game’s soul and architecture were inextricably linked to my identity. Through these hard-fought battles, the company grew from a small startup squeezed into a single, dingy office to a powerhouse. It won the international award, saw its valuation skyrocket, and was on the verge of a potential IPO. Walter Carmichael, Rod’s father and the founder, was a sharp, shrewd man who had tremendous faith in me. He gave me absolute freedom in the technical division. Off-the-record, he’d often put a hand on my shoulder and say, half-joking, half-serious, “If only Rod had half of June’s steady brilliance, I’d feel better about leaving him—and the company—in her hands.” Rod was away at school studying art and business then, and we all dismissed the comments as a joke. But that trust, that genuine expectation, had once made all the sacrifice feel worthwhile. Then Walter passed away suddenly. Rod, with his arts degree and his management books, rushed back to take over. At first, he was polite, consulting me on major tech decisions. But slowly, the company’s atmosphere began to shift. His management style—all about “attitude,” “dedication,” and “corporate culture”—eclipsed his father’s focus on engineering excellence and measurable results. How beautifully a presentation deck was designed, how late the lights stayed on after hours, how enthusiastically one participated in team-building activities—these superficial metrics seemed to matter more to him than actual, technical contribution. I was too immersed in the actual work to notice the shift—until the ten-million-dollar shock wave hit. Rod didn’t need a technical leader who delivered world-class results; he needed a compliant “role model” for his management philosophy. And Poppy had given him exactly what he wanted. After a month of rest, I started looking for a new job, polishing my resume and applying to a few top-tier gaming studios. My confidence was high; my reputation and track record should have made the search easy. But most of my applications went unanswered. The few companies that invited me for an initial interview quickly cooled off, their excuses vague and their attitude suddenly dismissive. After several weeks of this, an old colleague I trusted finally told me the truth off the record. “June, your skills aren’t the issue. Someone in the industry is talking. They’re saying you’re a toxic manager, that you bullied a young intern, stole her work, and physically assaulted her.” “They’ve painted you as an industry cancer.” I knew instantly: Rod was not content with firing me; he wanted to destroy my career. My mother saw my perpetual frown and, after some gentle prying, learned the whole story. Her face went white. She immediately moved to leave the house. “I’ll confront him! How dare he slander you like this!” I gently took her hand, pressing it down. “Hold on, Mom. Don’t rush.” I looked out the window, a strange, calm certainty in my voice. 6 “The time is almost right.” “Soon, he’ll be the one begging me.” My mother looked at me, confused. She was about to speak when my phone—resting on the table—pierced the silence. The screen flashed with Rod Carmichael. I tapped the answer button and put the call on speakerphone. “June?” Rod’s voice was raw, frantic, completely stripped of its usual arrogance. “You need to get to Synergy Tech on the West Side right now! It’s an emergency!”

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My wife, Quinn Foster, had become the youngest Section Chief in the Bureau of Classified Operations, all thanks to the supposed “voices” of the baby in her womb. I was visiting her on a holiday leave when I first heard that chilling voice—a phenomenon that had reportedly helped her root out a mole in the Bureau. The whisper, clear as a bell inside my head, was horrifying: [Oh no, it’s the Bad Dad! He’s the one who stole and sold the core technology!] In my previous life—the one that had just ended seconds ago—I hadn’t even had a chance to speak. Quinn had instantly leveled her standard-issue service pistol at my shoulder and fired. “Who did you sell the tech to? Talk!” I remembered the searing pain as I tried to explain, but her face was a mask of cold fury. Before I could finish, she raised the gun again. A single, decisive shot to my head. [Mommy is so strong! The Bad Dad is finally gone, and the data he stole is hidden in that flash drive!] I died that day, utterly baffled, never understanding how I became the traitor, the classified information leaker. Now, I was back. Reborn into the very morning of that fateful visit. I looked at her familiar, yet already hardening face, and then at the man beside her—her trusted deputy, Chris Valen, whom the ‘voice’ called the “Good Uncle.” I reached into my pocket, pulling out a flash drive. I held it out to my wife. “If this is the evidence you want,” I said, my voice steady, “then go ahead and shoot me.” Quinn took the flash drive, her brows furrowing slightly. When she flipped through the contents, she found nothing but a folder filled with photos—just old snapshots of us. “What is this?” she asked, confusion coloring her icy tone. “You heard the baby’s ‘voice,’ didn’t you?” I asked. “It says I stole core technology.” “This is the ‘evidence’ it pointed to.” In the last life, someone—I still didn’t know who—had planted classified files onto my personal drive, setting me up perfectly. The moment I woke up in this life, I’d scrubbed the drive clean. Every single byte. Quinn’s expression shifted, a flicker of alarm crossing her eyes as she was about to ask how I could hear the baby’s voice. At that exact moment, the door burst open. A uniformed man charged in, his weapon instantly fixed on me. “Don’t move! Hands up, now!” His gaze was sharp, accusatory—it was Chris Valen, Quinn’s partner and deputy. Quinn was genuinely startled. “Chris, what are you doing? Put the weapon down.” She didn’t sound like she was faking it. She truly hadn’t expected Chris to show up like this. It confirmed my suspicion: Chris had planned this ambush. “Section Chief, Ashton Vance is leaking critical military technology. He needs to be arrested, immediately—” I raised an eyebrow, a grim smile touching my lips. “Hold on. How do you know I’m leaking anything?” I turned to Quinn, demanding an answer. “Did the Bureau already issue an order for my arrest, or is this a little off-the-books operation between the two of you?” Chris scowled, his voice cold and hard. “What are you trying to spin? Isn’t the flash drive the evidence?” His eyes darted to Quinn, urging her on. “Section Chief, the suspect is right here. Why are we hesitating?” Quinn’s face was devoid of expression as she tossed the flash drive back to him. “See for yourself. It’s only photos of me and Ashton. Nothing else.” She pursed her lips, a reluctant admission escaping her. “The baby must have been mistaken this time.” Chris was incredulous, vehemently shaking his head. “Impossible. That’s impossible. The baby has never been wrong. It’s always been right.” He jammed the drive into a portable device, frantically scrolling, checking, and rechecking. “There has to be something we missed.” It was a chilling realization: Chris knew more about this “baby’s voice” phenomenon than I did, the child’s own father. My eyes darkened. I closed them for a brief moment, forcing myself back to neutral. “Since you two have work to do, I won’t interrupt.” I held out my hand to Chris. “Hand it over when you’re done looking.” Chris glared at me, his desperation obvious as he searched the empty drive a few more times. Finally, defeated, he snapped it back at me. He spun on his heel and stormed out, slamming the door. I gathered my things and reached for the door handle. Then, the voice started again. [The Bad Dad must have moved the data and hidden it somewhere else. Mommy, grab him and interrogate him!] A knot of panic tightened in my chest, a cold sweat breaking out on my back. I gripped the handle, fighting to appear calm as I pulled the door open. “Ashton, stop right there!” Quinn’s sharp voice cut through the silence. I ignored her, pushing through the door. “You traitor! Where do you think you’re going?” In the next second, Chris materialized from the shadows of the hallway and tackled me with a flying kick. I crumpled to the floor, the agonizing pain in my abdomen stealing my breath. Chris was on me instantly, expertly and brutally binding my wrists behind my back with a heavy nylon restraint. “Is this the Bureau of Classified Operations’ protocol?” I gritted out, the sweat pouring down my temples. “You have no evidence to call me a traitor, and no warrant to restrict my freedom.” Chris let out a chilling laugh, pressing the muzzle of his pistol against the back of my skull. “If you’ve got nothing to hide, why are you running?” “Don’t even think about escaping. My bullets don’t care who you are.” The baby’s voice chirped again, full of unnatural glee: [The Good Uncle is so amazing! He caught the Bad Dad in one try!] Quinn walked closer, her face stone-cold, and gently stroked her swelling belly. “Baby, where did Ashton transfer the data?” [The Bad Dad is too cunning. I don’t know either. Mommy will have to question him herself.] Quinn lifted her gaze, meeting Chris’s eyes. The look they exchanged—a silent, unsettling understanding—sent a shiver of pure dread down my spine. “Take him to the interrogation room,” Quinn ordered flatly. Chris roughly yanked me up and shoved me down the long, cold corridor. The interrogation room was sterile, cold, and oppressive. Chris slammed me into the specialized chair, the restraints instantly locking onto my limbs. He pressed my arms down hard onto the armrests, and the automatic cuffs clicked shut on my wrists and ankles. I looked at the one person who should have been the most familiar to me, a last thread of hope in my voice: “Quinn Foster, have three years of marriage meant so little that you don’t even know who I am?” She stood with her back to me, facing the one-way mirror, her shoulders rigid. “It’s because I thought I knew you,” her voice was distant, clinical, “that I find this so disgusting now.” Chris suddenly wrenched my arm, and a searing pain shot through me, threatening to snap the bone. “Where. Is. The. Data?!” His voice was tight with a disturbing thrill. “Spit it out now, and it’ll be easier on you.” The intense pain brought a coppery taste of blood to my throat, but I clamped down. “I haven’t seen any data. You can search everything I own.” Quinn finally turned, her eyes like ice picks. “The baby never makes a mistake.” She leaned in, her grip tight on my jaw. “Just confess, Ashton. Don’t make this hard for yourself.” A small nod of her head was all Chris needed. He tightened the restraints, and I was completely immobilized. “Why the stubbornness?” Chris fiddled with a small metal instrument in his hand. “Out of respect for Section Chief Foster, I truly didn’t want to resort to this.” I struggled furiously, only making the restraints dig deeper. “This is illegal coercion! Torture!” I gasped out, staring at Quinn. “Have you forgotten every single Bureau regulation?” I locked eyes with her, begging her to stop this. But she barely glanced at me before looking away. In that instant, my heart plunged into an abyss. As Chris adjusted his collar, a platinum tie clip caught the light. It was painfully familiar—a custom piece Quinn had made for me for our wedding anniversary, engraved with our initials. Now it was pinned to his tie. I managed a hollow, bitter laugh. “Just end it now.” “Save us all the trouble.” Chris instinctively put a hand over the clip. Quinn lunged forward, a stinging slap connecting with my cheek. “Stop with the nonsense!” Her voice was sharp as glass. “Chris and I have a purely professional relationship!” She noticed the clip, and her voice wavered. “It’s just a tie clip. What’s wrong with rewarding a subordinate? You never used it anyway. It was just collecting dust at home.” A blockage formed in my chest, and a familiar ache burned behind my nose. I had kept that tie clip carefully tucked away in my study. She had taken it without a word and given it to him. When I’d asked about it before, she had simply brushed it off, saying she’d order a better one. Only now did I understand: her utter ruthlessness in the last life wasn’t just about the cursed ‘voice.’ It was because her heart was already gone. Understanding brought a strange calm. “Do what you will,” I said flatly. Just then, Quinn suddenly clutched her abdomen, and the distinct voice chimed in. [Bad Dad, why are you making Mommy make mistakes?] I flinched. I suddenly realized that the child’s character in this life was drastically different from the one in my memory, which had actively encouraged Quinn to shoot me. Quinn’s boot slammed into my ribs. The sharp, searing pain stole my breath. “Trying to make me violate Bureau protocol? Ashton, that’s a brilliant plan!” The voice immediately backed her up: [Bad Dad is so awful! Mommy and Uncle Chris, hurry up and teach him a lesson!] Chris glanced at Quinn. She gave an almost imperceptible nod. He brought the electric baton down hard on my temple. Warm blood immediately tracked down my forehead, and the metallic taste of rust bloomed in my mouth. “Confess!” Chris’s voice was twisted with fervor as he struck me again. “You’re defiling Section Chief Foster’s reputation!” Waves of dizziness washed over me. I locked my eyes on Quinn. “You are abusing your power! You’re going to convict me based on a fetus’s ‘voice?’” I spat a mouthful of blood onto the polished toe of her boot. “When the truth comes out, none of you will escape this!” Quinn waved Chris to stop, then pressed the baton against my jaw. “You know how I became the youngest Section Chief?” She slammed my head against the wall. “It’s all thanks to the baby’s voice. I might be wrong, but it is never wrong!” The voice chimed in again: [The Bad Dad is about to die and he’s still trying to frame me!] [Does he really think he covered his tracks perfectly?] Chris immediately leaned forward, his palm resting on Quinn’s belly. The gesture was sickeningly intimate, as if he were the father. “Good boy, tell Uncle Chris. What else did your father do?” “Uncle Chris will punish him for you.” I let out a harsh, mocking laugh. “What a beautiful display of deep affection. Is this how you two usually run your investigations?” That comment completely broke Quinn’s control. She drew her pistol and fired, the bullet piercing my knee—exactly as it had in the previous life. The agony was absolute, and blood quickly pooled on the floor. “You will regret this!” I roared. The voice returned, dropping a deadly bomb: [The Bad Dad is collaborating with foreign spies!] [His company is an intelligence relay station. Who knows how many secrets he’s leaked?] The accusation ignited Quinn’s rage. As a core operative, she despised traitors more than anything. She raised the gun to finish me, but Chris suddenly stepped between us. “Chief, hold on. We still have no proof.” He glanced back at me. “And we can’t let him die this easily.” To my surprise, Quinn actually lowered the gun. Given her stubborn nature, once she decided something, she never backed down. How much did she truly care about Chris? I was gasping for air. “Quinn Foster, if you have the guts, just give me a clean death!” In a flash, Chris’s knife plunged into my thigh. “You want to die? Not a chance!” He switched on the chest-mounted recorder. “Ashton Vance, do you admit to colluding with foreign intelligence?” I spat a mix of blood and saliva onto his face. “You’re making baseless accusations!” I struggled against the pain. “I, Ashton Vance, have always acted with integrity! You are manufacturing a confession!” Chris smirked and turned off the recorder, then twisted the knife in my wound. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. After being reborn, I finally saw Quinn for who she really was. Amidst my tortured groans, a piercing alarm blared. The basement door was smashed open, and Bureau agents, weapons drawn, flooded the room. Chris was tackled and subdued before he could utter a word. The Deputy Director, a man named Agent Thorne, rushed to my side and personally released my restraints. “Agent Vance, are you alright?” My hands shaking, I pulled a micro-recorder from my inner jacket pocket. “The evidence… it’s all here…” The pain and the blood loss were overwhelming. I lost consciousness on the bumpy ride to the hospital.

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I’d been a high-end seafood purveyor for years, cornering the market on wholesale distribution for most of the major restaurants and catering halls in the city. My sister-in-law, Bree’s, event venue was one of my biggest accounts. But every time it came time to settle a bill, she’d send me one of those infuriating, low-value digital “good luck” payments—a random Venmo for sixty-six dollars, maybe less. For my parents’ sake, I’d always swallowed the insult. Until one family dinner, when my brother, Travis, had a little too much to drink and lashed out. “Samantha, how do you sleep at night, knowing you’re fleecing your own family?” he’d slurred, jabbing a finger in my direction. “Bree is decent and trusts you when you quote a price, but I checked the books! Other wholesale suppliers charge way less!” Bree had just sat there, pretending she hadn’t heard a word. My parents piled on, accusing me of exploiting my own brother. I just smiled, saying nothing. But a few months later, when Bree’s venue landed the biggest wedding of the year—catering for the local magnate, the Van Der Zee family—my luck changed. I saw the $66.00 Venmo pop up. That night, I called my driver. The Van Der Zee wedding would receive the foulest, rotten-to-the-core fish and shrimp I had in stock. 1 I was still busy taking inventory of a new shipment when my sister-in-law, Bree Allen, called. “Samantha, I need the absolute top-tier seafood for this Saturday,” she practically shrieked into the phone. “The Van Der Zees are throwing their son’s wedding reception at my venue, and they booked out every single seat. I cannot mess this up!” She rattled off a list of impossible demands. “It has to be the freshest, the most exclusive. Australian Blue Lobster, Hokkaido Uni, Alaskan King Crab, and I need the French Oysters with the numbered tags, original packaging only!” I managed a chilly laugh. “Absolutely. I’ll make sure it’s delivered right on time.” “Oh, that’s great! I’m sending the payment now. Consider this settled, okay?” My heart sank. I already knew what was coming. Sure enough, it was a random digital payment. I clicked on the notification: $66.00. I stared at the screen, letting out a long, slow sigh before accepting it. It wasn’t worth the fight. Bree’s text immediately followed: “Girl, that was $66.00! You’re going to get rich! Six-six is for good fortune, so you better make this delivery perfect for me!” I’d spent three years biting my tongue for Travis’s sake. But this time, the line was crossed. I wasn’t going to let this slide. Saturday arrived quickly. I had my driver load up the small truck early and send the delivery over. The Van Der Zee family’s event was colossal. Luxury cars snaked down the block to the Sapphire Ballroom. Bree was out front, playing the perfect hostess, her face strained into a smile that looked painful. She barely glanced at the truck pulling up. With a dismissive wave, she directed a server to take the boxes directly to the back kitchen. When the boxes were opened, the entire kitchen staff froze. The Australian lobster was already rotten. The sea urchins were reeking, weeping sludge. When Bree saw it, she nearly passed out. But the clock was ticking. Dinner was less than two hours away, and the guests were already arriving. There was no time to pull an emergency shipment from another supplier. The sheer power of the Van Der Zee name sent a shiver of terror down her spine. “Cook it!” she hissed, snapping out of her daze. “Cover it up! Use heavy oil, use strong spices—just get it on the plates. We’ll figure the rest out later.” The chefs tried their best, desperately using heavy seasonings to mask the overwhelming stench. The results, as expected, were catastrophic. The faces of the Van Der Zee guests were thunderous. When I got the news, I had to lean against a counter, laughing until my stomach ached. Just then, the door to my wholesale warehouse was kicked open with a sickening thud. I looked up. Travis and Bree stood there, seething, ready to tear me apart. “Samantha Richard! You absolute bitch! You’ve ruined me!” Travis bellowed. I faked innocence, walking toward them with a smile. “What’s wrong? You both look terrible.” Bree lunged at me, her finger jabbing the air inches from my eye. “What did I ever do to you, Samantha? Why did you sabotage me like this? I’m going to lose everything! I’m going to be bankrupt!” She dissolved into loud, theatrical sobs. My parents shuffled in behind them, their eyes full of condemnation. “Samantha, they are your own brother and sister-in-law. You’re family! How could you use spite and jealousy to give them rotting food you couldn’t sell? Does your conscience not bother you?” 2 My father chimed in, his jaw clenched. “Travis and Bree work day and night to keep that venue running. For three years, they haven’t had a single bad review! You just destroyed their reputation—it’s over!” I couldn’t help but laugh aloud. A good reputation? Repeat business? That was my doing. For three years, I’d held the line on quality, never charging them for the hidden costs I absorbed—the five-star chefs I’d flown in, the tight control I kept over the supply chain. I was the one silently covering all their expenses, allowing them to make a killing in just three years. But these leeches saw it as an entitlement, constantly pushing my boundaries. I looked at them calmly, letting the smile drop. “You get what you pay for. They deserved the rotten fish.” “You!” Bree’s face turned a mottled shade of purple, her entire body shaking with rage. “Samantha Richard, you’ve hated me since the day I married your brother! And after all I’ve done—giving the Richard family a grandson! I must have been blind to ever trust you!” Hearing this, my parents panicked and rushed to comfort Bree. I rolled my eyes, ready to unleash a fresh wave of sarcasm, when I heard a crash. Travis had grabbed a heavy-duty hammer and swung it at a massive, seven-foot-tall fish tank. Water instantly erupted, showering the floor with glass shards. Several priceless, crimson-finned Platinum Arowana were on the ground, sliced and bleeding. Travis was breathing heavily. “You’re sick, Samantha! I treat you like my favorite sister, and you stab me in the back! If you don’t cut them a check right now, I swear I’ll smash this entire place into rubble!” “Three years, we paid whatever you asked, no questions asked, and this is how you repay us!” I ignored his outburst and focused on Bree. “But, Bree only gave me sixty-six dollars. That’s all sixty-six dollars buys—and honestly, for the sheer volume she asked for, I think I even threw in a few extra rotting scallops.” The injured indignation on Bree’s face wavered, but she quickly ratcheted up her volume. “Samantha, that is a disgusting lie! The $66.00 wasn’t the payment! We always pay our vendors monthly. That Venmo was just a customary bonus—a little something extra for good luck before the delivery.” She pivoted to my parents, her voice cracking with apparent sincerity. “Mom, Dad, if Samantha thought the bonus was too small, she could have just said so! I would have sent a bigger one, or even given her a cut of my profit! But she can’t just destroy my business. The Van Der Zees will never let me recover…” My parents were immediately flooded with sympathy for Bree. In their eyes, I was the greedy, evil woman preying on my hard-working sister-in-law. Bree slumped into Travis’s arms, adopting a martyr’s tone. “It’s okay, honey. Don’t talk like that. We’re family. I want Samantha to be happy and successful, too. I just… I underestimated how dark someone’s heart could be.” The sheer audacity of her performance made me want to vomit. “If those $66.00 payments weren’t for the goods, then fine. Let’s see the monthly wire transfers for the last three years. Pull them up.” Bree’s body stiffened. Her eyes darted around, suddenly unable to meet mine. 3 “Who are you ordering around?” Travis stepped forward, gripping the hammer like a weapon. “I clear every month’s payment. She transferred the money, I know exactly what she paid!” Bree grabbed his arm. “Stop it, honey! Just drop it. I’ll take the loss. I’ll work another job to pay off the Van Der Zee catering hall.” “Not a chance!” I slammed my hand on the counter. “If you can produce evidence—concrete, bank-verified proof that you paid me every cent—I will personally take care of the entire Van Der Zee lawsuit. And, I will publicly kneel before you and apologize for ruining your reputation.” My firm stance made the panic in Bree’s eyes impossible to hide. “We’re family, Samantha. Making a scene like this is embarrassing. I’ve vented my anger. Let’s just call it even.” “No way!” Travis violently shook off her hand. “I won’t let her slander my wife! Even if it means ending our relationship, she will grovel to you today!” Seeing his resolve, Bree reluctantly opened her phone. She had clearly prepared for this, pulling up a dedicated folder of screenshots. Travis snatched the phone, zoomed in on the figures, and read the amounts loudly. “Listen up! January 2025: $330,000 paid in full!” “February: $290,000, paid in full!” “March: $410,000, paid in full!” “Well? Should I keep going? What do you have to say now?” A cold dread settled in my gut. “That’s impossible. I never received those payments!” I tried to grab the phone to examine the screenshots, but Travis gripped it tightly, hiding it behind his back. “Stop acting! You just want to destroy the proof that we paid! You made a promise, Samantha. Get on your knees.” I glanced at the smug, victorious look on Bree’s face. “I have every right to question the authenticity of those screenshots! I need to verify them.” Bree spoke with a cutting, wounded voice. “See? I knew it. My sister-in-law is such a fast talker, even with proof, she’ll find another excuse.” Her gaze flickered with a sudden, greedy light. “You know what? You’re the older one. Skip the kneeling. Just pay me eight million dollars in damages. Then, we can still be a family.” “A family?” I laughed, the sound brittle. “Fine. You won’t let me see your proof? I have something I want everyone to see, too.” I pulled out my phone. Just as my thumb hit the screen, I heard another massive CRASH. Travis had raised the hammer again, slamming it down on the next fish tank, which held several rare Silver Arowana. Once. Twice. A third time. He looked insane, aiming specifically for the most expensive displays. The hundred-thousand-dollar blood-red coral displays shattered into fragments. “Travis, stop it!” A wave of cold sweat washed over me. I rushed forward to stop him. The tanks he was smashing held pre-ordered ingredients for my top clients, due out tomorrow. If I lost that stock, I’d owe double the cost and my reputation would be ruined. But Travis was seeing red. He lifted the hammer high and swung it at me. It whistled past my ear, grazing my arm before it came down, demolishing another piece of equipment. I clutched my bleeding arm and watched the Silver Arowana flopping uselessly on the wet, glass-covered floor. The last, frayed thread of kinship snapped. “Fine. If you want to talk business, not family, let’s talk business.” I took a deep, steadying breath, pulled up a photo album on my phone, and tossed it to Travis. Bree, who had been looking arrogant just moments before, caught a glimpse of the screen, and her body suddenly swayed.

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Declan Cross and I were known throughout the city as the most purely hostile couple in the social register. It was a reputation earned, not given. He married me only to gain access to the Aethel Elixir, a rare medicine that would save the life of Stella Wren—the ghost of his first love. And I? I gave him a fake one. He hated me for it my entire life. The day I finally outlived Declan, I cheerfully called my closest circle of friends for a high-stakes bridge game. I planned to celebrate. I ended up losing the entire afternoon. I tossed my cards down in frustration. “This is boring,” I complained to the table. “You are all too good.” “Not like Declan. He lost to me every single time since we were kids.” The women exchanged confused glances. “Eliza, darling, you must be joking,” one of them said. “Who in this entire city doesn’t know Declan Cross is an absolute master player?” “That’s right,” another chimed in. “My husband never once won a hand against him!” My breath caught. The cards in my hand slipped and scattered on the floor. When I opened my eyes again, I was back—exactly one month before my wedding to Declan. My assistant, Maya, stormed in, her expression fierce. “Your Grace, what’s the plan? How are we going to punish that insidious little viper today?” I shook my head, a strange calm settling over me. “No need,” I said, managing a smile. “Just give her the medicine.” “The real one.” 1 I was leaving my brother Grant’s palace—the seat of our family’s political dynasty—when I walked right into Declan Cross. It was the first time I’d seen him in the month since I was given this strange second chance. The sight of him made me momentarily dizzy. We had spent too long in the last life exchanging nothing but cold glares. I had almost forgotten the gentle curve of his brow, his soft eyes, warm as a sunrise before the world shattered us. Declan clearly hadn’t expected to see me here, either. He opened his mouth, then seemed to remember that we were currently entrenched in a bitter cold war, and his lips pressed into a hard, rigid line. A month ago, he’d demanded that I hand over the Aethel Elixir—a rare family heirloom left to me by my mother—to cure Stella Wren’s mysterious illness. I’d refused, leading to a massive, public fight. This time, though, he would get his wish soon enough. His gaze fell on the sealed document in my hand—a decree from my brother, Senator Grant Sutton—and his forehead furrowed. The contempt in his voice was a sharp, undisguised edge. “Still throwing your weight around, Eliza? If you can’t have something, you just manipulate and demand it, regardless of the cost to anyone else!” I paused, realizing he had misinterpreted the situation. It was understandable. In the last timeline, I’d cried and begged Grant to force Declan to marry me, and Declan had taken thirty lashes rather than consent, all for Stella. This time, it truly wasn’t what he thought. I was about to explain, but he was already gone, turning on his heel and sweeping away without a backward glance. It wasn’t until we were far down the hall that Maya, my steadfast assistant, couldn’t hold it in any longer and burst into tears. I looked at her, weary. “What is there to cry about? It’s just a marriage. What difference does it make who I marry?” “But Senator Victor Albright is nearly seventy, Your Grace! He has dozens of mistresses and he’s known to be utterly ruthless, a monster in business and life!” Maya’s tears were like rain, streaming down her face. “I just hate this for you…” I slowly unfolded the sealed decree. It was, indeed, a marriage contract. But not for me and Declan. It was for the Sutton heiress, Eliza, and the notorious power broker, Victor Albright. In the previous life, I never knew the Aethel Elixir in our vault was fake. So, when I woke up, the first thing I did was send my people to find the real one. The only known dose was locked away in Victor Albright’s private collection. I wrote to him, asking what it would take for him to part with it. His reply contained just one condition— I had to marry him. I once used that medicine to blackmail Declan into marrying me. It seemed the bitter consequences of that action had finally found their way back to me. I laughed, a dry, humorless sound. “Perhaps this is just karma.” 2 Declan and I had known each other since we were kids. To call us childhood sweethearts wouldn’t be a stretch. Even though he was meant to be my brother’s—Grant’s—protégé, he always ended up following me around instead. The Cross family had only sons for a generation, and he’d always wanted a younger sister. Grant, being generous, had simply said, “Then you can have my sister.” From then on, Declan was more devoted to me than Grant was. If I got into a tussle with the tutor’s grandson, he’d step forward and take the blame for me. If I heard about some new gadget or rare import in the city, he’d scour every corner until he found it. The memory that stayed with me most was when I begged him to sneak me out of the family estate. Declan refused at first but ultimately succumbed to my relentless pestering. That day, the city was infiltrated by operatives from the Northern Cartel. We were almost caught in the crossfire, saved only by a patrol led by Declan’s father, the General. As always, Declan took all the responsibility. His father was furious and handed down a severe punishment. When I went to see him, he was lying face down on his bed, groaning dramatically. But the moment he saw me, the performance stopped. I was the one who burst into tears. “Why didn’t you turn me in? Why did you take that beating for no reason!” Declan scrambled to wipe my tears, his expression utterly serious. “You’re a Sutton, the most important one. I’m your protector.” “I will always have your back, Eliza.” He held out his pinky, and we sealed the promise. I thought that’s how it would always be. Until Declan returned from his last deployment and brought a woman with him. Stella Wren. He protected her fiercely. Even his most rough-and-tumble lieutenants treated her with profound respect. I started to panic. If Declan had someone else in his life, what would happen to me? That’s why, when he asked for the Aethel Elixir, I didn’t agree. If she died, wouldn’t that solve my problem? Besides, it was my mother’s final memento. But Declan was furious. “It’s the only thing that can save her, Eliza! What do you need it for? Why can’t you surrender it to someone who needs it to live?” I stared at him, stubborn. “How do you know I won’t need it myself someday?” It was the first time Declan had ever truly lost his temper with me. “Eliza, you are being completely unreasonable and selfish!” He refused to speak to me, and I refused to yield. But I always seemed to be one step behind Declan. The closer he grew to Stella, the more frantic I became. I was certain that one day, his eyes would only see Stella, and I would be invisible. Even if she died, I felt I wouldn’t win. The perfection of his devotion would forever overshadow me. So, I agreed to give him the medicine, on the condition that he marry me. Reluctantly, and only to save Stella, Declan married me. But I never anticipated that the medicine would be fake. Even now, I remember it vividly. Declan holding Stella helplessly, his tears mixing with her blood on his crisp shirt, like a blossoming wound. He looked up at me, his eyes consumed only by hatred. “Eliza Sutton, I will never—” “Never forgive you.” Declan began staying out, retreating from our shared life. He seemed determined to show me that even without Stella, he would not love me. I became obsessive, checking on his movements like a lunatic. I tracked him to a private club. He had hired a woman—a socialite, a mistress—who bore a striking resemblance to Stella. Stella had become my waking nightmare. She was the Gordian knot that bound Declan and me in a toxic loop. I used my influence to have the woman utterly ruined, her life and reputation destroyed, ensuring she would never show her face in this city again. That night, Declan burst into our master suite, dragged me from the bed, and clamped his hand around my wrist. “I thought you were merely spoiled and capricious, but you are truly malicious!” he snarled, his eyes blazing. “She was innocent, Eliza! How could you destroy her life!” I laughed, though tears streamed down my face. “Yes, she was innocent, Declan. But you must remember this: She died because of you.” A wave of pain washed over Declan’s face, and his composure nearly broke. The next day, he testified against me in front of Grant and the board. My brother, to appease the public outrage, had to fine me and restrict my movements. From that day on, Declan and I were the city’s most infamous pair of bitter rivals, known to all as a couple who “started as golden children, only to end up utterly repulsed by one another.” I didn’t care what people thought. I had secured a lifetime of toxic entanglement with Declan. Until the day he died. 3 When Declan died, the doctors reported it as an accumulated illness, his heart broken and his body worn out by endless political and military strain. His young aide rushed to my doorstep, weeping uncontrollably. “The General worked day and night! He died serving the Sutton legacy!” the aide cried. “The only time the General was ever truly happy was when he was with Ms. Wren overseas!” Maya had the aide removed, then turned to me, her eyes clouded with worry. “I’m not sad. Why would I be sad?” I said, staring at the wall. “It’s what Declan deserved. I did nothing wrong.” “He betrayed me first! He betrayed me first…” He was dead. I had won. I should have been thrilled. So, I waved my hand and told Maya to organize a bridge game with the ladies. I lost all afternoon. I slammed my hand down on the table, annoyed. “This is boring. You are all too skilled.” “Not like Declan. He lost to me every single time, from when we were kids until the end.” The wives were bewildered, exchanging knowing looks. “Eliza, you’re just teasing,” one said. “Everyone knows the General was a genius at cards.” “Right. My husband couldn’t beat him on his best day.” My body froze. I remembered three days before his death, when Declan had come to see me. For once, there was no hostility between us. “Let’s play a round of bridge, Eliza,” he’d said. “Just like the old days.” That day, he lost to me, too. I’d sneered, “For a man who is brilliant in every other field, it’s refreshing to know you have weaknesses, General.” Declan gave a muffled, soft laugh. As he was leaving, he turned back to me and said something that now felt like a punch to the gut: “Eliza, you have to walk your own path in this world. No one can stay with you until the very end.” I had thought he was asking for a divorce. But he was saying goodbye. A suffocating pain seized my chest, and I doubled over, coughing up a mouthful of blood. My consciousness began to splinter. The room erupted in frantic noise. Declan, is this how you felt when Stella died? I think… I really was wrong. 4 Maya was glumly helping me pack for the South, listing the expensive gowns and fine jewelry I would need for my new life with Victor Albright. I knew her fear. The North was volatile, and our family’s enemies in the South were restive. Grant’s position as Senator was tenuous. The Cross family was one of the few assets he could rely on. Victor Albright’s insistence on marrying me was purely to humiliate the Suttons and weaken Grant. “If this buys Grant a moment to breathe, it’s worth it,” I told her. Maya sniffled. “But Your Grace, I hear the South is rife with tropical diseases and humidity, not to mention insects and giant rodents! How can a delicate lady like you endure that…” I gently pinched her cheek. “Stop listening to those ridiculous rumors, Maya. We’ll see it with our own eyes soon enough.” “Come on. It’s the annual Spring Fair tonight. Let’s buy some trinkets. If we ever feel homesick, we’ll have something to remind us.” The main street was a roaring river of noise, the string lights overhead casting the avenue in a warm, festive glow. I pointed to a delicate, antique porcelain figurine—a lotus—at a nearby stall. Maya’s face finally brightened. “I’ll get it for you, Your Grace!” She was just reaching for her purse when the vendor snatched the lotus figurine back and handed it instead to a woman standing next to her. It was Stella Wren. Maya was incensed. “You told me you’d sell it to me! How can you go back on your word!” The vendor scratched his head. “Ma’am, just let it go. Ms. Wren is under the protection of General Cross’s estate!” That only fueled Maya’s fury. “What if she is? My mistress wants it, and we don’t surrender anything to others!” She reached out to grab it, and Stella instantly went pale, stumbling and falling theatrically onto the cobblestones. The fragile lotus figurine shattered on the ground. I stepped forward and stopped Maya. Just then, Declan rushed up, having seen the final moment of the scene. Stella saw him and immediately became the picture of distress, tears gushing like a broken dam. “I am but a humble woman, General. I’ve never seen anything so lovely, and I apologize for offending the Princess. Please forgive me,” she whimpered. Declan gently helped her up, his expression one of protective tenderness. “Eliza, it was just a silly figurine! Does it really give you the right to treat people so cruelly?” The gentleness he showed Stella was immediately replaced by unbridled accusation when he looked at me. I felt a faint prick in my chest. Two lifetimes separated us, and yet what weighed between us was so much more than a simple reproach. I had seen him favor Stella too many times to feel any deep pain now. Declan pulled Stella away. “Don’t cry. I’ll make you a much better one when we get back.” I called out, stopping them both. “Today’s incident was my fault for poor management of my staff. I will purchase every single item in this shop as an apology to Ms. Wren.” “My lady,” I said, looking at Stella. “I won’t fight you for anything you desire.” Declan whipped around, staring at me with a look of utter shock. A flicker of panic crossed his eyes before he could hide it. 5 The next day, for the first time in a month, Declan Cross came to my suite. “Here. I made this myself.” He was holding a delicate, ornate lamp. The fine craftsmanship proved it hadn’t been rushed. I had Maya take it, and I offered him a calm “Thank you.” “Why are you being so formal with me?” he asked, his voice low. Declan lowered his eyes, a fiercely contained stillness about him. “My relationship with Stella isn’t what you think. I was ambushed overseas, and she saved my life. Afterward, her father and brothers were killed, and the poisoning she suffers from is also because of me.” “I owe her a debt I can never repay, Eliza. I just want to save her…” I looked at him quietly, then nodded. “Alright. I will give you the Aethel Elixir.” Declan’s head snapped up. He stared at me, disbelief shining in his eyes. “You… Are you serious?” He was always so cautious when it came to Stella’s well-being. “Yes. Come to my estate in seven days to retrieve it.” He looked puzzled. “Why seven days?” Because in seven days, Victor Albright’s delegation would arrive with the real Elixir and escort me south. I offered a casual lie. “I’m taking inventory of the vault. It’ll take me a few days to locate it.” A smile touched Declan’s lips. Then, as if a sudden thought had occurred to him, a faint blush touched the tips of his ears. “Since you are willing to give up the medicine, I will agree to whatever condition you ask of me.” I smiled and shook my head. “No need.” “This time, Declan, I’m letting go.” Declan looked confused, clearly not grasping my meaning. He was about to press me further when his aide rushed in with an urgent report. “General, Ms. Wren’s illness has flared up! You need to hurry back!” Declan’s face instantly changed. He turned to leave, then suddenly stopped and looked back at me. “So, are we okay now? Are we reconciled?” I simply nodded. After Declan left, Maya cautiously looked at my expression. “Your Grace, should we take the lamp with us?” I shook my head. “No.” “Leave it here.” 6 The day before my departure, I went to a historic local church—a retreat center—I used to frequent. Whenever Declan left on deployment, I would come here to pray for his safe return. This time, I was praying for myself. The moment I stepped onto the grounds, I sensed something was wrong. There were two suspicious groups present. One group was composed of large men with covered faces, speaking a harsh, Northern dialect. The other group wore unusual, brightly colored clothing. The leader of the second group was a strikingly beautiful man, his dark hair pulled back with an indigo cloth tie. The collar of his tunic was embroidered with rare stitching and weighed down by intricate silver jewelry. When he turned his head and looked at me, he reminded me of a wild deer in the mountains—wary and powerful. I spoke quietly to Maya: “These people are dangerous. We need to go back and warn Grant immediately.” Just then, as if fate had a cruel sense of humor, I ran into Stella Wren again. She was still frail and delicate, but she curled her lips into a small, taunting smile. “Have you come here to pray for the General’s heart, Your Grace?” she asked. “You may be a high-society lady, but some things cannot be forced.” I studied Stella calmly. She was clearly trying to provoke me. In the last life, I had always given her what she wanted, allowing myself to be enraged, pushing Declan further away. Seeing my tranquil expression, Stella grew anxious. “You have no idea how many scars he carries! You don’t know how much he suffered for you!” she spat out. “When I found the General, he was severely wounded, his eyes blinded, and he couldn’t remember his own name. But he still remembered that a very important person was waiting for him to come home.” “And you? After he risked his life to return, all you did was throw tantrums and demand that he humble himself to you.” “You don’t deserve his love. If you force him to marry you in exchange for that medicine, I would rather die!” With that, she turned and stormed off in a huff. Stella was right. I was obsessed with Declan, but I was not his good match. Thankfully, in this life, I wouldn’t have to burden him anymore. Suddenly, a sharp scream ripped through the air. The large, bulky men had grabbed Stella. One of them, speaking with a heavy Northern accent, snarled, “If it wasn’t for her, I would have killed Declan Cross years ago!” “We lost too many men because of her. We’ll cut off her hand, then trade her to Cross for a profit.” A wave of panic hit me. Without thinking, I lunged forward, throwing myself toward Stella. A sharp blade sliced deeply across my collarbone. Blood instantly bloomed on my dress. My small group of security personnel was quickly overwhelmed by the Northern operatives. A sudden, rapid pounding of hoofbeats echoed, and I heard Declan’s voice. “Stella, are you alright!?” I was collapsing to the ground, and I used the last of my strength to call his name. “Declan…” He seemed to sense me and started to turn, but Stella wrapped her arms around his neck, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. “Declan, I’m so scared! Take me away from here, please!” Declan froze for a beat, then lifted the trembling woman into his arms. “Don’t worry. I’ll take you away.” My consciousness was ebbing. My heart sank, heavy and cold. I thought I heard the faint, melodic tinkle of silver bells. Then, one of the Northern operatives let out a blood-curdling scream: “Shit! Where did all these snakes come from?!”

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Three days before the wedding, during the final fitting of my dress, the phone rang. “Ellie.” Just two syllables, and I knew exactly who it was. But we hadn’t spoken in eight years. The last time I saw him, he was at the prenatal clinic, guiding her through the door. “What do you want?” I kept my voice flat, professional. The sharp intake of breath on the other end was audible, and his voice came back, strained and urgent: “Ellie, I heard you’re getting married. Can you let me see your mother?” “The three of us. A family reunion.” A reunion? I lowered my head, my fingers automatically touching the silver locket hidden beneath the lace. Inside, two small, laminated black-and-white photos: my mother and me. I gave a short, brittle laugh. “You want to see my mother? Wait until you’re dead.” 1 I hung up, and Jack stepped out of the fitting room. He saw the locket open on my chest and his warm smile faded just a touch. “Thinking about your mom again?” He drew me into his embrace, his hug gentle but with a subtle, cautious probe in his voice. “It’s been so many years, El. Are you sure you don’t want to invite your father to the wedding?” My body stiffened in his arms, turning instantly cold. “He stopped being my father eight years ago.” “But—” Jack started to say something more, but my phone rang again. It was my grandmother. She said Victor—my father, Victor Hayes—had somehow found out about the wedding. He was hounding her, demanding to be there. She asked if I wanted to tell him the truth about Mom. My face felt like stone. I replied, one word at a time. “Ignore him.” Ever since that day, eight years ago, I haven’t had a father. Grandma simply hummed, not pressing the issue. But right before she hung up, she sighed, a sound worn smooth by time and grief. “Ellie, honey, the things that happened back then… it wasn’t easy for your dad, either.” Grandma had forgiven him. My eyes burned, and I almost laughed aloud—a harsh, ugly sound I barely managed to swallow. I didn’t understand. My mother was the one who was betrayed, thrown out of her home, and ultimately, who died of a broken heart. Eight years later, how could anyone say he was the one who didn’t have it easy? Was it just because he was my father? Because of some flimsy, so-called blood tie? What a joke. I ended the call, changed out of the beautiful silk wedding dress, grabbed my car keys, and headed for the door. Jack followed me out, his expression worried. “Ellie, where are you going? Not back to the hotel?” “No. To the cemetery. To see my mother.” The black Audi pulled up to the gates of Evergreen Cemetery. I got out, bought a bunch of lilies—Mom’s favorite—and knelt expertly before the tombstone in the third row, seventh plot. “Mom, I’m here.” I carefully arranged the lilies in front of the smooth granite, then tugged on Jack’s arm. “This is your son-in-law, Jack Dawson. We’re getting married the day after tomorrow.” I paused, pressing down the sob that threatened to rise. “And Mom, he came looking for me.” “Grandma said he wants to attend the wedding. I said no.” “Don’t worry. I will never forgive him for you.” “I miss you, Mom.” I spoke softly, my hand brushing away a stray piece of dust from the engraving. It revealed a face that was a softer version of my own—gentle, smiling. It was a photo from her happiest day. My father’s company had just gone public; I had just been accepted into my dream university. At my acceptance party, the photographer had captured the unconcealed pride and love in her eyes as she looked at my father and me. It was her most joyful image, the one that spanned years of sacrifice. None of us could have known then that this photograph would be the one etched onto her tombstone, just eight years later. 2 On the drive back, I leaned my head against the cold glass, letting the wind dry the dampness in the corners of my eyes. Jack, trying hard to soothe me, racked his brain for jokes to make me smile. My mouth lifted slightly, and I was about to speak when my eyes caught something sharp and unwelcome. A man was pacing near the entrance of our hotel. “What are you doing here!” My body instantly bristled, all sharp edges. I slammed the car door and charged at him, demanding an answer. Victor Hayes saw me, and the tentative smile on his face immediately crumpled into a look of raw distress. “I… I just wanted to see you.” “I’m your father. You’re getting married, and of course I should—” “You are not my father!” I cut him off, spinning around and pulling Jack sharply toward the hotel lobby. “If you have an ounce of decency left, don’t ever let me see your face again.” In the reflection of the glass doors, I saw Victor take two stumbling steps after me, his voice tearing in the wind. “Ellie! At least tell me… is your mother alright?” I halted for a fraction of a second, then quickly moved on. Alright? She’s dead. So, yes, she’s finally alright. We got to the front desk. I was just about to tell the manager that Victor Hayes was not to be allowed on the property when the manager approached me. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Stone, but your wedding reception hall has been booked by someone else.” “What?” I froze, then the realization hit me like a blow. “He did this, didn’t he?” I didn’t need to say his name. The manager’s face went momentarily pale. “We can’t disclose guest names, ma’am, but the client said that if he could just meet with you and your mother, he would release the venue, free of charge.” Jack looked at me with deep concern. “Ellie, let’s just forget it…” “I’ll call other hotels right now.” I shook my head, already defeated. “It won’t work.” “When he makes up his mind about something, no amount of running or struggling will help.” That was a lesson I learned eight years too late. I took out my phone, hesitated for a long moment, and finally dialed the number I hadn’t deleted. “Ten AM tomorrow. Coffee shop. We meet.” My voice was ice-cold, but Victor on the other end sounded like he’d won the lottery. “Yes! Yes! Ellie, I won’t be late, I promise. Tell me, is your mother still a fan of—” I hung up before he could finish. That evening, Aunt Sophia arrived on a late flight. Eight years ago, she was still studying overseas and learned everything second-hand. Eight years later, the moment she saw me, her eyes were instantly red-rimmed. “How dare that despicable bastard show his face around you?” She gripped my hands, her whole body shaking with rage. “He was the one who disowned you eight years ago! How can he have the nerve to crash your wedding?” “Does he think he deserves it?” “And your mother…” Sophia choked on the name. “How could she be so damn generous? She slaved away, working multiple jobs just to scrimp and save to fund that viper’s startup.” “And then, when he finally made it big, the first thing he did was cheat, find a mistress, and break your mother’s heart until it stopped.” “Your mother was only forty years old when she died!” Sophia was sobbing uncontrollably. I just stood there, silent. Because she was right. My mother was too selfless. When she married my father, he was just a broke street kid—a nobody who barely had two pennies to rub together. His mother had died young, and his father was a gambler; his life was a total wreck. But my mother was a fool. Because he saved her once from a mugging on the way home from school, she gave him her whole heart. At eighteen, they had their first time. At twenty-two, they got married and had their first and only child—me. At forty, I got into college, and he cheated. The most hateful thing he ever said to her was: “I might be shameless, but you slept with me when you were eighteen. What right do you have to judge me?” That was the first time I saw utter despair in my mother’s eyes. The pain in that gaze was so deep that eight years later, I still woke up from nightmares, regretting what I did. Regretting that I ever told her about his affair. 3 I first discovered my father’s affair at my college acceptance party. It should have been the happiest day of my mother’s life. My father’s company was listed on the stock exchange; I was off to my dream school. The smile never left her face for the entire night. Until I used the excuse of needing fresh air to slip onto the balcony to text a friend. Just a few feet away, my father was locked in a tight embrace with a woman. I knew that woman. She was my mother’s best friend, her confidante for eighteen years. The first fancy party dress I ever owned was a gift from her. I froze on the spot, my mind a blank slate. The next thing I knew, a piercing scream, raw and bloody, tore out of me. My mother rushed over, worried. When she saw the scene, her soul shattered. I heard her ask my father: “Why?” “Why her?” The woman she had treated like a sister for nearly two decades. “And why today?” On our daughter’s big day. I don’t remember much after that. I only remember the lights in our house stayed on all night. My father smoked, lighting one cigarette after another. My mother sat lifelessly on the sofa, her makeup smeared and streaked. They made a pact: my father would cut ties with the other woman, and my mother would pretend nothing happened for my sake, so my education wouldn’t be affected. My mother, naïve as she was, still believed they could start over. Until the second time. My mother came home from grocery shopping. The bedroom door was slightly ajar, and the two of them were tangled up, half-dressed. On the nightstand right next to the bed sat our family photo—the three of us, smiling. That was the moment she completely lost it. She flung the groceries at them, smashing every single photo frame in the house. My father just stood there, watching her, shielding the other woman with his body. “Caroline, stop this ridiculous scene and close the door.” “Ellie will be home soon. It wouldn’t look good.” He remembered I was coming home, yet when he was with that woman, he didn’t even bother to close the door. I wasn’t told what happened next. I only knew my mother wanted a divorce and asked if I would go with her. Of course, I said yes. I had seen the evidence of his betrayal with my own eyes. I couldn’t bear to live under the same roof as him. To stick up for my mom, I even dragged a couple of friends to the mistress’s house. I called her a homewrecker, trashed her living room, and warned her never to show her face to my mom again. But my father struck back, and quickly. He didn’t hurt me. He just called the police for her and hired the best lawyer in town. “Even though you’re my daughter, the mother is to blame for the child’s mistakes. You dared to bully Aunt Vanessa, so your mother will have to apologize for you.” “This is a small warning. If it happens again, I won’t spare you, even if you are my child.” I will never forget that day I was left alone at the precinct. My mother rushed over, hysterical, and—in front of the police officers—she knelt before that woman. She bent low, her palms raw from digging her nails into them, kneeling before my father and Vanessa Pierce. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t raise my daughter properly.” “She’s still young. She needs to go to college. She can’t have a record. Please, let her go.” “I promise… I will teach her better. She won’t cause trouble again.” “Please.” That was the first time—the absolute first time—I wished my father dead. But my wish didn’t come true. He went on living perfectly fine. Even worse, after that incident, he stopped trying to hide his affair. He started bringing that woman home frequently, asking me to call her “Stepmom” right in front of my mother. He didn’t care that my mother cried all night, every night. He didn’t care that the hatred in my eyes grew daily. He was entirely consumed by his extramarital life. Then, a month later, my mother, distracted and distraught, was in a car accident. That was the first time I saw my father cry. 4 I remember it was the last private room on the hospital floor. My mother was asleep, sedated by the anesthetic. My father held her hand, his eyes red-rimmed. “Caroline, let’s stop fighting, okay?” “We’ll go back to how we were. We’ll be a proper family again.” My mother must have heard him, for a single tear slipped from the corner of her eye. She said nothing. After that day, my father was like a different person. He never mentioned that woman, and he stopped staying out all night. He came to the hospital every day at 8 AM sharp to accompany my mother to her checkups and would push her wheelchair around the garden in the afternoon. He seemed to have reverted to the good husband and father he used to be. My mother still wouldn’t speak to him, but she didn’t chase him away either. Then one evening, she quietly asked me: “Ellie, do you want a whole family again?” I knew she still couldn’t let go. In the past, I would have instantly refused, listing a dozen reasons why men never truly change. But her car accident had been so severe; she had nearly died. Seeing her frail, thin body, I couldn’t bring myself to hurt her again. So I said: “Whatever you decide, Mom.” Things seemed to be slowly improving. Until the day the doctor asked me to take my mother to the third floor for a CT scan. My father was coming out of the Obstetrics and Gynecology department, supporting that woman. My mother broke down again. She screamed, demanding to know if he wasn’t going to be a good husband, if he wasn’t ashamed that that woman was pregnant! The smile froze on my father’s face. He suddenly stepped forward and slapped my mother across the face, snarling: “I’m shameless? You slept with me when you were eighteen! What right do you have?” A surge of hot blood rushed to my head. I felt like a rabid animal, wanting to tear apart the bad people who were hurting my mother. But I was too weak. I couldn’t fight a forty-something-year-old man. I was slapped so hard two of my teeth chipped, and my nose wouldn’t stop bleeding. My mother panicked, desperate to protect me even though she was confined to a wheelchair. In the end, Victor Hayes won. He put his arm around the startled Vanessa, threw down two words— “I want a divorce!”—and stormed off. My face swollen and stinging, I watched the nurses rush my mother into the operating room. Her wounds had burst open. She was hemorrhaging, and they couldn’t stop the bleeding. … Soon after, the divorce papers were mailed to the hospital. Grandma rushed from her country home to help me deal with Mom’s funeral arrangements. Mimicking my mother’s handwriting, I signed the divorce agreement in her name. That was exactly eight years ago. A knock on the guest room door startled me. It was Jack, asking my aunt and me to come down for dinner. I was busy searching for a tissue to wipe away my tears when my phone rang, a frantic, urgent sound. It was the hotel front desk number. I thought there was another issue with the wedding venue and quickly answered. But the voice on the other end was Victor Hayes, trembling. “Ellie, why did the hotel staff say… that your mother is gone…”

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I was preparing a surprise for Danny Wells’s birthday when I stumbled across a thread on a popular forum. [My crush has a girlfriend, but should I still confess to him on his birthday?] The comments were a sea of angry question marks. To gather support, she updated the original post. [I’m a third-year resident at a top teaching hospital. My current career trajectory and future standing will easily eclipse his current girlfriend’s.] [She got into her program on a special admission—a legacy kid, probably barely passed the MCAT. Do I need to elaborate on how easy her path was?] [A group of us have known him for almost a year, and none of us have ever seen a photo of this girl. I think either she’s ugly or he’s just not that into her.] [His girlfriend is obviously the lovesick type; she just posts sappy little essays. I, on the other hand, can show him my devotion with practical action.] [We’ve known each other for 332 days, and our Snapchat streak is at 300.] [I’m an eight out of ten—good looking, great figure, and a genuinely likable personality. I’m the kind of high-EQ girl who could be his best partner in both work and life.] … I tapped the photo she attached, and my gaze locked on the man’s wrist. Even without seeing his face, I immediately recognized the watch. It was Danny. On the day of our breakup, everyone tried to console me. “It’s just casual sharing, Mia. It’s not even an emotional affair.” I shook my head. “Every meaningless thing they chose to share with each other was, at its core, a desperate bid to be let into the other’s life.” The relentless desire to share every single detail—that’s the real connection. That’s love’s oxygen. 1 I hadn’t told Danny I was coming back to Seattle. I wanted his birthday surprise to be genuine. Just half an hour ago, he’d sent me his location. A new ramen place downtown. A few of us from the hospital are grabbing a bite after our shift. If it’s good, I’ll take you next time! He was still the same, checking in constantly, reporting his whereabouts whenever he had a spare moment. I turned off my phone and changed my destination. When I arrived at the restaurant, they had just been seated. I pulled my baseball cap low and sat at a table two booths behind theirs. Danny came out of the restroom, and a girl nearby, carrying two small dipping bowls, walked right up to him. “The house special, and this one? This is the one you always make. I mixed it for you.” Danny took the bowl, tasting it naturally. “The special is pretty spicy, Ronnie. You better skip it.” The girl, Ronnie, smiled radiantly. “Thanks for the heads-up.” The two people closest to me immediately dropped their voices to a conspiratorial whisper. “Are they really not together yet? I can’t believe it.” “All those people at the med school crush on Danny, and he always kept his distance. Turns out his actual destiny was waiting here.” “No kidding. Danny is swamped with his residency, but he still checks her notes for night shifts. They’re a total power-couple move, career-wise.” “Ronnie is obsessed with him, too. It hasn’t even been a year, and I heard she’s practically doing his laundry at his place.” … Destined by fate. Power couple. Washing Danny’s clothes. My phone vibrated. The thread had been updated again. [Out to dinner with my crush! He’s so thoughtful—he even tasted the dip first to warn me it was spicy. Honestly, who wouldn’t be crazy about a guy like that?] Someone had commented: [No matter how great he is, he’s still somebody else’s boyfriend. I suggest the host get her relationships straight before falling into a lovesick delusion.] That comment was immediately deleted. I put my phone down. Danny and his colleagues were now seated, eating and venting about life—everything from their questionable college major choices to the hell of last night’s shift. Someone changed the topic. “Hey, isn’t it your birthday in a couple of days, Danny? Should we all get together?” Danny refused, as usual. “I already have plans that day. It’s just a birthday, no need to make a fuss.” “Oh, come on, you wouldn’t be so quick to say no if Ronnie asked. Ronnie, why don’t you say something?” Ronnie put down her chopsticks, a touch of pique in her voice. “His girlfriend is having a private celebration with him. What am I to him?” “Girlfriend? Wait, I heard whispers, but… you actually have a girlfriend?” I slowly lowered my eyes. This was my eighth year with Danny. We’d successfully navigated the seven-year itch, and we’d met each other’s families. So, whether or not my photo appeared on his social media was an irrelevant detail—especially since he never posted anything anyway. But in that moment, I was terrified of his answer. I instinctively grabbed my glass and gulped down the water, coughing until my chest ached. “Yes, I have one. But we’re long-distance.” It was Danny’s voice. Low. Calm. Unemotional. 2 I remembered the first time I visited him in college. He dragged me to his lecture, desperate for his professor and every classmate to know I was his girlfriend. A student in the front row simply asked if it was raining outside. Danny, ignoring the question entirely, grabbed my hand, his eyes shining. “How did you know my girlfriend was here?” He’s not that person now. His one sentence contained an answer, a caveat, and an implication. Ronnie couldn’t stop herself from speaking up. “Are there no good options closer to you? Are you not working hard enough? Why are you trying to maintain a relationship that gives you absolutely no professional benefit?” Danny was silent for a moment. “I don’t look at emotional connections in terms of benefit.” “Then let’s talk about feelings! Does she know how exhausted you are, how much pressure you’re under? Don’t you have a single regret?” Ronnie’s voice was strained, thick with suppressed tears and fierce resentment. The entire table fell quiet. After what felt like an eternity, I finally heard Danny’s voice. He said, “I have regrets, yes. But I force myself to be okay with it.” “And my situation right now doesn’t allow for messy emotions.” … I shut my eyes tightly. It was my fault. I was the reason he had regrets. I was the one forcing him to compromise and settle. I was the one who put him in a position where he couldn’t let his mind wander. But he seemed to have forgotten: we got together in the first place because we were each other’s whole circle. “Alright, alright, this isn’t the right place to hash this out. Danny, what do you want for your birthday?” Someone tried to lighten the mood. Ronnie huffed defiantly. “I don’t know what you guys are getting, but I know what his precious girlfriend sent him last year. A card with two lines, not even complete sentences.” “She couldn’t write two full sentences? Danny’s girlfriend can’t be that uneducated, can she?” Ronnie glanced at Danny and continued her rant. “I wouldn’t be so sure. It was something like, Be safe and stay well, and Always by my side. Seriously, so lovesick. I mean, if she couldn’t come up with something original, she could at least copy a decent quote!” I gripped my chopsticks, staring blankly. I didn’t even notice the boiling water splashing onto my hand. Last year, for Danny’s birthday, my research advisor had me running data analysis for two straight days. It was the first birthday we hadn’t celebrated together since we started dating. I had tried to write a long, heartfelt letter, pages to prove how vital he was to me. But I wrote and rewrote, and every time, I realized the only two things I truly wanted to say were those two lines: Be safe and stay well. Always by my side. My earnest, sacred words were now a joke. A casual punchline at my expense. In that one second, Danny Wells became unforgivable. 3 I stood up, dragging my carry-on suitcase out of the ramen shop. An early autumn rain in Seattle meant winter had arrived. I zipped up my hoodie and walked aimlessly. Down the street, a line snaked out of a little shop. It was the famous local bakery known for its exclusive seasonal apple fritters. I remembered high school. I was huddled in my desk during a late study hall, casually mentioning to my friend that I wished I had one of those fritters. “The ones at the bakery are the best, but they never taste the same when they’re cold.” My friend handed me a cookie. “Just eat this. Next year, I’ll buy you one on my lunch break.” But Danny, who sat behind me, made a mental note. Before the evening study session, a small paper bag, still warm, appeared on my desk. Danny didn’t even look up. His voice was steady as ever. “Ran an errand after school. Eat it while it’s hot.” On the grade ranking list that night, I was still one spot ahead of him. My friend teased him. “Danny, Mia crushes you every time. If I were you, I’d put something in her fritter.” He just smiled, looking at me with serious, focused eyes. “I’m not here to compete with her.” Later, we promised to go to Boston together. I had a guaranteed spot through early admission. He had to fight for it on the final exam. Fate, however, had its own plans. By a few points, he stayed behind in Seattle. My parents didn’t cry the day he drove me to the airport. He did. His eyes were red. “Will you meet someone better and leave me? I promise I’ll work harder.” I hugged him. “Never.” From the moment I agreed to be his, I resolved to hold his hand through every season. That Christmas, I took a late flight from Boston to Seattle and ran to his campus. I got a few old friends to lure him out to the quad. When Danny saw me pop out of the giant gift box, he stood still and stared for a long, long time. So long that I thought he might never speak again. “What is it? Aren’t you happy to see me?” He suddenly crushed me in a hug. “Mia, we are going to get married, aren’t we? I really, truly want to have a home with you.” “Then I can see you every day. I’ll always love you.” … Countless perfect memories flashed through my mind like a reel of film. Until yesterday, I was still turning down my advisor’s offer to stay in Boston for a specialized fellowship. Because I couldn’t bear to leave Danny alone again. But I didn’t know then that forever was just the soundtrack to a love that hadn’t yet been tested. I didn’t know that Danny had already found a replacement. In every absent holiday, every quiet day, he found a substitute for me. 4 I went to Danny’s apartment. There were still a few of my things to deal with. The computer in the study was on, the screen open to a Snapchat chat. The girl was a resident who started at the hospital simultaneously as him. Their flame streak was exactly three hundred days. A little fire emoji seemed to be waving smugly at me. Like it was mocking my stupidity. I scrolled up, reading. [That little puppy emoji is so cute, it looks just like you! Did the Head Nurse yell at you today?] [No, she just has a naturally loud voice.] [Danny, you’re seriously the nicest person.] [You are too.] … [Danny, look at this clip of a resident having a meltdown. LMAO.] [Haha, that’s basically us.] [I noticed you missed breakfast at the cafeteria. No time?] [Didn’t make it.] [You’re so lucky you have me. I’ll bring you something!] … [Danny, are you married?] [What are you talking about? Of course not.] [Oh, I just heard you have a girlfriend. But it’s fine if you’re not married.] … [Don’t overthink it. You have a night shift tomorrow, right?] [If I make it through alive tomorrow, I’m buying you dinner!] [Then I wish you luck.] … [We said we’d grab dinner tomorrow. If it’s too late to go home, I’ll crash at your place for the night. You know the drill—you sleep on the couch.] [Polite − Face emoji] [In return, I left some fruit on your counter. Already washed.] [Grateful − Heart emoji] [You’re welcome, you’re welcome. See you tomorrow night.] [Got it.] … They started by sharing videos complaining about med-school life and progressed to making AI-generated joke photos of each other. Now, they were inseparable. The density of the chat log made me feel increasingly ridiculous. They talked about everything: their high school rivalry, the new coffee shop on the corner, the sunset after a long shift. While Danny was too busy shadowing his surgeon, unable to reply to my simple check-in texts, he somehow found the time to comfort her after a patient shouted at her. For the past year, I worried about his brutal residency shifts and lack of sleep. I consciously chose not to bother him unless absolutely necessary. But Ronnie felt completely entitled to complain when he nearly missed their Snapchat streak. While I was buying him easy, pre-made breakfast packages and telling him to get more rest, he was taking Ronnie to a street-food market to celebrate her making it through a night shift. And the day I had my own research meltdown. I found contamination in a lab culture that wiped out two months of work. I was instantly crushed. I called Danny. He hung up. He didn’t even text me back. I thought he was busy. He wasn’t. He was with Ronnie at her first-ever concert. No interruptions allowed. Now I knew the truth. The contamination only destroyed two months of my research. The contamination in my relationship with Danny had destroyed eight years of my life. Tears streamed down my face. Suddenly, two new messages synced on the computer screen. [Are you absolutely sure we can’t spend your birthday together?] [Next time.] … [Pat on the head emoji] [Promise. Next year, we’ll celebrate together.] [Your wish is my command. How could I refuse you?] … The forum thread updated again. [I finally met his so-called girlfriend. She’s ordinary and unremarkable. What’s crazier is she’s practically living at his place without even being engaged. A girl with my strict family values would never accept that.] The accompanying photo was a blurry rear-view mirror shot: Danny’s hand gently stroking Ronnie’s head, his lips curved into a faint smile. [This is the third time I’ve seen this post—I’m over it! You need to go for it! You’re so accomplished; why wait for this wishy-washy guy to figure out his feelings? You’ll be doing his current girlfriend a favor, honestly. Go, go, go!] [Exactly! The host is beautiful, smart, and has a great career path. Why should she tolerate his pathetic girlfriend? Chase him down! End of discussion!] [There’s a line between deep affection and ethical boundaries. I urge the author to stop. There’s no seniority in love, but there is in character and decency.] [Shhh, is this really something to brag about? Keep your cheating endeavors private.] … I sent Danny a text, my hands perfectly steady. [I’m not coming back.] He instantly replied: My birthday? Last year you couldn’t make it, and now this year? My Mia is clearly overworked. I pressed the power button, plunging the screen into darkness. I didn’t reply. Danny. I won’t be there for any of your birthdays from now on. Busy or not busy. I’m done.

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I’ve always been a man who prefers a clean shot. So, when I scrolled through my Special Tactics Unit fiancée’s private photo album and saw a strange man’s sleeping face, I walked straight up to Scarlett Pierce and demanded an explanation. She sat on the balcony all night, finally confessing, “He was the hostage I extracted from my last mission—the son of the Director. I won’t lie, Damon. I developed feelings for him. But we’ve been together for seven years. We’re getting married the day after tomorrow. I promise you, I will cut all ties with him.” Looking at the desperate sincerity in her eyes, I swallowed the searing pain and chose to forgive her. The wedding would proceed as planned. But on the wedding day, a young man burst into the chapel, pressing a pistol to his own temple. “Scarlett! If you marry him, I swear I will end myself right here in front of you.” Scarlett’s fingers instinctively curled inward. I grabbed her wrist, my voice a low, dangerous warning. “Scarlett, you walk out that door today, and we are permanently finished.” Her hand trembled as she picked up the wedding band. Then, a chillingly clear sound of a firearm being loaded echoed from the doorway. Like a flash of lightning, Scarlett bolted, rushing toward the door. She wrapped her arms around the boy and left the wedding ceremony without a single glance back at me. The wedding reception dissolved into a chaotic mess. The guests’ murmurs were like a thousand fine needles piercing my eardrums. Both sets of parents swarmed me, frantic and confused. I looked over at Cindy, who had been Scarlett’s partner for eight years. She nervously avoided my gaze. “D-Damon… Blake Kincaid is the Director’s son. Six months ago, he was kidnapped in Los Angeles. Scarlett was the one who pulled him out. The situation was complicated; they had to pose as a married couple for three months… Since they came back, he’ll only let Scarlett be his personal security detail…” Cindy’s voice faded to a whisper, her face flushed crimson. I didn’t have the energy to dwell on how many secrets she’d kept for Scarlett, or what her own connection to this Blake Kincaid might be. A dense, suffocating pain spread through my chest. I felt the betrayal deep in my bones. My parents held my hands, their worry palpable. “Who is that man to Scarlett? Where did they go? Does she not want to marry you anymore?” Mr. and Mrs. Pierce guiltily called Scarlett, muttering promises to me. “Damon, don’t worry. I’ll call her back right now. If she doesn’t come back, I’ll… I’ll disown her!” The diamond ring lay forgotten on the red carpet, kicked away by the rushing feet, a perfect metaphor for my shattered heart. I stood frozen. The immaculate hem of my suit was dragging on the ground, stained with mud. The wedding I had pictured countless times had become a spectacle of wreckage. The groom, abandoned in the center of a packed hall, sacrificed for another man. It was an unbelievable, shameful melodrama, and it was happening to me. Five solid hours. One hundred and eight calls. Scarlett answered none of them. I watched the screen of my phone dim, then brighten, then finally go dark. Sunlight filtered through the cathedral’s stained glass, casting fractured patterns on the floor. A cold, piercing light landed squarely on my empty ring finger. The guests gradually left, leaving behind the confetti and half-eaten catering. A wave of dizziness washed over me. Everything spun. The last sound I heard was my mother’s panicked cry. When I woke again, the sharp scent of antiseptic filled my nose. A nurse was adjusting my IV drip. She spoke softly. “You’re extremely run down. You can’t afford any more stress. You need to take care of yourself.” I stared at the ceiling. Tears slipped silently into my hairline. The seven years flashed through my mind like a sped-up film reel: the farewell kiss before she joined the Special Tactics Group at eighteen; the thick stack of letters from deployment; the emergency contact listed on every single one of her mission wills—always my name. I forced a bitter smile for my parents and the Pierces. How could I explain that this seven-year marathon had to end now? At seven in the evening, Scarlett, missing for six hours, finally appeared. Her face was pale. The look she gave me held a distinct layer of guilt. “Damon, I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice rough. “Blake… he’s my mission asset. No matter what, his safety has to come first…” I swallowed the bitterness. I couldn’t help but ask. “Did you take him away only because of your duty?” I fought back a sob. “You know exactly how he feels about you, yet you chose to protect him over me, over our wedding. Scarlett, I’m not an idiot.” She was silent for a long time. Then, she grasped my cold hand. Her voice was strained. “Damon Robert, in seven years, I’ve never asked you for anything. Just this once, I’m begging you. Don’t sensationalize this. Don’t let this ruin him. He’s young; he can’t be branded as the other man. Please?” I stared at the desperate plea in her eyes. My heart clenched tight, making it impossible to breathe. She shouldn’t be begging me; she should be apologizing. A person’s first reaction never lies. She hadn’t thought about my humiliation at the altar. She hadn’t worried about why I was in the hospital. Her first, her only, concern was Blake. It took all my strength to push one word past my throat: “Fine.” She visibly relaxed. “Blake is very unstable knowing I was about to get married. Our wedding… let’s postpone it for now.” “I need to be his dedicated security detail right now… just for a few months. When the mission is fully closed, maybe three months, we can finally have our wedding. Please?” Her voice was laced with cautious hope. I had waited seven years. Three more months truly wasn’t a lifetime. But looking at the genuine concern in her eyes—concern reserved entirely for someone else—I realized I couldn’t wait another day. My voice was flat, like stagnant water. “Scarlett.” “I’m not known for my great memory. But I remember your blush when you stole a kiss the day I dropped you off at the base.” “I remember the first letter you wrote, saying you wanted to grow old with me and see the world.” “I remember you surviving a near-fatal deployment, but still managing to bring back my favorite salted caramel tart.” “These years, you never wronged me. You always put my needs first, you remembered every tiny habit… I always believed you would love me forever.” I looked up at her, and the dam broke. Tears streamed down my face. “But today, I just can’t feel your love anymore…” Seven years of memories surged. Scarlett’s own eyes turned red, and a single tear slipped down her cheek. “But Damon,” she whispered, “Blake can’t be without me right now.” That single phrase, “can’t be without me,” obliterated the last of my hope. I looked at her, and a strange laugh bubbled up, mixed with my tears. “Then go.” She froze, clearly not expecting me to give in so easily. But she didn’t say another word, turning and leaving the room. The next morning, I was packing my few things, ready to check out, when I rounded the corner of the corridor and ran right into Scarlett. Her eyes weren’t even on me. Her entire attention was focused on the man beside her. Blake was handsome, charming, and looking at her with a raw, bright admiration. So this was the man for whom she’d abandoned me at the altar. My stare must have been intense because Blake noticed me first. He didn’t flinch, instead raising his chin with a casual, almost smug air—the relaxed confidence of a spoiled man of power. Only then did Scarlett turn. Her brow furrowed instantly, her tone edged with impatience. “Damon. Blake’s emotions are fragile right now. We need to go home. Say whatever you need to say there, but don’t cause a scene here. You’ll affect him.” Blake smiled and extended his hand grandly. “You must be Damon Robert. Scarlett talks about you all the time.” He added, without a trace of sincerity, “I apologize for interrupting your wedding the other day.” I gripped my discharge papers until my knuckles were white, then managed a faint smile. “You don’t have to worry about me. I’m just here to check out.” I walked past them to the cashier. Scarlett looked at me strangely, surprised by my sudden composure. A flicker of something—disappointment? loss?—crossed her face. She reached out to stop me, but I turned my head, catching sight of a faint smudge on the sleeve of her trench coat. Her eyes followed mine. She saw me take the coat off, and she reached out to take it. “Give it to me, I know how much you like this coat. I’ll have it professionally cleaned.” I shook my head and tossed the coat directly into a nearby garbage bin. My tone was distant. “Throw it out. I don’t like things that are stained. You know I’m a clean freak.” The smile froze on Scarlett’s face. She knew I wasn’t talking about the coat. I was talking about the seven years of our life. Before she could speak again, I had settled the bill and walked away. Not far from the hospital, my phone vibrated. It was a text from Scarlett: Don’t be mad. I got you a salted caramel tart from that place you love. Remember to pick it up. When the delivery arrived, I stared at the familiar pink box and laughed without humor. This was her standard apology ritual. I mechanically took a bite. It used to be the sweetest thing I’d ever tasted. Now, it was just bitter and indigestible. Scarlett didn’t come home that night. Stripping away a seven-year relationship hurt more than I could have imagined. I stayed awake until dawn, then finally climbed out of bed to pack. The matching hoodies in the closet, the framed photos on the shelf, the sticky notes on the refrigerator—every object held a sharp, thorny memory. I thought of the day she got her deployment papers for the elite unit. She was heartbroken. “This is great news, why are you so upset?” She just hugged me, sighing. “I’ll see you even less. Husband, I’m going to miss you too much.” “Then buy me a huge house,” I teased, “so I can wait for you there, safe and sound.” She took my joke seriously. She took the most dangerous, highest-paying missions, including a terrifying extraction mission in South Asia. I was so scared I spent the night at a temple, praying for every deity to bring her back. She came back, scarred and exhausted, but smiling foolishly as she pressed the deed to a new condo into my hand. “Damon, you have your big house now. You can’t run away.” Now, the house was here, but the person I was waiting for refused to return. I closed the last storage box just as the sky turned a pale pink. When the moving truck arrived, both sets of parents showed up. I hadn’t told them the full truth, so they couldn’t understand why the couple who were supposed to be getting married two days ago were suddenly splitting up. My parents sighed, not arguing, just telling me, “Come home whenever you want.” Mrs. Pierce grabbed my hand, pleading. “Damon, please give Scarlett another chance! The wedding… she was just confused. It was a mistake…” I stayed silent, instructing the movers to keep going. Just as Mrs. Pierce was about to lose her voice, the front door opened. Scarlett was back. And she brought Blake with her. He looked around the room, curious and excited, as if he were the new master of the house. A terrifying silence fell over the room. Everyone’s eyes were fixed on them. Mrs. Pierce’s voice trembled. “Scarlett, did… did you do something unforgivable to Damon?” Mr. Pierce was shaking with fury. “Who is that man?!” Scarlett didn’t answer. She only scanned the empty living room, her eyes settling on me. “You’re moving out?” “Yes,” I answered calmly. “Back to my parents’ place.” She seemed to relax slightly. “Good. I’ll come pick you up before the next wedding.” She said it dismissively, then pulled Blake forward. “This is Blake Kincaid. He was the hostage from my last mission, and he’s the Director’s son. For the next while, I need to be his close-protection officer.” Her open, indifferent manner made all our previous suspicions seem petty. Blake smiled sweetly and reached out to link arms with Mrs. Pierce. “Auntie, hello. Scarlett takes such good care of me. She even brought me home for dinner today. Since everyone’s here, why don’t I cook? You can all try my famous pasta.” Mrs. Pierce looked awkwardly at me. “Damon, maybe… maybe we can just sit down and talk this out?” I was about to refuse when Blake jumped in, his eyes sparking with provocation. “Damon, you should stay too! The more the merrier, right?” SLAP— A sharp crack echoed through the house. I stared, stunned, as my mother stood there, having just slapped Blake across the face. “Mom!” She glared at me, her eyes red, her voice shaking violently. “I gave birth to you. You think I don’t know you?” “You’ve been with her since you were eighteen—seven years! For her, you, a young man, lived like a monk, praying to every saint to keep her safe. She was gone? You couldn’t sleep. You care about her that much. You wouldn’t walk away unless your heart was utterly broken!” “I don’t care who you marry, but today, she brings another man here to humiliate you—I will not stand for it as your mother!” “If you won’t stand up for yourself, I will!” My mother’s words struck me like lightning, and my eyes burned with unshed tears. Blake covered his stinging cheek, tears welling up. Scarlett immediately shielded him, her face darkening with fury. “Damon Robert! How old are you? Are you still running to your parents to fight your battles—” I didn’t let her finish. I rushed forward and slapped her. “Scarlett Pierce, you are the one who deserves it!” I thought of the times I was abandoned, the sleepless nights, the precious sincerity that was crushed. How could I pretend none of it happened? My eyes were wild. “We are over! Break up!” Before Scarlett could respond, Mrs. Pierce frantically interjected, “No! You’ve been together for seven years. You can’t just throw it away!” The usually stoic Scarlett’s face changed drastically. “Damon, listen to me. Don’t be dramatic.” “I’m not being dramatic.” I looked straight at her. “The moment you left me at that altar, we were finished.” Scarlett moved to explain, but Blake suddenly burst into loud sobs. “Damon, it’s all my fault! Please don’t blame Scarlett! I was confused, I fell for someone I shouldn’t have… I should die!” As soon as the words left his mouth, Blake ran out of the house, still weeping. Scarlett’s attention immediately snapped to the door. She looked at me gravely. “Damon, Blake is in a terrible state. I’m afraid he’ll do something reckless. Wait here, we’ll talk about us later.” She started to rush after him, but Mrs. Pierce grabbed her arm. “Scarlett, are you trying to kill your father and me? Who is your partner? Who matters more? Can’t you tell the difference?” But there’s no waking someone who is pretending to sleep. Scarlett wrenched her arm free. Frowning, she said, “Mom, if he leaves my sight, he’s at risk of reprisal. He’s a life, Mom! A life is at stake!” Silence settled over the room. Scarlett glanced at me, a flicker of guilt, and then turned to chase Blake. A sudden, torrential downpour began outside the window. Mrs. Pierce held my hand, closing her eyes. “Damon, with this rain… why don’t you wait until tomorrow to leave?” I looked at the sheet of water outside and shook my head. “No.” Let this winter storm be my final farewell to Scarlett Pierce. I went home with my parents that evening. Scarlett, meanwhile, spent the night kneeling in the same pouring rain outside my parents’ front door. The next morning, when I opened the door, her eyes immediately lit up. Struggling to stand, she looked at me. “Damon Robert. You’re awake.” She was soaking wet, shivering, and looked wretched. The all-night vigil had left dark circles under her usually bright eyes. I was utterly sick of her post-betrayal performance. If she cared so much, why did she abandon me every single time? Scarlett’s eyes were desperate. She held up her hand and swore. “Damon, I’ve explained everything to Blake. Someone else will be assigned to his protection now. From this moment, I will have no contact with him. It’s an official unit notice—look.” She held out her phone, her eyes full of stubborn pleading. I took the phone and slammed it onto the concrete. “Scarlett. There is no going back.” She stared at me, tormented. “Why? Damon, I told you I will give you a future. Can’t you wait just a little longer? Why won’t you believe me?” Even now, she didn’t get it. This was never about belief or commitment. This was about a third party staining the purity of our love. I said nothing, moving to call security. She let out a strangled cry. “Damon Robert!” Scarlett dropped to her knees in front of me, her palm open, holding the ring she had tossed aside at the wedding. “Forgive me. Let’s go to the courthouse right now. Please?” The truth was, Scarlett was exceptional. She was beautiful, capable, well-bred, and both our families loved us together. We had genuine love. Perhaps I could pretend the man in the middle never happened, and go on with her. But I couldn’t. The love I needed had to be flawless. The moment I reached for the diamond ring, her phone rang on the ground. I vaguely heard Cindy’s frantic voice yelling: “It’s Blake! He tried to overdose again!” The same performance, replayed countless times. Scarlett’s eyes flickered, but she clenched her jaw. “From now on, I don’t want reports on his situation.” She hung up, looking at me with frantic hope. “Damon, forgive me. I promise I’ll be a better man to you. I promise.” I couldn’t help but laugh. As I laughed, tears began to fall. I tossed the ring onto the ground. She picked it up. I tossed it again. Her face grew paler and paler. I spoke softly. “Some things don’t get a second chance.” “You corrupted seven years of our life. Scarlett Pierce, I wish you nothing but loneliness.” “I’m the one who is walking away.”

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I was the zero-loss, top-tier attorney in my field. Then, I transmigrated. The System ordered me to defend a celebrity serial killer—an idol, no less—and, by highlighting his “redeemable qualities,” get him a reduced sentence. Watching the defendant openly provoke the victims’ families in court, I did the only logical thing: I pulled a complete heel turn right there, submitting a key piece of overlooked evidence that sealed his conviction. Before the judge could drop the gavel, that mass of brainwashed fans was still outside, chanting “He’s innocent!” Fine. If they wanted to stand by him so badly, I filed a motion to investigate the fan club for campaign finance fraud and wire fraud, ensuring they’d be sewing prison uniforms for the next decade. Just as I was about to dismantle the entire legal team and ancillary accomplices, the System shrieked and shoved me into the body of the neglected older brother in a saccharine “Golden Child” novel. [WARNING! This time, you are the biological brother of the villain! Blood is thicker than water! You absolutely cannot betray your family!] [SECOND WARNING! You are forbidden from using the law to send the main antagonist to prison!] The System was still shrieking its rules when I turned and made an appointment to take my “golden child” little brother in for a prefrontal lobotomy. If I couldn’t jail him, I’d commit him. A life sentence in a high-security psychiatric ward is still a sentence. A slightly simple brother is quite endearing, as long as he’s not a threat to society. I stood outside the high-security ward, watching Cameron Stone through the one-way glass. He was strapped down in professional restraints, screaming hoarsely into a rubber mouth-guard designed to keep him from biting his own tongue. The doctor stood beside me, holding the surgical consent form. “Mr. Stone, you understand this is a lobotomy? A prefrontal lobotomy is irreversible…” I pushed my glasses up my nose, my tone calm and measured. “Doctor, my brother has been in agony his whole life because he’s too smart—too focused on harming others. As his older brother, I can’t just stand by and watch him walk into a criminal future. Just a small resection. It will turn him into a worry-free little angel, always happy and always with us. Isn’t that the greatest act of love I can give him?” The System’s voice was a sharp, high-pitched alarm in my head. [Atticus Reed! Are you a demon?!] [The original plot required him to frame you, smear your name until you were completely blacklisted, and leave you to die alone in the street!] [I told you to redeem him with love and turn him to the good side, not turn him into a vegetable!] I slowly capped my fountain pen and replied mentally. [System, you need to broaden your perspective.] [Cameron is the antagonist because he has the capacity for high-level, intelligent crime.] [I’m performing a complete root-cause analysis, addressing the source of the problem. A physical reboot is still a reformation.] [Furthermore, I’m not killing him, I’m not sending him to prison, and I’m paying a premium for his treatment. What more could a dedicated older brother do?] My warped logic caused the System to short-circuit for a full two seconds. [But… but the rest of the Stone family is on their way!] [The eldest sister is a CEO, the second is a genius doctor, the third is a superstar, and your parents worship him.] [If they find out you’re having their precious golden child lobotomized, they will literally tear you limb from limb!] As if on cue, a sudden flurry of urgent high-heeled footsteps and an enraged shout echoed down the corridor. “Atticus Reed! What in God’s name are you doing!” I turned to see a formidable crew storming toward me. At the head was Veronica Stone, the matriarch, her face a contorted mask of rage barely concealed by her makeup. Following her closely was Kendall Stone, the eldest, in a tailored power suit, and Dr. Jocelyn Stone, the second sister, in a lab coat over her scrubs. Veronica lunged, her hand raised to strike. “How could you be so wicked! Release Cam, now!” I didn’t flinch from the blow. Instead, just as her hand was about to connect with my cheek, I calmly pulled a leather-bound copy of the Model Penal Code from my briefcase. Her palm slammed into the hard leather cover, and she cried out, clutching her hand in pain. I pocketed the book with a slight smile. “Assaulting an officer of the court doesn’t always lead to incarceration, but I will file a civil suit for intentional battery and request punitive damages. Considering how expensive this ward is, your settlement could cover his medical bills.” Kendall stepped forward, supporting her mother who was now wincing and breathing through her teeth. Her eyes were cold and predatory. “Atticus, have you lost your mind?” “Cam was a little unruly, and you commit him to an asylum? Stop the surgery immediately, or I promise I will make sure you never practice law in this city again!” I looked at the CEO—a woman whose only talent was in mergers and acquisitions—and shook my head with feigned disappointment. “Kendall, how can you call it merely ‘unruly’?” “He’s not willful; he’s fundamentally broken.” I pulled a stack of printed chat logs and security stills from my bag and gently tossed them at her chest. “Last month, he put Paraquat weed killer in my coffee, claiming he was ‘helping with the toxins.’ Last week, he cut your brake lines, saying he was ‘testing the vehicle’s integrity.’ And yesterday, he boiled all of Jocelyn’s lab rats for soup, saying he was ‘making her a tonic.’” I sighed, managing to redden my eyes just enough for the performance. “Sister, does a normal person do these things? This is textbook Severe Antisocial Personality Disorder.” “If I don’t get him treated now, he might decide to boil you or me next. It will be too late then.” Kendall glanced down at the evidence. They knew about these incidents, but every time Cam cried or threw a tantrum, they dismissed it as “our little brother’s playful genius.” Jocelyn picked up the materials, her brow deeply furrowed. “Even if that’s true, you cannot authorize a lobotomy! It’s an archaic, barbaric procedure! I’m a physician; I have the right to intervene in a patient’s treatment plan.” She moved to enter the ward. I stepped to the left, blocking the door. “Jocelyn, this is a psychiatric facility, not your sterile surgical theater.” “I am Cameron’s designated statutory guardian. I have the authority to decide his treatment.” I pushed up my glasses, the lenses flashing with cold light. “Furthermore, under the law regarding patients who pose an immediate, severe threat to themselves or others, a guardian can seek involuntary commitment.” “I have a court-ordered Writ of Involuntary Commitment. The law is on my side. If you forcibly enter this room, I will charge you with Obstruction of Justice and report you to the Medical Board for practicing medicine outside your specialized domain.” Jocelyn froze. She had never seen Atticus like this. The usual compliant, family-pleasing doormat was gone, replaced by a razor-sharp antagonist who gave no quarter. She was the designated “genius” of the family, but she was stunned into silence. She quickly recovered. “Guardian? Mother and Father are here. Since when do you get priority?” Walter Stone, the patriarch, stepped forward, his face dark with disapproval. “Atticus, you have no authority in this house. I am Cameron’s father. I order you to stop this farce immediately.” “Otherwise, I will publish a notice in every major paper, disowning you and retracting everything you currently possess.” The original Atticus would have immediately crumbled, desperate for their approval. But I am not the original. I am a cold-blooded killer of legal proceedings. I looked at Walter with an air of genuine confusion. “Father, are you suffering from a legal delusion? American law does not allow for the ‘disownment’ of biological kin.” “You sound legally illiterate, sir. I suggest you go read a book.” Walter sputtered, his face purpling. “You… you insolent snake!” “And as for retracting ‘everything I possess’?” I looked around at the well-dressed, morally bankrupt family and let out a light laugh. “The condo I live in? I bought it with my own mortgage. The car I drive? Firm-issued. The clothes on my back? Purchased with money I earned.” “Since I turned eighteen, you haven’t given me a single dollar, claiming you were ‘teaching me independence.’ Meanwhile, you bought Cameron a fifty-million-dollar yacht.” “So, Mr. Stone, what exactly are you planning to retract? The nonexistent fatherly love? If so, please do. I consider it contaminated.” The rapid-fire attack of facts hit Walter like a physical blow; he grabbed his chest, swaying slightly. Kendall quickly supported him, rounding on me. “Atticus! Are you trying to kill Dad! Where is your conscience?!” “My conscience is alive and well. It’s your brains, however, that might need a consultation with Cameron’s surgeon.” I checked my watch. “The procedure should have started. The anesthetic is already in the line. Since you’re all here, why not sit down and admire Cameron’s rebirth?” Just then, the ward door burst open. A nurse scrambled out, eyes wide with panic. “Code Red! The patient—the patient broke out of the restraints!” I frowned. Those were specialized maximum-security restraints. Cameron couldn’t possibly possess that much strength unless he was truly fueled by pure, unadulterated evil. The next second, Cameron burst from the room, a scalpel in his hand. He was in a hospital gown, his eyes filled with stark, naked murder. “Atticus! I’m going to kill you!” He screamed, charging straight at me. The System shrieked: [Host, watch out! This is the Villain Aura! He gets a power boost in moments of desperation!] The Stone family, incredibly, looked relieved, even joyful. Veronica yelled, “Cam! Come to Mommy!” Kendall cried, “Don’t be scared, Cam! Sister is here!” They saw their darling boy, traumatized, seeking comfort. But Cameron didn’t even look at them; he was truly trying to murder me. Facing the flashing surgical steel, I didn’t step back. I adjusted my stance, ensuring I was perfectly centered in the ceiling-mounted security camera’s view. “Cameron, put the knife down. It’s dangerous.” “Big brother knows you hate me for bringing you here, but I did it for your own good!” “Die! You bastard!” Cameron roared, lunging the scalpel straight toward my throat. When the tip was five inches from my carotid artery, I moved. I didn’t use a theatrical martial arts move. I just precisely sidestepped and extended my foot, tripping him. Cameron flew, inertia carrying him forward. He landed hard, face-first, on the polished floor. The scalpel spun out of his hand, flying across the tile floor. By chance, it landed point-first, embedding itself in the toe of Kendall’s four-figure Manolos. Two screams ripped through the corridor. One from Cameron, who had likely broken his nose, his face immediately slick with blood. The second from Kendall, whose foot was now pinned to the floor by the blade. The corridor erupted in chaos. I calmly brushed off my trousers, addressing the stunned doctor and security guards. “You all saw that. The patient exhibited extreme aggression and assault with a deadly weapon.” “Had that blade hit me, I would be a corpse. This is severe, homicidal violence. It meets the threshold for maximum-level statutory restraint.” I pointed at Cameron, who was twitching on the floor, then at Kendall, whose foot was bleeding profusely. “Look. He even stabbed his own sister. His condition is clearly extreme.” “Doctor, I believe the initial lobotomy plan was perhaps too conservative.” “I recommend we add Electroconvulsive Therapy. If we can’t cut the water out of his brain, maybe we can shock it out.” Jocelyn, who was frantically trying to stop the bleeding in Kendall’s foot, looked up. For the first time, her eyes held real fear. “Atticus, are you a demon?” I smiled, looking down at her. Behind my glasses, my eyes were utterly devoid of warmth. “No, Jocelyn. I am an attorney. A specialist in handling the incorrigible.” Cameron never made it to surgery. The face-first fall gave him a mild concussion and a fractured nasal bone. The Stone family used the emergency room visit as a pretense to forcefully remove him from the psychiatric hospital. I didn’t try to stop them. The System was screaming: [Cannot kill the villain! Cannot use the law to jail him yet! If you had been any rougher, he would have died!] I stood at the hospital entrance, watching the Stone family’s luxury SUV speed away, a slight, cold smile curving my lips. “Don’t worry, System. I’m going to be a model, law-abiding citizen.” I returned to my firm. I hadn’t been back for long when my phone exploded. It was Stella Stone, the third sibling and the A-list celebrity. She was shrieking on the other end. “Atticus! You hurt Cam and Kendall? I’m going to destroy your life!” “I already posted on my social media! Wait until my tens of millions of followers tear you to shreds!” I opened my news feed. Sure enough, the top trending topic was #AtticusTheEvilBrother. Stella had posted a tearful, long-form accusation, claiming I was jealous and, to seize the family fortune, tried to have my perfectly healthy brother lobotomized. The post included photos of a bloodied, pathetic-looking Cameron in the hospital bed, and a picture of Kendall’s bandaged, “brutalized” foot. There was also a clipped audio file, containing only my line: “Just a small resection… it will turn him into a worry-free little angel.” The comment section exploded: [OMG! What kind of monster is this brother! A lobotomy? That’s attempted murder!] [Rich people drama is terrifying. Poor Cam and Kendall!] [Dox him! Make him pay! This man should be disbarred!] My DMs were instantly full of venom and death threats. Even the firm’s main line was overwhelmed. My assistant ran into my office, crying. “Mr. Reed, so many people are calling to scream at you! Someone sent a funeral wreath to the lobby!” The System was panicked. [It’s happening! This is the original plot!] [You get net-doomed to death, and Cameron will walk over your corpse to victory!] I calmly sipped my coffee and opened my laptop. “System, do you know the best way to fight a public smear campaign?” [Apologize? Shut down your accounts?] “Wrong.” My fingers flew across the keyboard, typing code and legal documents. “It’s to make them realize that I can reach through the network and send them all to federal prison.” “Since Stella wants a war of public opinion, I’ll teach her what a society governed by the rule of law looks like.” I didn’t respond to the online vitriol. Instead, I quietly did three things: First, I compiled the full surveillance video of Cameron’s armed assault in the hospital, along with the evidence of his attempted murder at home (the brake lines and the weed killer). Second, I initiated a deep dive into Stella’s tax records. She’s a top-tier influencer, earning a massive income. Did she pay all her taxes? Any off-the-books deals? Any suspicious shell companies? I knew no one in that industry had clean hands. “System, scan Stella Stone’s financial transactions for the last five years.” The System complained but complied. [Beep! Scan complete! Discovered tax evasion totaling $1.2 million, along with multiple instances of off-the-books wire transfers.] I looked at the dense data on the screen and smiled like a supervillain. “Stella, you brought this on yourself.” “Since you used your ‘illegal fundraising’ product—your fan base—to attack me, I’ll send your fan base into mourning.” Just as I prepared my counter-attack, Mr. Stevens, the firm’s managing partner, walked in, his face grim. “Reed, your personal drama has severely compromised the firm’s reputation.” “The Stone Group just filed a formal letter, demanding we terminate all their corporate advisory contracts unless we fire you.” He threw a termination letter on my desk. “You need to leave. Don’t take the whole firm down with you.” Kendall, the corporate shark, had already started her economic blockade. I picked up the termination letter and shredded it without a glance. “Mr. Stevens, under the terms of the labor agreement, unilateral termination without just cause requires you to pay me two years’ severance.” “Furthermore, the Stone Group’s termination constitutes a breach of contract. Their penalty is significant. Are you sure you don’t want to pursue that?” Stevens was stunned. “You’re worried about money right now?” “Why wouldn’t I be?” I stood up and adjusted my tie. “I’m worried about money, and I’m worried about justice.” “Let me borrow the firm’s private streaming room.” “I’m going to hold a live legal seminar. The topic? The Inevitable Prison Sentence of a High-Profile Celebrity and Her Legally Illiterate Family.”

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I was mediocre, utterly tone-deaf, and entirely unqualified. I was only brought into the ensemble because they were short a body. Once inside, I discovered I was surrounded by masters. Rhett, the handsome cellist, was max level on cello, viola, and violin. Sasha, the runaway pianist, could sight-read sheet music backward. Celina, the flutist from a musical dynasty, had perfect aural recall for any composition. And me? I knew nothing. My palms were always damp with sweat. They tossed me a tuning fork and a sand shaker, telling me to just rattle it—just keep the volume down so I didn’t bother them. Before long, our little group exploded. Awards, concerts, commercial gigs—more than we could count. I happily shook my sand shaker, carefully basking in their reflected glory. Until one day, a genius musician, a recent Berklee grad, pointed at me and demanded my spot. He said my rhythm was non-existent, my timing was all wrong, and that he could actually elevate the group. He insisted he belonged on that stage. At last, the anxiety I’d been living with finally crystallized into dread. 01 The performance ended. The entire hall rose to its feet in a thunderous standing ovation. Another stellar performance. I flexed my aching hand—sore from shaking the sand shaker—and managed a wide, relieved smile. Fantastic. Another gig fee secured! My dream of saving up for a down payment was looking more and more real. I tucked the shaker away and stepped to the front of the stage as usual, joining the others for the final bow. In the front row, one young man stood out. He looked to be in his early twenties, about my age. He wore a crisp white suit, making him highly visible in the sea of dark-clad audience members. His eyes were burning, fixed on the stage. When his gaze swept over me, I suddenly shivered. I’d had that unsettling feeling all night—like someone was intensely scrutinizing me. After the final curtain, a small crowd lingered. Ever since a previous live stream showcased the band’s improvisational genius, we’d blown up online. Now, after every performance, people stayed to take photos. The guy in the white suit stood holding a piece of paper, looking agitated and waiting patiently. But the crowd kept pressing him to the back, preventing him from getting close. Mara, our band director and the oldest member, is a soft touch. With a three-year-old son at home, she can’t stand seeing a young guy getting pushed around. Without a word, she grabbed a pen and walked over to him. “I’ll sign for you first, kid. I’ll get the rest of them to come over in a minute.” Mara took the paper from him and scribbled her name. Then she waved the rest of us over. Rhett, the cellist, Sasha, the pianist, and Celina, the flutist, all peeled away from the photo-takers and added their signatures to the page. The young man’s eyes were wide with surprise, but as he watched them sign their names in bold flourishes, he seemed hesitant, like he wanted to stop them. When I stepped up, he was clutching the paper tightly, almost reluctant to let me sign. A sudden flash of curiosity hit me. I tugged the paper from his grip and saw there was writing on the back. The title was unmistakable. “A résumé?” I asked, startled. Mara came back over, scratching her head sheepishly. “Oh, shoot, sorry, kid. I thought you were here for autographs. Do you need this? I can run to the copy shop at the corner and print you a fresh one.” Anyone would be annoyed if their job application was mistaken for a blank autograph sheet, but the guy didn’t seem to mind. “No, no, it’s fine!” He quickly offered a bright, easy smile. “This was meant for you all to see, anyway!” “For us to see?” The rest of us looked confused. “A résumé? Aren’t those for looking for a job? I haven’t touched that dirty stuff in years.” Rhett, the cellist, spoke up flatly. Back in college, he’d worked as an HR assistant for a major firm, sorting personnel files until midnight. He’s hated paper ever since; all his sheet music is digital. “I think it’s tragic,” Celina chimed in, “that one piece of paper is supposed to summarize a human life.” Celina, who comes from a family of flutists, plays with a soaring tone, but her default setting is a sort of melancholy, which is why we sometimes call her our ‘Blue Sister.’ Her eyes looked suspiciously shiny, signaling a potential slide into an emotional spiral. Sasha, the pianist, quickly jumped in to cut her off. “Well, I think it’s fun. I’ve never signed a résumé before. Let me see it.” Sasha took the paper, eager to read what was written. But the thick, dark ink of everyone’s signatures had bled right through, making the text on the back illegible. Sasha gave up and started admiring the signatures. “My autograph looks great, though. If I just lift that little dot higher, it’ll be perfect!” She looked up. “Hey, kid, have you been secretly practicing your signature?” “That last stroke has definitely improved!” Sasha and Celina started playfully jabbing each other. Celina’s lips curved into a tiny smile at the compliment, the gloom instantly forgotten. The conversation had drifted completely off-topic. It seemed no one cared why the young man was there. Seeing his slightly awkward expression, I piped up, feeling sorry for him. “Excuse me, what did you bring your résumé here for?” His face brightened, finally asked the question he’d been waiting for. But his next words utterly shattered my calm. He pointed at me and said, “I want to join the group. And I want to replace him.” 02 Everyone was stunned. He introduced himself with confident urgency. “Hello, everyone. I’m Holden Vance. I just graduated from the Berklee College of Music.” His tone was earnest, as if he were mid-interview. “I was accepted early, in my junior year of high school. My résumé is full of international and domestic awards.” “I’ve been searching for a high-level ensemble to join. I found your videos online and I’m a huge admirer. Every member of this group is incredibly talented.” “Except for him!” His tone shifted violently, pointing straight at me. His righteous indignation made me flinch. The uncomfortable feeling from the stage rushed back. He had been staring at me the whole time. Holden continued, his voice rising. “I’ve watched him for a long time. His rhythm is a mess. He’s off-beat constantly.” “In the entire concert, he didn’t stick to an eight-count even once with that sand shaker.” “You are all performing seriously, and he’s the only one coasting!” Holden was getting angrier, as if I had personally defiled the sacred, beautiful image of his dream ensemble. He looked ready to swallow me whole. His words left me speechless. I instinctively shrunk back, pulling my head down a little. Because I couldn’t argue. He was completely right. I really don’t understand rhythm. On top of that, I’m tone-deaf and have zero coordination. I cowered, hiding a bit behind Sasha, afraid that if he observed me further, he’d come up with even more damning conclusions. Seeing my reaction only emboldened him. “You, all of you, are a popular and high-potential ensemble! You shouldn’t have someone like this in your ranks!” “For the future of this band, you need to replace him immediately!” Sasha frowned. “Jamie being off-beat all the time… is that really a problem?” Holden’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. He couldn’t believe what he was hearing. This was an orchestra! How could a lack of rhythm not be a problem? Sasha elaborated, “We’ve known that forever. And we’ve been performing just fine, haven’t we?” Rhett, Celina, and Director Mara all nodded. They were all fully aware. They were the ones who had picked out my sand shaker in the first place. When I first joined, I knew nothing about instruments. The ensemble leader said, Don’t worry, the others are versatile. You can learn from them. I went to Rhett first. Rhett, the cellist, was Grade 10 on the violin, viola, cello, and bass. String instruments were his playthings. He handed me a three-quarter-sized violin, saying my hands were small, so I should start with the smaller one. But my fingers were too clumsy and rough. I couldn’t hit a note correctly—always a half-step too sharp or too flat. Eventually, I just snapped a string. Rhett tenderly stroked his cello and suggested I go see Sasha. Sasha had been playing the piano since she was three, had mastered thousands of pieces, and could play sheet music backward. The piano keys are fixed, so there’s no risk of going off-key. If I mastered it, Sasha and I could play a four-hand duet, which would be a great visual for the band. Sasha enthusiastically taught me piano theory. I practiced relentlessly. But I discovered I have terrible body coordination. I could only move one hand at a time. If my right hand played, my left hand would freeze. If my left hand played, my right hand would forget what to do. In the end, I warped the pedal, wore the white keys black, and still couldn’t perform a full piece. “You’re probably a piano gremlin, Jamie.” Sasha shook her head, resigned. “How about you try the flute?” Hearing I was going to try the flute, Celina actually cheered up. Her eyes lit up. She explained that she came from a flute dynasty—parents, grandparents, aunts, and uncles all played the flute. She was destined to play it, too. If I could learn to play her flute, she’d have an excuse to take up a different instrument and stop being the flutist. I happily accepted the flute. It was easy to handle. The keys were fixed, the size was perfect, and I only needed to use my right hand, letting the left just steady it. But playing the flute requires long, steady breaths. Afraid of disappointing Celina with my weak lung capacity, I practiced holding my breath. Before playing, I took an enormous gasp of air. I blew into the flute with all my might. The flute shot right out of my hands and flew straight at Celina’s forehead. Thwack! Celina collapsed. When she sat up, a noticeable bump had appeared on her head. She hid her face and started to weep. “My mother always said to listen to the old ways, or you’ll have a bad end. I just didn’t think my bad end for not playing the flute would look like this…” After that, she refused to teach me anything else. She just practiced her flute quietly on the side, her melancholic aura thicker than ever. I was consumed by guilt. Finally, all hope rested on Director Mara. 03 Mara is the Big Sister of our group—the oldest and the most experienced. She’s gentle and meticulous. She keeps her long hair because her son likes to grip it when he sleeps. When she conducts, she’s so expressive her hair dramatically whips around, which is very eye-catching. She’s also a total maverick who loves to challenge conventions. She used to be into extreme sports and is always full of fresh ideas for the ensemble. When she learned the group had three certified geniuses, she was thrilled. And when she discovered that I, the fifth member, was completely useless? She was ecstatic. In her decades-long career, she’d never encountered such a unique combination, and it sparked her competitive drive. She spent a long time digging through the ensemble’s dusty prop closet and pulled out a tuning fork and a sand shaker. She tossed them to me. “You can definitely handle these two!” I caught them. The tuning fork was cool and rang with a single tap. The sand shaker was weighty and made a satisfying shhh shhh sound when I rattled it. I was overjoyed. These two instruments required almost zero brainpower—Mara knew best! I weighed my options and chose the sand shaker. “But… Jamie’s rhythm is off all the time. Will it bother you guys?” Mara asked the others. Rhett: “I have my own internal clock.” Sasha: “My score is already committed to memory.” Celina: “Don’t ask me. I’m in a state of despair. No opinion.” Mara smiled at me. “All right, Jamie. Just try to keep the sand shaker quiet so you don’t distract them.” I nodded, happily. From then on, I had my official instrument: the sand shaker. For every performance, the ensemble only brought three mics—one for the cello, one for the piano, and one for the flute. My sand shaker was never miked. That way, even if I shook it frantically, the sound wouldn’t carry far. And since they were all musical savants, my erratic noise never bothered them. I was safely established as a member of the ensemble, free to perform and bask in their glow. So, when Holden pointed out my flaws, their reaction was lukewarm. He clearly hadn’t expected this. He wouldn’t give up. “You are all so brilliant! You deserve a better musician.” “I have great rhythm and perfect pitch. I got straight A’s at Berklee. I can do more than just shake a sand shaker—I can play a dozen instruments. If I were in that spot, I promise I could bring so much more to the ensemble’s future.” “Hmm. Very impressive,” Rhett said, adjusting his glasses coolly. Then his tone changed. “But what does that have to do with me?” “My barber appointment is starting soon. I’m out.” With that, he walked off, his face expressionless, slinging his massive cello case over his shoulder. Rhett is always the ultimate cool, aloof type. He often says he never cares about anything two hours or two miles away. His motto: “Car headlights only need to illuminate fifty feet to get you through the whole journey. Why worry about all the unnecessary stuff?” Holden’s face went stiff with embarrassment. He quickly collected himself and turned to Celina. “Flutist Sister, I also play the Chinese zither and the bamboo flute. If I join the ensemble, we could perform traditional folk pieces.” Celina was still staring wistfully in the direction Rhett had left. “Every performance ends, and it’s always a separation. It’s so moving.” She turned her back and covered her face. Holden, at a complete loss, turned to Sasha. Sasha had been the most outwardly friendly to the audience. She seemed outgoing, the easiest to talk to—perhaps she was his last hope. Sasha looked at him sincerely. “Kid, you’re so talented, why don’t you start your own ensemble? Why do you have to replace Jamie?” Holden sighed. “I would, but finding a group of geniuses like you is impossible.” “Seeing someone occupy a spot when they’re clearly not qualified… it’s frustrating.” “I saw in the news that you’re planning to compete in that International Ensemble Award. They average the scores of every musician to get the final result. Having him will only drag you all down!” “I can’t bear to see your talent wasted. I’m good. If I replace him, I can guarantee you win that grand prize!” “Pianist Sister, please give me this chance?” Sasha looked conflicted. She checked her phone alarm, pretended to take a call, and quickly exited. Now, only Mara remained. Mara is our leader, the Big Sister, and the one who usually makes the final decision. My sand shaker gig was her idea, after all. If Holden got her approval, he would likely get his wish. He looked at Mara expectantly. Mara took her time. “Kid, you’re still too young.” “You could replace anyone of us, but not Jamie.” Holden looked utterly shattered. “Why?!” “You know he can’t play a note. Why are you all protecting him?” Mara paused, considering her words. “If Jamie isn’t here, then this ensemble ceases to exist.”

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