I had found my perfect man—a walking, talking advertisement for a high-value male. Three years into dating, I finally decided to bring him home for the holidays. But the moment I sent a photo of Damon and me to the family group chat, my phone exploded. “Sister, I know you’re desperate for a man, but are you really scraping the bottom of the barrel like this?” “Are you trying to get out of your blind dates by deliberately finding a scrub to piss Mom off?” I stared, stunned, at my boyfriend standing next to me. He was six-foot-one, with a washboard of eight-pack abs, dressed in a bespoke suit that cost more than my annual salary, and possessed the kind of face that belonged on a magazine cover—think Henry Cavill-level of chiseled perfection. Then, a text from my father arrived, forwarding the photo I’d just sent: “Jade, are you blind? You’ve picked a short, broke, loser for a boyfriend?” I looked at the man in the photo he sent—old, balding, with a beer belly, and looking barely five-foot-three. He was wearing faded, ragged clothes, his expression sleazy as he clutched me to his side. But the worst part? The photo showed no evidence of AI manipulation. No clear Photoshop artifacts. It looked sickeningly real. I raised my head to Damon, who still looked every bit the Adonis I knew. Frantic, I asked friends and strangers nearby to look at him. Every single person saw the same thing my family did: a short, broke, loser. The shock was a lightning strike. I started questioning everything, my own sanity unraveling. Gradually, I descended into a nervous breakdown, eventually committed to a psychiatric facility, where another patient accidentally killed me. When I opened my eyes again, I was back—right at the moment I was about to announce my boyfriend to my family. 1 My parents have always favored my sister, Brooke. Part of me suspected they were simply hoping I’d dump Damon so Brooke could have him. This time, I didn’t send a couple’s photo to the family chat. Instead, I sent Damon’s solo picture, along with a carefully crafted lie. “This is my friend Sasha’s new boyfriend. What do you guys think of him?” Their replies were unsettlingly identical to the last time. “Why would Sasha date a short, broke guy? Is she having some kind of crisis?” “Jade, as her friend, you need to talk some sense into her. Tell her she can do so much better.” “Sister, you have to tell Sasha to break up with him! That’s clearly a toad trying to bag a princess!” I was speechless. Last time, they had a motive: they thought Damon was my boyfriend. But this time, they had no reason to lie about my best friend’s fictional beau. While I was still reeling, my mother’s text popped up. “Didn’t you say you had a boyfriend? It’s the holidays soon, shouldn’t you bring him home to meet your mother?” Dad chimed in: “Exactly! Our little family of four should become a family of five. You’re not getting any younger, Jade.” “Sister, when are you bringing your fiancé home? Don’t you dare follow Sasha’s bad example!” Brooke added. My hand tightened around my phone, my palm slick with cold sweat. I could only imagine the expressions of disgust and contempt that would greet us if I brought Damon home. Damon’s tall, muscular frame came up behind me. He wrapped his arms around me, burying his face in the crook of my neck, a low, playful plea in his voice. “Jade, what did your family say? You are going to take me to meet your folks for Christmas, right?” I looked at his perfect profile, the sunlight hitting him like a spotlight on a Greek statue. How could this man possibly be the short, broke scrub my family described? The sheer height difference… the chiseled jawline… the quality of his tailored clothing… every detail screamed High-Value Male. I decided to play it safe this time. I didn’t immediately agree. “O-of course, I’ll take you to meet them. But first, you have to do me a small favor.” He chuckled, pressing a kiss to my forehead. “Anything but small, baby. You know I’d walk through fire for you.” I put my plan into action. “Damon, would you mind going to the park with Sasha later and taking a few photos together?” Damon’s face instantly fell, a look of hurt washing over him. “Jade Miller, are you trying to push your man onto your friend?” I quickly reassured him, lying that I’d lost a dare and that it was a silly request from Sasha. “Just three photos in the park, and you’re off the hook. No physical contact required.” Seeing my earnest, pleading expression, Damon finally softened. “Only this once.” I let out the breath I’d been holding and called Sasha. “Sasha, are you free? I just need you to take three pictures with Damon in the park.” To my shock, Sasha’s rejection was venomous. “Are you serious? You want me to take pictures with that short loser of yours? You might as well just kill me now!” If my family was gaslighting me, fine, but why was my best friend saying the exact same thing? Sasha had met Damon several times before. Why the sudden, violent rejection now? “Jade, I wanted to tell you three years ago. But you were so clearly obsessed, I didn’t want you to do anything stupid.” “You’re such a hopeless romantic. How could you treat that thing like a treasure? I swear, I smelled his stale, old-man scent and wanted to vomit. How have you tolerated him for three years?” My heart hammered in my chest. Was I really that delusional? I always thought his scent—a mix of expensive cologne and something subtly fresh, like a hint of orange zest—was intoxicating… 2 I still refused to believe it. Taking a deep breath, I decided to use a bribe. “If you agree to this, I’ll buy you the new season’s LV shoulder bag.” “Deal. And don’t ask again.” After she hung up, the absurdity of the situation gnawed at me. Even if I used a heavy filter, the discrepancy couldn’t be this huge. Three days later, the photos Sasha sent shattered my tenuous hold on reality. The man in the pictures was the same one my father had sent me in the last life—the balding, low-rent scrub. I stared at the images on my phone. Again, no signs of digital alteration. Just then, Damon walked in the door. I rushed to him. “Damon, did you save the photos from today’s shoot?” “Of course, baby. Wouldn’t want you nagging me for them later.” He handed me his phone. The photos on his screen showed him—the towering, god-tier Damon Kincaid—standing next to Sasha. How? What was going wrong? I took his phone onto the balcony, comparing the two sets of pictures side-by-side. The same park, the same time, the same pose, only the person with Sasha was different. The remaining two pictures yielded the same disturbing result. Damon joined me on the balcony, pulling me into a hug. He leaned down, a pout on his face. “Baby, I did what you asked. Why do you still look upset?” The scent from him—that clean, intoxicating orange zest—was still there, still mesmerizing. But the thought that the man holding me right now could be that thing sent a wave of icy nausea through me. “What? No, no way. I’m just… I’m jealous. That’s why I look unhappy.” Hearing this, Damon instantly brightened. “I completed your mission. Now, you have to kiss me.” I looked at his perfect, angelic face, but the image of the other man flashed through my mind, killing my appetite. I gently pushed him away, offering a forced, nervous smile. “A kiss? That’s nothing. I’ll cook you dinner tonight as a reward.” Damon didn’t seem to notice my unusual behavior. He simply pecked me on the cheek and said, “Sounds perfect.” I went to the kitchen and sent the photo of Damon and Sasha (the one Sasha sent me) to the family chat. “Is this the same man you saw last time?” The replies were immediate. “Has Sasha still not broken up with him? They are a total mismatch! Sasha is five-foot-five; she’s practically taller than him in heels.” “Jade, is your friend brainwashed? What does he even have going for him?” “Sister, look at his clothes! He smells like a Goodwill store. He’s probably wearing his dad’s hand-me-downs!” Just in case I wasn’t convinced, Dad posted a solo photo of the man. “See? This is the exact same guy you posted before, confirmed.” I zoomed in on the solo picture. Same time, same background, same pose. Different person. Why did my photos, and the photos they saw, not match? Damon, wondering why I hadn’t emerged, knocked on the kitchen door. “Jade, why are you staring into space in the kitchen? Want me to take over cooking?” “No, no, I’m almost done. Just wait for me at the table.” I quickly finished two dishes and carried them over. As Damon took his seat, my gaze fell on the distinct butterfly birthmark visible just above his collar. It was Damon’s unique mark. I frantically pulled out Sasha’s photo and the family chat photo for comparison. I froze. The man in the pictures, the scrub, had the exact same butterfly birthmark on his neck. 3 I picked at my food, my mind racing. I watched Damon across the table, then finally spoke, my voice barely a whisper. “Damon… I have a question. Please promise me you won’t get mad.” He turned, smiling his gentle, perfect smile. “I promise. Ask me anything.” “Uh… have people in your past ever commented on your looks?” He paused for a beat. My heart sank. Had I hit a nerve? Did everyone secretly think he was ugly? The next moment, he laughed, taking my hand and guiding it to touch his cheek. “Everyone has always told me I’m handsome. I’ve been voted ‘Campus Adonis’ since high school.” He pulled out his phone, scrolling to photos from his college years. For four years straight, his photo was pinned to the ‘Hottest Guys’ wall, winning the voting contest by a landslide. Seeing my bewildered expression, he playfully flicked my forehead. “What is it? Can’t stand the fact that your husband is naturally gorgeous?” “I don’t know what’s going on in that head of yours. You didn’t question me when we first started dating, but now, right before meeting your parents, you’re having doubts. Are you trying to find an excuse to break up with me?” Damon looked at me with mock seriousness. I just pushed my questions down, forcing a smile. I was distracted the rest of the meal, my eyes darting to Damon, searching for any anomaly. I found nothing. Later, lying in bed, I couldn’t stop spiraling. I watched Damon sleeping peacefully beside me, and a thought struck me. Fine, maybe love was blinding, but how could I be wrong about his height? Why did everyone else see him as barely five-foot-three, when I knew for a fact he was six-foot-one? I carefully slid out of bed, making sure not to wake Damon. I checked his shoes by the door. No platform insoles. No obvious lifts. Still not satisfied, I crept to the drawer, pulled out a measuring tape, and tiptoed back onto the bed to measure his height. A ruler wouldn’t lie, even if my eyes did. But Damon kept tossing and turning exactly when I tried to stretch the tape measure, thwarting my attempts. I pulled the tape measure back and stared at his stomach. The man in the picture had a beer belly. Damon had eight-pack abs. Could the abs be faked? Was it some kind of prosthetic muscle suit? I had seen videos on men faking abs. Slowly, tentatively, my hand reached out to touch his taut stomach. Just as my fingers made contact, he seized my hand. Damon’s eyes opened, full of sleepy, teasing laughter. “My little baby can’t sleep? Are you looking for a late-night show, huh?” I instantly broke out in a cold sweat. Thankfully, he didn’t seem to notice the measuring tape I had just shoved under my pillow. “N-no. I just thought you might be cold. Don’t want you catching a chill… It’s late. Let’s sleep.” I quickly dove back under the covers and closed my eyes, feigning sleep. Damon didn’t let up. He rolled over, pinning me beneath him, his warm lips covering mine. “Baby, the fire you just stoked isn’t going to be easy to put out.” I didn’t find any answers that night, but I was certainly worn out by the morning. I had lost the battle and the war. Damon looked completely satisfied, while I was a wreck. “Baby, when are you taking me to meet your folks?” “You’re so cute, I want to lock you up and keep you all to myself, away from the world.” Damon’s comment made me check my phone. The date I’d promised my family for the big introduction was tomorrow. 4 I thought about how good Damon had been to me over the past three years—gentle, attentive, and incredibly generous. Even if he was short and a scrub, I was resigned to it. But I couldn’t accept him being poor. He’d spent at least six figures on me over the years. That couldn’t be fake. “Tomorrow. Are you happy now?” Damon’s eyes sparkled. He kissed me excitedly. “Why didn’t you say so sooner? I haven’t had time to buy your parents presents.” “Jade, get up! We need to go pick out gifts.” I rolled my eyes playfully at him, but didn’t bother pointing out who had kept me up all night. Damon ignored my glare and pulled out a suit from his walk-in closet—his globally customized, one-of-a-kind designer suit. “Jade, can I wear this to meet your parents tomorrow?” I felt a pang of unease. Last time, my parents had looked at this very suit with such disgust they were practically spitting. But to me, Damon looked like a human clothes rack; everything looked incredible on him, especially this suit, custom-made to showcase his perfect physique. After we tidied up, Damon called ahead to shut down a section of a high-end mall and drove us there in his custom-order Maybach. At the jewelry store, the attendant instantly bowed, addressing Damon respectfully. “Sir, how may I help you?” “I need a substantial amount of investment gold—say, a few pounds. And select the most expensive, tasteful gold bracelet and earrings for the matriarch.” The attendant’s smile was electric. I nudged Damon. “Isn’t that too much? That’s incredibly expensive.” “They’re my future in-laws, baby. Nothing is too much. What’s mine is yours, and theirs is yours too.” Damon also picked out a classic Patek Philippe watch for my father and purchased every single new-release LV bag for my sister. This man couldn’t be poor. I took photos of all the gifts he bought and sent them to Sasha. Her reply was a skeptical warning: “Jade, watch out for a pig-butchering scam! These flashy guys often take out massive loans to buy you extravagant gifts, making you believe they’re rich, only to leave you saddled with the debt. They work with shady loan sharks for a high commission.” “These men are just fronts, honey. Don’t be so naive.” I showed her photos of Damon’s Maybach and our penthouse apartment. “Those can all be rented. Don’t be an idiot and fall for it.” My excitement instantly flatlined, replaced by a cold dread. The next day, I brought Damon home with a knot of anxiety in my stomach. My family’s expressions shifted from initial shock to barely concealed disdain to forced pleasantries. Dad took the gifts from Damon. “You must be Jade’s boyfriend. You really shouldn’t have spent so much. Come, sit and eat.” Mom pulled me aside immediately. “You wasted our time pretending that scrub was your friend’s boyfriend, didn’t you? You were ashamed to admit it was yours!” Brooke immediately covered her nose and sat as far away from Damon as possible, as if he were a biohazard. The dinner was painfully awkward. As Damon and I left, I happened to glance back. I saw all three of them—Dad, Mom, and Brooke—simultaneously flash a subtle hand gesture. A specific, brief movement of their fingers. I didn’t think much of it then. But the moment we got home, the group chat blew up. “Jade, look at what he brought! Fake gold, a fake watch, a knock-off bag! Does he think we’re fools? The whole lot wouldn’t cost a hundred dollars! The nerve of that man to be so pretentious!” “I’m telling you this now, Jade. If you don’t break up with him, I’m cutting you off.” “Sister, you have no idea how bad he stunk at the dinner table. I almost threw up.” I scoffed, leaning against Damon, and typed out my reply: “Stop the act. I know exactly why you all insist my boyfriend is a short, broke scrub.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389601”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The notification dinged, and I saw the client name pop up on my Amazon app. Brandon Cole. My husband. The address was one of those exclusive, glass-and-steel complexes: The Presidio Residences. I called him. It rang far too long before he answered. “Where are you?” “At the office, babe… why?” His voice was thin and shaky, and I could hear a distinct, hollow echo in the background. “No reason. Just checking in.” As soon as I hung up, Brandon updated his social media: [Nothing says ‘I love you’ like a mid-day spousal check-in. Blessed.] Attached was a blurry selfie of him at a desk, looking smug. I casually tapped “Like,” then followed the GPS to his location. I rode my e-bike through the complex gates, pulling up to the exact building. A small boy was standing by the door, impatiently kicking the ground. “Hurry up, delivery person. You’re taking me to soccer practice.” His tone was demanding. I stared at his face—eyes, chin, and brow, a mirror image of Brandon’s—and forced a pleasant smile. “Hey there, buddy. For a scheduled drop-off, I just need to confirm with a parent in person.” “Where is your mom or dad?” 1 “Ugh, this is so annoying!” The boy, Chase, rolled his eyes at me, a theatrical gesture Brandon himself had mastered, and stormed back inside. A woman in silk loungewear, the LV logo subtle on the lapel, appeared in the doorway. I squinted at her face, and a sudden, cold jolt hit me. It was Tinsley Bell. She was a realtor I’d met years ago when Brandon had been obsessed with “just looking” at this very building. We couldn’t afford it, but he insisted on the tour. When Tinsley, the agent, tried to add Brandon on social media afterward, he pushed her contact onto my phone, claiming, “Gotta let my wife handle the logistics.” Tinsley Bell was still languishing in my friend list. Her posts had evolved from listings to a relentless feed of luxury travel and designer bags. She’d clearly married into money. “I’m the mother. You can take him now.” Tinsley’s hand rested on the doorframe, flashing a heavy, layered golden manicure that I knew started at ten thousand dollars—I’d picked up supplies for that salon before. Everything about this place, from the trim to the fabric, screamed old money. Brandon, meanwhile, was a $4,000-a-month accountant. My gaze locked onto a quilted down jacket hanging on a hook by the entrance. It was the exact model I’d bought Brandon last winter. Even the small cigarette burn on the cuff—the one I’d patched myself—was in the same place. I took a slow, deep breath, tasting the dry air of the hallway. “What is your relationship with Brandon Cole?” Tinsley looked at me, a flicker of suspicion in her expensive eyes. “Brandon Cole is my husband. Does your delivery service run background checks now?” A suffocating wave of nausea hit my chest. I fought to keep the smile plastered on my face. “You misunderstand, ma’am. New platform rule for child transport: both guardians must confirm the drop-off.” “That’s ridiculous. There was no rule like that before. You know what? I’ll just cancel the ride.” Tinsley pulled up the app, ready to hit cancel. Chase wrapped his arms around her legs, whining dramatically. “Chase needs to go to practice! I want to play with Summer!” Tinsley sighed, clearly exasperated, and called into the back of the apartment, “Honey! Can you come here? The delivery guy is being difficult!” She walked further in to find him. I could barely make out the wedding portrait hanging far down the hall. I knelt beside Chase. “How old are you, sweetie?” “Five. Ugh—” Chase recoiled, clamping a hand over his nose and quickly pulling a surgical mask out of his Spider-Man backpack. “You smell gross. No wonder Daddy always complains about how much delivery people stink.” I felt the last thread of my composure snap. “What the hell is the hold-up? This is insane just to drop off a kid.” “Who the hell took this order?” Brandon, dressed in matching silk loungewear, stomped out of the bedroom, cursing under his breath. When he saw me, the rage drained from his face. His expression froze into a mask of pure terror. 2 “Laney… what are you doing here?” “I’m here to take your son to soccer practice, obviously.” I hooked an arm around Chase and moved toward the door. Brandon lunged forward, grabbing Chase back. He ignored the boy’s immediate tantrum, canceling the lesson with a quick text. Tinsley grabbed my arm, her manicured nails digging into my skin. “Wait a minute. I knew you looked familiar. You’re Brandon’s ex-wife.” “We divorced years ago. Are you really going to make a scene? Do you have no shame?” Brandon pulled Tinsley closer, his voice saccharine. “I’ll handle this, baby. Don’t stress yourself out; it’s bad for the pregnancy.” He dragged me just outside the apartment, lighting a cigarette. He didn’t look at me for a long time. Finally, he exhaled a cloud of smoke and mumbled, “Look, I messed up.” “When did we divorce, Brandon? You want to start there? What is your explanation?” I demanded. Brandon quickly put a finger to his lips, shushing me. “Tinsley’s just pregnant with number two, Laney. We can’t upset her. You didn’t give her any trouble, did you?” I didn’t answer. I just stared, letting the silence hang heavy between us. He sighed, the theatrical weariness I knew so well. “I’m sorry. I made a mistake. The kind of mistake every man makes at least once.” He confessed to the affair. On our first wedding anniversary, while I thought he was working late, he had been here, in this building, with Tinsley. She was pregnant right away. “Tinsley is different from you, Laney. She’s pure. I had to give her a home.” “And this apartment? I’m just renting it. I wanted a peaceful, high-end environment for her while she was expecting.” Listening to his soft, self-pitying confession, I felt only a chilling, intense mockery. The first year we were married, I was in a terrible car accident on my way to work. Brandon had saved my life, literally giving me his blood. He’d told me I was his life. The accident left me unable to have children. He swore he loved me more because of it. But he had been cheating on me back when he claimed to love me most. When he failed at a startup and racked up debt, when his mother, Veronica, got her cancer diagnosis, I worked every grueling Amazon gig I could find to keep us afloat. I’d worked until I was coughing up blood, only for him to spend that money supporting this second life. Brandon reached for my hand. “Even with Tinsley, I still love you, Laney. I do.” “After the baby is born, I’ll figure out a way for all of you to just… get along.” I laughed, a sharp, bitter sound, and snatched my hand away. “Brandon Cole, we’re done. I want a divorce.” He shrugged, completely dismissive. “It’s just cheating, Laney. Do you have to be so dramatic?” He genuinely seemed to think I was just threatening him. But this time, I had no interest in continuing the performance. “Daddy! Mommy’s belly hurts!” Chase ran out, clutching Tinsley’s arm. Brandon’s expression darkened. He shot me a venomous look and scrambled back inside to his pregnant mistress. Before he disappeared, my phone buzzed with a text from him. [Glad Tinsley is okay. As the older sister in this situation, you need to stop doing things that disrupt our family harmony.] [Go think about what you did. I’ll pretend I didn’t hear the D-word.] I wanted to vomit. I deleted the message without a second thought. I called the Amazon dispatcher, taking the next day off. It was time to prepare for the divorce. Back at our tired, old apartment, I pulled out a dusty cardboard box. It was filled with cheap trinkets: the handwritten notes, the folded paper “promise stars.” He’d never given me another gift, and I’d always excused him, believing he was struggling. Now I knew the truth: he wasn’t struggling. He just thought I was a fool. I dumped the entire box into the trash bin. While packing up his few belongings, I found a real estate deed tucked into an old suit jacket. The owner’s name was clearly written: Brandon Cole. I smiled. The money trail was suddenly very clear. I quietly slipped the deed into my pocket. Then, I tossed all of Brandon’s other things out the front door. As for Veronica, his mother, I didn’t want a scene with a cancer patient, so I called her to come get her own items. I was met with a screaming torrent of abuse. 3 “Laney Shaw, you barren animal! You can’t have children, so you’re trying to harm Tinsley? Are you a monster?” “You want a divorce? Not until you sign over the apartment to Brandon! Never!” It turned out Veronica had known about Tinsley the entire time. They had been working together to bleed me dry. I didn’t bother arguing. I just hung up. The apartment was mine; I had paid the mortgage and just made the final payment this month. Brandon hadn’t contributed a dime, and he was an adulterer. He had no claim. I changed the locks to a new fingerprint system and installed a security camera. Neither of them would ever step foot in my home again. I mailed Brandon the divorce papers. Before I went to sleep, Tinsley sent me a video call request. I answered. The camera was pointed directly at Brandon’s face. He was working hard, his body straining above Tinsley. “Honey, who do you love more? Me or Laney Shaw?” Tinsley asked in a simpering voice, holding the phone up. “You, of course! Laney is a slug! Stale and dry, like sleeping with a dead fish!” The sounds of their cheap, crude lovemaking continued until it was over. Tinsley followed up with a slew of taunting texts. [Your anniversary? He was in my bed. Your birthday? Still in my bed.] [He even sabotaged your e-bike motor to make me laugh. He was watching you struggle in the rain via a drone feed.] [While you were pushing your bike to the repair shop, he and I were having car sex in his Mercedes-Benz.] … [Laney, you are pathetic.] The dense stream of words crashed against me like a wave. But my heart, already like cold ash, did not stir. Satisfied, I stopped the screen recording. I had all the evidence I needed for the coming fight. The next day, I picked up my usual route. My first order was documents. The second, a bouquet of flowers. When I handed the flowers to the customer, he recoiled, giving them a suspicious sniff. His expression turned grim. “Do I have a problem with you?” he asked coldly. I shook my head, confused. Before I could speak, he threw the bouquet directly at my face. “You don’t, but some bastard certainly does! Did you seriously piss all over my order?” The foul, acrid smell of urine, mixed with shredded petals, clung to my skin and clothes. I apologized profusely, promising to call the police and offering a ten-fold cash refund. Only then did the man let it go. “Ha ha ha! The stinky delivery girl got what she deserved!” I turned and saw Chase, doubled over laughing. Veronica, Brandon’s mother, patted the boy’s head approvingly. “Chase, that was brilliant! A little payback for Mommy and Daddy!” I flew into a rage. I charged at them and shoved Chase hard. He tried to swing at me, but I kicked his legs out from under him. He hit the ground and started screaming. Veronica leaped forward, putting herself between me and the boy, ready to fight. “Laney Shaw! Have you no shame, fighting a child?” I grabbed her wrist and called the police. “No one is going anywhere until the officers arrive.” Veronica struggled but couldn’t break my grip. She scoffed. “The police? Chase is a minor. They won’t do a thing to a little boy.” Then she leaned in conspiratorially, lowering her voice. “Let me tell you something else, you fool. I don’t have cancer. I faked the whole thing.” She threw her head back and laughed into the wind. I reached into my pocket, touching the wrinkled diagnosis report I’d kept. Veronica hadn’t had cancer when she first claimed it. But her checkup last month confirmed it—late-stage, terminal. I didn’t need to tell her. The police arrived quickly. Brandon, winded, showed up moments later. 4 Veronica, as the present guardian, was held responsible. Brandon grudgingly paid for the damage. After the officers left and his mother and son were gone, Brandon glowered at me. “It was just a harmless prank, Laney. Did you really have to call the police?” “You’re getting completely out of line.” “Besides, it’s just kid pee. It’s cleaner than water. Why are you making a fuss?” I picked up the remaining half of the ruined bouquet and thrust it toward his mouth. “Not dirty, you say? Then drink it.” Brandon recoiled instantly, clearing his throat. “Wife, I love you very much. I won’t sign the divorce papers.” “I honestly think the three of us could live under the same roof. Maybe even share the same bed.” He casually slid his hand onto my lower back. “And listen, Tinsley is indisposed for a few days. Could you register your fingerprint on the lock at the Presidio for me? You could help me out.” His sheer audacity made me physically ill. When he leaned in for a kiss, I slapped him across the face, hard. Brandon stared at me, dumbfounded. “You… you just hit me?” In his memory, I was still the obedient wife, the one who took his abuse like a whipped dog. My voice was ice. “You have three days to sign the agreement. If not, I’m filing a lawsuit for divorce.” My unexpected resolve stunned him into instant fury. “Laney Shaw, don’t be ridiculous! You’re a trashy delivery girl! Who the hell else would have you?” “You want a divorce? Fine! Give me the house! You haven’t even finished paying off the mortgage you promised to cover, and I have a wife and a child to support now. You owe me!” His shameless greed only fueled my disgust. I kept my emotions in check, speaking slowly and deliberately. “Zero assets, zero support, and marital infidelity. According to the agreement, you’ll be leaving with nothing.” “Also, Brandon? I know you bought the house at The Presidio.” His pupils dilated in shock. He quickly tried to deny it. “What are you talking about? Who bought a house… What the hell are you implying?” “Are you threatening me, Laney Shaw?” He stared at me, eyes burning with a desperate, sudden fear. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Then, realizing something, his face went ashen. He bolted toward his Mercedes-Benz and frantically made a call. By the time he came back out, I was already gone on my e-bike. That night, my phone was bombarded with texts from Brandon. [Laney Shaw, return what you stole from me immediately!] [Sign the deed for the old apartment over to my name, and wire me $10,000 for living expenses!] [I might let this slide if you do it!] [Don’t make me get nasty!] 5 Dozens of calls followed. I could picture him on the other end of the screen, panicked and enraged, his biggest secret now in my hand. I touched the crisp, crimson-colored real estate deed tucked safely away. The mansion that was once an impossible dream for us was now his. Not only had he bought it, but he had bought the realtor too. A ten million dollar condo was not something a $4,000-a-month accountant could buy. There was only one possible conclusion: the money was dirty. [Still playing dead?] [I swear, I will make sure you can’t even deliver a package! I will ruin your life!] [I have ways to make you surrender!] I smiled at the stream of threats. I packaged the deed and all the other evidence. Then, I set a timed email to send to Brandon’s company’s compliance department. Let’s see what “ways” he had. Three days passed. Brandon had not signed the divorce papers. I called my lawyer and prepared the lawsuit. Later, I headed to the Annual Rider Awards Gala. As the reigning “Top Runner,” I was about to receive my award. Suddenly, Brandon and Tinsley stormed the venue, unfurling a huge, hand-painted banner. “I’m reporting this fraud! My wife, Laney Shaw, is using the Amazon platform as a cover for sex work!” “She infected me, and she’s maliciously spreading a virus while she knows she has a dirty disease!” “The company needs to investigate! Everyone needs to be warned!” Brandon waved a printed copy of my old medical report. Tinsley started a loop of security footage showing me frequently entering and exiting a run-down, low-income apartment block. The other runners started buzzing. “Laney doesn’t look like that kind of person… I can’t believe it.” “You might have eaten takeout delivered by her.” “So that’s the secret to thirty thousand a month! She’s not the Top Runner; she’s the Hooker Queen!” The most vicious attack came from Cody Evans, a young rider I had personally mentored. I’d helped him clear his debts and earn a steady income. Now, he leaped onto a banquet table, his eyes full of pure hatred. Brandon leaned in, his voice low and menacing. “Don’t touch things that aren’t yours, Laney.” “Return the property and agree to a net-zero divorce, and I’ll clear your name. Otherwise, I have physical evidence and witnesses.” I met his triumphant gaze, and a chilling smile touched my lips.

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New Year’s Eve. I chased after my sister, Delaney, who’d stormed out of our penthouse after a vicious fight, and ended up dragged into a forgotten alley by a crew of low-lifes. The violation was profound. They didn’t just break me; they inflicted a gut-wrenching, visceral trauma that consumed the next five years of my life. I was left with chronic Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder. Whenever I tried to end the pain—to cut myself free—Delaney would wrench the blade from my hand and plunge it into herself. I’d make one shallow slice, and she’d make two deep ones. Our blood would mix on the cold tile, and she’d hold me, sobbing against my neck: “Cas! I’m begging you, please, don’t do this to yourself again!” “I’m the reason you’re broken. I swear to you, I will fix this. I will make you whole.” After that night, the Delaney I knew—the reckless, fun-loving race car enthusiast—vanished. She set fire to her prized collection of high-performance bikes and started studying the books she used to scoff at. Five years later, she was Dr. Delaney Ford, a leading psychiatrist in the city. But just as the crushing fog of my illness finally seemed to be lifting, I overheard a conversation drifting from the hallway outside my room: “Miss Ford, you deserve an Oscar for this performance. If I hadn’t been in on it, I’d never guess you hired those guys back then.” “Though I have to ask—to punish your adopted brother for one fight, you’ve spent years using medication to precisely interfere with Young Master Caspian’s recovery, while simultaneously using that sisterly devotion to keep him clinging to life… Isn’t that a little… cruel?” Delaney let out a dismissive, chilling laugh. “Cruel? He deserved it. Who told him to try and hurt Toby like that? This is simply his repayment.” “I’ve got it handled, though. Cas is my brother. I’m just giving him a taste of his own medicine. I wouldn’t actually let him die. I’m not that heartless.” The world dissolved into a sheet of ice. I forgot how to breathe. It was all a performance. Every moment of sacrifice, every tear, every shared scar—it was all her elaborate, cold-blooded punishment. That night, I dragged my shattered body up to the rooftop. Delaney, this time, you won’t have to punish me yourself. … “CASPIAN!” The moment my weight shifted past the edge, a brutal force slammed into me, yanking me back. Delaney tackled me to the concrete, rolling until we were flat on the ground. Before I could even process the disorientation of the fall, a sharp, stinging crack echoed in the night air. Snap. My ear drum vibrated. I clapped a hand to my burning cheek and looked up, staring into my sister’s face. Her eyes were swollen and bloodshot. “Are you out of your mind?! Do you have any idea how close you were to falling?!” “This is all my fault, my failure! If you actually went over that ledge, I would end my life right here to pay you back!” Her chest was heaving; her hands trembled with what looked like genuine terror. My gaze fell on the fresh, bloody tear in the skin of her wrist. She’d gotten that wound just last week, wrestling a box-cutter out of my hand during a psychotic episode. But the words from the hallway echoed louder than her terror. It’s all an act. A sharp ache pierced my nose. I stared at her, the words leaving my lips in a stunned, empty whisper. “Delaney…” “I didn’t want to jump.” “I just wanted you to stay with me a little longer…” The words were out before I could stop them. The panic in her eyes evaporated instantly, replaced by something cold and calculating. A flicker of palpable annoyance crossed her face. After a long pause, she violently flung my wrist away. Her voice was flat and hard. “How many times, Caspian? How many times are we going to do this?” “You know it’s Toby’s birthday party tonight. You deliberately choose these moments to throw a tantrum, finding ways to draw me away. Are you trying to ruin everything for him?” Her grip had been too strong. Five years of trauma had hollowed me out, leaving me barely bone and skin. That violent shove sent me sprawling backward. As my body hit the concrete, the familiar, searing pain shot through my legs. God, it hurts. Tears streamed uncontrollably. I curled into a tight ball, clutching my already deformed, unusable legs. Five years ago, when those thugs were demanding my sister’s whereabouts, my refusal had enraged them. They had systematically crushed my legs, leaving them beyond repair. Memories rushed back, and the monumental injustice choked me. I lay on the ground, sobbing, my body shaking with uncontrollable tremors. Delaney flinched, then quickly reached out to help me up. She pressed her lips together, her tone softening with an uncomfortable forced tenderness. “Don’t cry, Cas. I didn’t mean that. It was just the panic talking.” “I was worried sick. Why else would I bolt the second the butler told me you weren’t in your room?” The lie died in her throat, cut off by the shrill ring of her phone. She glanced at the screen, her hand freezing on my arm, then quickly turned to answer. Toby’s cheerful, mocking voice chirped from the speaker. “Dee! They said you rushed back home just to get me a present? What’s taking so long! The main course is out, everyone’s waiting for you, and it’s my birthday, remember?” She hung up, a flush of embarrassment high on her cheeks. She looked at me, a flash of indecision in her eyes, but before she could speak, the phone rang again. Clutching the phone, she said softly, “Have the housekeeper bring you down later. Stay put. I’ll bring you something amazing from the party.” Then she whirled around, answering the ringing phone as she hurried away. I pushed up onto my elbows, slowly, agonizingly, inching toward the ledge of the roof. The thick, sticky echoes of that night—the jeering laughter, the tearing agony of my body—washed over me again. Five years. I have been trapped in the moment before I turned eighteen, five years ago. I looked at the back of the woman who was leaving without a second thought. I smiled faintly, the tears in my eyes scalding. “No need, Delaney.” The moment she heard my voice and turned, I pushed off the ledge and plummeted into the void. “CAS!!!” The last thing I remembered was her face, contorted in a scream of pure, tearing anguish, and the roar of the wind in my ears. My consciousness faded. I fell into a long, dark dream. In the dream, Delaney Ford was flighty, reckless, and always in trouble. Yet, when our parents died in that accident, this same sister shouldered a monumental burden without a word of complaint. She went from barely being able to boil water to managing a three-course dinner. She was once indifferent to everything, yet because I was frail and sickly, she once climbed a thousand steep steps, leaving her knees bloodied, to beg a reclusive spiritual teacher to bless my life. She learned to be a good sister, clumsy but determined, giving me every scrap of security and preference she had to offer. Even when my father’s illegitimate son, Toby, showed up, demanding a place in the house, she kept him out of fear that I would be lonely—despite the clear, simmering annoyance in her eyes. Toby was a viper. He would raise his hand and slap himself right before she walked into the room, then point at me, tears welling: “Cas hit me…” He would hide his expensive watch in my backpack, then “find it” later, crying about how I’d stolen from him. But even his most convincing act, even his tears accusing me of school bullying, only earned him a cold sneer from Delaney: “Stop acting, Toby.” Then came that New Year’s Eve. We were gathered for a family dinner when Toby suddenly collapsed. The private doctor found a thin, specialized silver needle embedded in the back of his neck. That was the first time Delaney had ever truly screamed at me: “Caspian Ford! I gave you this needle two days ago! What do you have to say for yourself?!” In the ensuing chaos, she overturned the table and bolted. I chased after her, desperate to explain, but that’s when I was dragged into the alley… I fought my way out of the suffocating darkness. My vision swam, but the first thing I heard was Delaney’s low, venomous snarl right by my ear. “Cas-pi-an Ford!” I turned my head, disoriented. Delaney stood by the bed, looking utterly ravaged. Her eyes were red and swollen, and her voice shook with an unnatural intensity. “You’ll go to any length to compete with Toby, won’t you? You knew that ledge had a platform underneath, that you couldn’t actually die! You jumped just to ruin Toby’s birthday, didn’t you?” “Toby is in the room next door, by the way. He heard you jumped and collapsed from shock! Are you satisfied now?” “Haven’t you caused enough trouble over the years?” “If you truly want to die, find a quiet corner. Don’t you dare inconvenience anyone in the process!” I stared at her mouth opening and closing, unable to form a single word. Into the sudden silence, Toby’s phone call came again. “Dee! Is my brother awake? Is he okay? When can we come home?” The moment his voice sounded, all the fury drained from Delaney’s face. “He’s fine. Just acting out, trying to scare us. I’ve had a word with him.” “I’ll throw you an even bigger party in a few days. I’m packing up now. We’re coming home.” She hung up. The warmth vanished from her face. She glared at me, her voice cutting. “You stay here and think about what you did.” “Pull another stunt, and you will never be allowed back in this house.” With a harsh movement, she adjusted my IV line. It was too fast. When she was satisfied, she dropped my arm and stormed out, slamming the door behind her. I strained my neck to look at the syringe of morphine on the counter. Just get the needle. I gently tugged the intravenous line from my hand. Blood spotted the pristine white sheet. I tried to stand but immediately plummeted back down. I could not stand. Footsteps echoed outside. A nurse, perhaps, had heard the thud. I held my breath. Instead, I heard Delaney’s impatient voice down the hall: “His ‘condition’ is fine. He’s just faking. He’s an attention-seeker. Leave him be. The more attention you give him, the worse he gets.” “Toby, the driver is at the door. Let’s go.” The footsteps receded. The door never opened. I stared at the knife on the counter. I stared for a long time, until my eyes were dry and aching. Delaney had grown careless. I knew, from the five years of self-harm, that she would never leave anything dangerous within my reach. I tried to use my arms to pull myself up again, but the fresh agony in my legs, combined with the pain deep inside my body, exploded. My arms buckled, and I crashed back to the floor. It hurt everywhere. If I die, the pain stops. That thought focused me. I scraped my fingers against the ground, inching toward the counter. Glass shards from the IV bottle dug into my palms and knees, leaving a trail of blood, but I felt nothing. Finally, I grasped the handle of the knife. Without a moment’s hesitation, I brought it down across my wrist. A fresh red line erupted across the old, interwoven scars. I suddenly remembered Delaney. She had just as many scars as I did. It must have been the Ford blood. I had never been docile. When I was thrown into that alley, when I was eighteen and on the verge of starting college, I broke. I screamed, I shattered everything, and I pointed the blade at myself again and again. She always took the knife and used it on her own body. Blood would pour out, yet she’d seem numb to the pain, using her clean hand to wipe the tears from my face. I wasn’t crying, but my face was wet with hers. That memory—the fear of her pain—was the only thing that had kept me from hurting myself again. I was afraid of her worry, her guilt, and her tears. I was terrified of her bleeding. It was all a lie. The thugs. The suffering. Even her path to becoming a psychiatrist—it was all a weapon, used to keep my illness a precisely controlled, agonizing loop. The strength left me with the blood. I leaned against the wall, laughing and weeping at the same time. People are usually sad when they’re dying, I suppose. “I didn’t stick the needle… it wasn’t me who stole his things… I wasn’t trying to ruin his party…” My voice faded. The whimpering stopped. I slumped into the pool of blood, my vision tunneling into darkness. Suddenly, the door was violently thrown open. Screams. Rushing footsteps. The pungent smell of antiseptics. I was surrounded by a sea of white. My wound was roughly stitched, and countless needles were jammed into my body, keeping me tethered to life. I heard fragmented pieces of conversation: “Miss Ford is unlucky. I heard she got into a car accident on the way home, and her brother’s condition immediately worsened.” “Don’t remind me. The doctor said he needs a bone marrow donation. Only she and the other brother were a match. But she fainted three times and refused to let the younger one go through it. She said he’s too weak and afraid of pain.” “But Young Master Toby’s condition looks much worse now…” The door burst open again. Someone stumbled toward my bed, and a hand covered my eyes. Delaney’s voice was hoarse with exhaustion. “Cas, don’t worry. This will be over soon.” “Toby is my brother, too. I can’t just watch him…” Before she could finish, a razor-sharp, searing pain erupted from my lower back. I thrashed violently, my lips turning blue. My already tenuous hold on consciousness shattered. I knew. Delaney had made her choice. Again. The doctor extracting the marrow looked at my ashen face and hesitated. “Miss Ford, you’re a doctor… we can’t take any more! The patient is past his limit, he could die!” Delaney was silent, a clear struggle on her face. Just then, a nurse rushed in, sobbing hysterically. “Emergency! Young Master Toby’s heart rate just plummeted! He’s crashing!” “The blood shipment is still twenty minutes out!” All hesitation vanished from Delaney’s face. She gritted her teeth, her voice absolute. “Keep drawing!” She turned to me, her gaze complicated. “Cas, when we get home, I’ll get you the best supplements to recover!” The doctor tried to protest, but she cut him off with a shout. “I said, keep drawing!” “I know Caspian’s body. This is clearly a performance. It’s just cheap theatrics. You focus on your work. Toby is the priority!” She turned abruptly and sprinted toward Toby’s room. … When it was all over, the doctors were immediately pulled away. All the equipment, all the people, all the care—it was poured into Toby’s bedside. No one noticed that I was already dead. Only when Toby’s condition stabilized did Delaney finally relax. She looked at the blood on her clothes. She knew Toby was terrified of blood. She carefully washed her hands, changed into a clean jacket, and then quietly walked into Toby’s room. She fed him, soothed him to sleep, and tucked him into bed. Outside, the night had turned completely dark. She seemed to suddenly remember something. She shot up, hurried down to the hospital cafeteria, grabbed a few random dishes, and rushed to the door of my room. “Cas, look what I brought you.” “All your favorites. Get up and eat, it’s going to get cold.” Silence. The smile froze on her face. She walked closer and placed the meal tray on the nightstand. “Cas?” Still no answer. Her patience snapped. She frowned. “Caspian Ford, it was just a little bone marrow. Are you still sulking and throwing a fit?” “Stop acting and get up!” She reached out and roughly grabbed my wrist—the one with the massive wound—to pull me up. The next second, her movement froze. Her eyes widened. Her face went instantly, devastatingly white.

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I was supposed to be the strategic infiltrator. The System, my handler in this absurd mission, had a target: a difficult, emotionally distant CEO. The plan? Get close to him through the one soft spot he had—his mildly autistic son. I, Anya Reed, am a natural cheerleader, the kind of person who sees the glass half-full, then asks if you need help finding a matching coaster. A single bite of a despised carrot? “That’s fantastic!” The boy speaks a new word? “You’re amazing!” So, the breakthrough was bound to happen. What I hadn’t prepared for was the fallout. When I had to request a single day off for a family event, the little boy panicked. “You’re leaving me, aren’t you?” “Please don’t go. If you do, take me with you.” “I don’t want Dad anymore. I’m only going to be with you from now on.” Callan Finch, who had just walked in hoping for a quiet, long-overdue bonding moment with his son: Wait, what? 1 My System and I are, collectively, Team Procrastination. When it first paired me with this mission—to capture the heart of the notoriously icy, ruthlessly powerful, and legendarily bad-tempered CEO, Callan Finch—we both froze. We heard tales of his cold indifference and the potential for a career-ending, soul-crushing revenge if I messed up. So, we stalled. One day turned into another. Finally, under pressure from the System’s upper management, we devised a plan: The Curveball Strategy. Callan had a son, Archie, who had been diagnosed with mild autism. If I could win over the boy first, it would be my golden ticket to getting closer to the father. The next day, with the System’s help, I was successfully hired as Archie’s new governess. I said a cheerful, professional “Hello” to the small, unsmiling figure standing before me. He ignored me completely and walked out. 2 As a professional layabout, I was thrilled. What’s better than a paycheck for doing virtually nothing? The System, citing Archie’s diagnosis, managed to extend my deadline, giving me a few more weeks of blissful, low-effort living. It was late summer. Archie wasn’t in school. My duties consisted of making three meals a day, light tidying, and making sure the small human didn’t set the mansion on fire. Day One: Archie quietly built an epic LEGO structure. I, perched on the plush sofa, devoured five romance novels on my tablet. Day Two: Archie spent the entire day reading. I meticulously recreated every complicated, late-night food craving I’d scrolled past on Instagram. Day Three: Archie spent the afternoon examining bugs beneath a massive old oak tree in the backyard. I happily sunbathed on the lawn. I must have fallen asleep because when I woke, the sun was sinking. I called Archie to come in, promising him a decadent dessert. I couldn’t tell if it was my imagination, but Archie dropped the rock he was holding so fast it looked like a cartoon. His pace quickened significantly as we headed inside. Kids loved sugar. And honestly, this one was a breeze—quiet, calm, and zero drama. Nothing like the “mini-tyrant, ruthlessly stubborn” version of his father the System had warned me about. System: “Hey, I only read the job description! But seriously, the kid seems fine. Host, maybe pick up the pace a little?” Right. Back to the mission. 3 At lunch, I gave Archie bite-sized steak and some sautéed vegetables. It was the first time I saw him pick at his food. He meticulously separated the small squares of carrots. “Don’t like those?” I asked. He looked up, met my eye for a split second, and went back to his task. I figured it was a dumb question. Obviously, he didn’t like them. I hate waste, though. “Okay, you know what? I’ll take care of these. And I promise I won’t put any carrots in your stir-fry tomorrow. Deal?” This time, he didn’t ignore me. His lashes fluttered a few times, and he gave a quick, almost imperceptible nod. The System and I screamed internally. The kid is adorable! I wanted to scoop him up and squeeze him, but I restrained myself to avoid being labeled the “weird governess.” I genuinely like carrots—sweet, crunchy, satisfying. I was enjoying them so much I was already on my second helping of pasta. Suddenly, Archie reached out with his fork and tentatively picked up a piece of carrot. I held my breath. He ate it. In my family, eating something you hate earns a standing ovation. I gave him a massive thumbs-up. “Archie, that is absolutely amazing! I’m so proud of you!” A faint, surprised blush crept across his cheeks. Seconds later, he picked up a second piece. Ate it. “Archie, you are absolutely fantastic!” A third piece. “Archie, you’re brilliant.” A fourth and a fifth. Facing his slightly expectant eyes, I tested the waters: “Amazing?” The spark of expectation in his eyes was instantly snuffed out. He finished the rest of his pasta but didn’t touch another carrot. I spent the rest of the afternoon in intense internal debate with the System. Did Archie love my praise, or did he hate it? 4 Later that evening, I was tidying his play area. Archie silently started putting his books and blocks back in place. “Archie, you are so thoughtful,” I said casually. He visibly brightened, working harder, putting an entire corner away by himself, even breaking a light sweat. The System had a sudden revelation. “Host, he doesn’t just like praise—he craves it. And it has to be sincere, specific, and totally unreserved.” Aha. The next day, I made a deal. I baked a massive batch of cookies and brownies. For every correct, clearly spoken word, he got a dessert and a round of applause. Under my expectant gaze, Archie whispered his first word to me: “An…ya…” I nearly tackled him. “Archie, that is FANTASTIC!” The combination of sugar and adoration was irresistible. He quickly began naming objects. For every successful identification, I called him “brilliant,” “smart,” and “amazing.” When it was bedtime, I knelt down to say goodnight. Archie gave me a shy, tentative smile. “Anya, goodnight.” I hugged him, keeping it brief and appropriate. Honestly, Archie was melting my heart. If Callan’s son was this gorgeous, the CEO himself must be ridiculously handsome. System: “Host, are you getting antsy to meet the big boss? We nailed the son quickly. Maybe the father will be just as easy?” I rolled my eyes. “Dream on, System. He only just said my name. Kids’ affections are quick to arrive and even quicker to disappear.” Unfortunately, I was right. A few days later, Archie started school. When the driver brought him home, he’d rush straight to his room without even looking at me. 5 A week later, I got a frantic call from Archie’s school counselor. Archie had gotten into an altercation with another student. The counselor was highly critical of me, the parent, for being unavailable. He mentioned he’d only ever reached an assistant, and chastised me for letting work consume my attention to the point of neglecting my child. An assistant? That must be someone from Callan’s side. If they were calling me, did that mean Callan was completely checked out? The thought of Archie alone and vulnerable sent me rushing out the door. “Counselor, I’m here. What happened to Archie?” A male teacher pointed to a large boy and his furious-looking parents standing nearby. “That child was scratched by Archie. They are demanding an apology and payment for medical expenses.” The other boy looked twice Archie’s size. Archie scratched him? “You must be the parent,” the other boy’s mother sneered. “No wonder the child has poor socialization skills. The apple doesn’t fall far from the criminally irresponsible tree.” Her son, a fleshy little bully, yelled over his mother. “Archie Finch is a psychopath! A worthless punk who needs to be locked up! I’m calling the police, and I hope they throw you both in a cell!” Archie, hearing the abuse, stood with his hands clenched, his small body shaking with furious indignation. I saw red. “Hey! You watch your mouth, kid!” I snapped. “Who started this is anyone’s guess. You want to call the police? Go ahead! Call them!” “My Archie doesn’t lay a finger on anyone unless he’s provoked. We are checking the surveillance footage, and until I know the full story, none of you are leaving.” The parents, predictably, were ready for a fight. The three of us were immediately locked in a shouting match. But as I yelled on his behalf, defending him fiercely, I saw the anger and distress drain from Archie’s face. It was replaced by a look I hadn’t seen before—deep affection mixed with a kind of relieved joy. 6 The surveillance footage was definitive. The larger boy, using his size advantage, had maliciously squeezed Archie against a desk. When Archie was pinned, the bully started shoving him. Archie fought back. I lifted Archie’s pant leg. Sure enough, there was a nasty bruise on his shin from where he’d been kicked. My heart ached with a mix of fury and empathy. Pointing at the other parents, I said, “Your son will apologize to Archie, and you will pay for all medical treatment—every penny.” Their bravado vanished. They forced an apology, paid me a few thousand dollars in cash, and slunk away. I took Archie to a clinic. After the ointment was applied, I gently rubbed his head. “Archie, if you ever get picked on at school, you have to tell someone—me, Mr. Davies, your father—anyone.” He didn’t answer. I guessed he just didn’t want to talk about it. If his dad actually cared, I wouldn’t be here, I thought. I quickly changed the subject. “Archie, why did you ignore Anya for so many days? It made me sad. I missed you.” He bit his lip, hesitating for a long moment before finally whispering the reason. “Scared… scared you wouldn’t like me.” I thought about it. “Were you scared I’d think you were a mean kid for fighting, and then I’d stop liking you? Is that it?” He nodded. My soft heart broke a little. I pulled him into a gentle embrace. “Archie, you don’t ever have to worry about me not liking you. No matter what, I love you, okay?” Archie’s eyes lit up. He wrapped his small arms around me and whispered, tiny and soft, “Mama.” 7 I froze. The System went completely offline. It wasn’t until a newly reconciled child nearby started crying and calling for his mother that I realized: He must have just been reflecting what he saw. He was simply longing for a mother figure. The System, now rebooted, urged me to ask what he’d just called me. Archie shook his head and repeated, “Anya.” “See? I told you. It was a fleeting moment of misplaced longing. This mission is still tough. The kid isn’t easily won over.” System: “Fair point. But guess what? I just successfully petitioned for another six months’ extension on the deadline. Happy now?” I gave the System a mental high-five. Being slackers together was a special kind of happiness. Another blissful half-month passed. It was time for my cousin Melody’s wedding. I had to go. She was the kind of person who, even when broke, would spend their last dollar on a ridiculous pair of designer heels for my birthday. That kind of devotion deserved my presence. I told Mr. Davies, the butler, and Archie that I would be taking three days off. But as I zipped up my overnight bag, Archie panicked. “Anya, where are you going?” “Archie, I’m taking a three-day leave. I have a family event at home.” Archie frowned. “Leave. What does that mean?” 8 Ah, so the little guy didn’t understand the concept of a ‘day off.’ I knelt to explain. “It means I’m temporarily pausing my job. I won’t be your governess for three days. I have to go do something else.” “What do you have to go do?” “Uh… go to someone’s wedding.” Archie was still processing this. Assuming he understood, I turned to walk toward the door. He darted forward, throwing his arms around my waist. His voice was thick with panic and insecurity. “Anya, you’re leaving me, aren’t you?” “Please don’t go. If you do, take me with you.” “I don’t want Dad anymore. I’m only going to be with you from now on.” I was stunned. His eyes were actually turning pink with unshed tears. I wiped his eyes, ready to soothe him. At that moment, the front door swung open. The first person through was Callan Finch. Hair slicked back, a custom-tailored suit that looked unfairly expensive, and those eyes—narrow, cool, and carrying a distinct air of command. System: “Target sighted. Commence Operation Act Cool.” Before I could process my reaction, a woman strode past Callan and marched toward me. “Let go of Archie! What are you trying to achieve by putting those words in his mouth?” I was baffled. The System was equally clueless. She reached for Archie, but he only clung to me tighter, clearly recoiling from her touch. The woman adopted a sickly sweet smile. “Archie, it’s Veronica. Daddy’s Executive Assistant. Don’t you remember me?” It clicked. “So, you’re the assistant?” Veronica Hale straightened, giving me a dismissive sneer. “The assistant? Who are you to address me like that?” “Don’t think I don’t know your type. You’re trying to use the child to get a leg up with the boss, right? Look at yourself. Do you really think you’re even in the same league?” I was about to fire back when Archie suddenly shouted, “You’re ugly!” “Dad, she’s not good enough for Anya.” Veronica’s eyes went wide. She’d just been insulted by a five-year-old. Standing nearby, Callan’s eyes widened sharply. “Archie, you spoke?”

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I found the ultrasound printout tucked into the breast pocket of Gabriel Thorne’s crisp dress shirt. It was Celeste Price’s. And where it should have listed the father, it simply read, “Gabriel Thorne, Spouse.” Gabe has always had a constellation of women orbiting him, but Celeste, The High School Sweetheart, the perfect Muse he lost and then found again, was the one he was pathologically obsessed with. He saw me holding the flimsy paper and offered a casual, dismissive explanation. “She’s in the first trimester, Adora. Her emotions are fragile right now, and she can’t handle the gossip. I’m just letting her use my name to run interference. Don’t overthink it.” I calmly folded the paper and slipped it back into his pocket. “If you’re happy, Gabe, you don’t need to explain anything.” He froze. That alone was enough to throw him. In the past, the mere mention of Celeste’s name would turn me into a raging banshee, capable of smashing everything in sight. I turned to walk away, and a flicker of panic crossed his face. “Adora, wait. Why aren’t you causing a scene? You used to hate it the most when I even spoke her name.” He didn’t know. Just half a month ago, because his Muse had complained of a stomach ache, he had abandoned me on the side of an elevated highway during a torrential downpour. That night, in the cold, unforgiving rain, I lost our child. Now, I simply didn’t have the energy to care about Celeste’s baby, or the man who was lying about it. 1 Gabe stared at my retreating back, his gaze laced with scrutiny and a barely concealed discomfort. Usually, by now, the antique vase would be shattered at his feet. Even if I didn’t break anything, I would be sobbing and demanding to know why Celeste’s pregnancy was any of his business. But today, I just folded the ultrasound printout and returned it. He must have been unnerved by my composure. His footsteps closed the distance, and a pair of arms encircled me from behind, his hands closing over mine. The cloying mix of his expensive cologne and a sweet, floral perfume—undeniably Celeste’s signature scent—hit my nostrils. My stomach lurched violently. “I’m not going out tonight,” he murmured, resting his chin on my shoulder. “We’ll stay in and have dinner.” I stiffened, then gently pushed him away. “I need to use the restroom.” I walked into the bathroom and cranked the cold water tap. I scrubbed my wrists, where his fingers had rested, over and over, until the skin was pink and raw. Dinner was lavish. Gabe seemed pleased, interpreting my silence as a sign that I was finally “coming around.” He spooned a piece of spicy Thai curry with shrimp onto my plate, his voice soft. “Eat up, Adora. This used to be your favorite.” I stared at the shrimp coated in the bright red sauce. I had been severely allergic to shellfish since I was twelve. I didn’t know when he had forgotten that. Still, I picked up the shrimp, put it in my mouth, and began to chew. As soon as the savory, pungent spice hit my throat, it triggered a primal, physiological rejection. “Oh God—” I clapped a hand over my mouth and stumbled into the bathroom, emptying my stomach until my body shook. Gabe followed, standing awkwardly behind me. “You’re throwing up so violently. Should we go to the clinic?” He reached out to steady me. The instant his fingertips brushed my shoulder, I flinched away, a purely reflexive move. “I’m fine.” He watched me, his expression complex. He clearly didn’t believe me. The old Adora would have leveraged this minor illness for attention, demanding cuddles or using it as a weapon to keep him away from Celeste. But I was too calm. “Are you still angry about the ultrasound, Adora?” “I explained it. Celeste is alone in the city, an unwed mother-to-be, and she’s already getting side-eye. I was just—” “I know,” I cut him off. “You were helping her. Why would I be angry?” Gabe looked stunned. At that moment, his phone vibrated on the dining table. The screen flashed the name: Celeste. He rushed over to answer it. “Gabe…” Celeste’s voice, thick with tears, filtered through the line. “I’m so sick. I can’t keep anything down, but I suddenly have this awful craving for that spicy Thai curry from that place downtown…” Gabe instinctively grabbed his jacket from the back of the chair and headed for the door. He paused only when he reached the entryway, turning back to me. “Celeste is fragile, and she’s pregnant. The doctor said she can’t have any emotional stress.” “Go on then. Don’t keep her waiting.” My tone was utterly flat. He searched my eyes, desperate for a flash of jealousy, anger, or even a hint of wounded vulnerability. He found nothing. “Adora.” His throat bobbed, as if he were wrestling with some internal conflict. “Aren’t you going? If not, then sit down and finish your dinner.” I walked back to the table and resumed my seat. Gabe’s face darkened instantly. He snatched his keys, turned, and walked out. I picked up my fork and began methodically eating the leftover salads. After dinner, I went to our room. I pulled out the half-packed suitcase from under the bed. I took the small, folded ultrasound printout—the blurred image of what was supposed to be our future—and tucked it into the pages of a favorite novel. My phone buzzed. A new message. “You’re sure about this? Does Gabe know?” I tapped out a reply. “He doesn’t need to know.” 2 Gabe didn’t come home all night. Celeste posted a picture on her private Instagram story. It was a gourmet takeout container of creamy truffle pasta, and a man’s hand was meticulously separating a large scallop for her. The caption: “Brother Gabe always comes running, no matter how late. Feeling so loved and protected. ” I scrolled past it without expression, locked my phone, and went to sleep. The next day passed without a word from him. I went through the motions: eating, packing, and calling the moving service. It wasn’t until late afternoon that Gabe’s assistant called. “Mrs. Thorne, Mr. Thorne asked if you would be his date for the Spring Charity Gala tonight. He should be arriving downstairs in about thirty minutes.” I applied my makeup and changed into a sleek, black cocktail dress. Thirty minutes passed. An hour passed. My phone chimed. A text message. Gabe: Something came up. Go ahead without me. Always that line. I efficiently walked to the bathroom, wiped off the makeup, and changed back into a simple sweater and jeans. I cooked a bowl of simple noodles and ate them alone in the quiet, empty living room. The wall clock struck midnight. The lock turned, and Gabe walked in, carrying the scent of the cold night and the heavy musk of a different, unfamiliar perfume. He held an elegant, square gift box. He seemed surprised to see me still sitting up. A fleeting look of guilt crossed his face. “Adora, you’re still awake?” He walked over and placed the box on the coffee table, his voice softening. “I’m sorry, honey. There was a sudden, urgent board meeting. I couldn’t get away.” I looked up at him. My gaze settled on the collar of his white dress shirt. A smear of bright red lipstick, undeniable and jarring, stained the crisp fabric. Gabe followed my sightline, and his color changed. He quickly covered his collar. “That’s… Celeste tripped, and I had to rush her to the clinic. It must have brushed off when I caught her. But she’s fine, thankfully.” I simply said, “Oh.” His confident facade wavered. He picked up the box, opened it, and revealed a shimmering Solitaire Diamond Pendant. “Look. Do you like it? I thought it would suit you perfectly.” He held the necklace up to my throat. I had seen the exact same necklace on Celeste’s Instagram feed barely ten minutes ago. Since Celeste returned, I had become her shadow. Handbags, fragrances, jewelry. If Gabe bought it for me, Celeste inevitably received an identical one. We had fought about it countless times. He would always dismiss me: “Celeste has similar taste, Adora, and I’m busy. It’s easier to buy two. Don’t be so petty.” In the past, I would have thrown the necklace into the trash and started a house-shaking argument. Gabe was clearly waiting for me to explode. He looked wired, ready for the fight. But I took the pendant from his hand and looked up, giving him a small, placid smile. “It’s beautiful. Thank you, Gabe. I love it.” Gabe froze entirely. The emotion in his eyes was a mess: surprise, relief, but overriding it all was an inexplicable sense of loss and panic. “You… you really like it?” he asked, hesitant. I nodded perfunctorily and placed the pendant back in the box. The nameless rage he’d been suppressing suddenly erupted. I was being compliant, well-behaved, silent. Yet, he felt me slipping further away than ever before—so far he couldn’t reach me. He yanked his tie loose, throwing the gift box to the floor. “Adora, who are you playing the virtuous wife for?” “You used to hate having the same things as her! Are you trying to freeze me out?” He roared, desperately trying to provoke me, trying to summon the passionate, jealous, alive Adora he knew. I bent down, picked up the scattered box, and lightly brushed the dust off the lid. My voice remained perfectly even. “Isn’t this what you always wanted?” “No shouting, no fighting, just a sensible, obedient, generous wife. One who… doesn’t compete with Celeste.” Gabe was utterly silenced. He looked at me as if I were a stranger. Finally, he let his arms drop and walked toward the bathroom. “Whatever, Adora.” The sound of the shower started. I sat on the couch, looked at the gift box, and gave a cold, quiet laugh. Then, I tossed it casually into the nearest trash can. 3 In the deep hours of the night, I was pulled into a nightmare. I was back in the blinding downpour of two weeks ago. The thunder was screaming, and the windshield wipers were frantic, unable to clear the deluge. I had just confirmed the pregnancy. Four weeks along. Desperate to save this crumbling marriage, and determined to leave no space for Celeste to wedge herself between us, I had become Gabe’s shadow. I waited in the conference room during his meetings. I sat silently in the passenger seat during his late-night networking events. I was waiting for us to get home so I could pull out the ultrasound from my bag and show him. Then, his phone rang. “Brother Gabe, my stomach hurts so bad… I’m all alone and scared!” That was all it took. Gabe slammed on the brakes. “Celeste is in danger. I have to go to her.” His eyes were frantic with worry. “Gabe! We’re on the elevated highway! In this rain, how am I supposed to get home?” I grabbed his arm, my voice trembling. A sharp, unfamiliar pain had just seized my abdomen. “My stomach hurts too, Gabe! My ba—” “Enough!” He roughly threw my hand off. “Celeste is genuinely frail! Are you seriously going to lie about a pregnancy just to stop me? That’s disgusting, Adora!” He unbuckled his seatbelt, opened the door, and physically dragged me out. “The house is barely two miles from here. Call a cab! Celeste can’t wait!” He climbed back into the driver’s seat, made a reckless U-turn, and vanished into the curtain of rain. I stumbled, my phone flying from my hand and instantly crushed under a passing tire. I could only clutch my aching abdomen, shuffling forward in the downpour. I don’t know how long I walked. Blood began to run down my legs, staining the rainwater in the street before being washed away. Finally, I collapsed on the curb. It was a stranger who called the ambulance. I woke from the dream with a sharp gasp, sitting bolt upright. Instinctively, I placed a hand over my flat belly. Beside me, Gabe was sleeping soundly. His phone on the nightstand suddenly lit up. On impulse, I picked it up. The latest message was from Celeste. It was a picture. She was wearing one of Gabe’s oversized, white dress shirts, the hem covering her thighs, her eyes gazing suggestively into the camera. The text: “Missing you, Daddy Gabe. The shirt smells just like you. Hurry back. ” I felt no rage. Only a wave of nausea, so overwhelming that I ran into the bathroom and dry-heaved over the toilet. I sat on the cold porcelain toilet lid. I checked the date on the phone. Twenty-four hours left. I unlocked my own phone and began the meticulous process of deleting every memory connected to him from the cloud. Five years of my life. Thousands of photos. Select, delete, empty the recycling bin. As dawn broke, I got up and prepared a large, elaborate breakfast. Gabe was surprised to see the full table. His mood instantly improved. He walked over and squeezed my hand. “You didn’t have to, honey. Thank you.” He clearly believed I was still the Adora who loved him in spite of everything. He thought this past week had just been a minor mood swing, a hiccup that would pass. As we ate, he casually mentioned: “Hey, don’t forget to watch my live business interview at noon. I have a little surprise for you.” “Oh,” I replied nonchalantly. “It’s our fifth anniversary, Adora.” A smug look crossed his face. “I’m going to make a major public gesture. A big gift.” I smiled and nodded. “I’ll be sure to watch.” 4 Before he left, Gabe emphasized it one last time. “You have to watch the live stream, Adora.” The moment the front door closed, the smile evaporated from my face. I called the moving service coordinator. “You can come up now.” A few workers came and went, emptying the apartment of everything that belonged to me. My clothes, my books, my shoes, even the toothbrush cup I had used for three years. Anything that couldn’t be taken was thrown out. Noon. I was sitting in the back of a taxi headed for the airport. On my phone screen, Gabe sat in the broadcast studio, looking powerful and dashing. The host chuckled. “Mr. Thorne, I hear today is a very special day?” A VCR montage started playing on the screen. It was a highlight reel of our five years together—a quick cut of our wedding, vacations, and quiet moments. He had clearly put some effort into this “surprise.” Gabe looked directly into the camera, a practiced look of deep affection on his face. “Yes. Today is my wife’s and my fifth wedding anniversary. I wanted to take this opportunity to thank her for all her patience and devotion over the years…” Gabe’s sentence broke off mid-way. The camera suddenly rattled and swung. The view shifted to the front row of the audience. A woman in a white dress, clutching her stomach and looking deathly pale, had slumped to the floor. It was Celeste Price. Gabe’s expression completely shattered. Ignoring the live broadcast, he vaulted from the stage. “Celeste! Celeste, what’s wrong? Don’t panic! I’m here! I’ll get you to the hospital right now!” He lifted her into his arms, knocking over a nearby camera, and sprinted out of the studio. The live stream went silent for a moment before the chat screen exploded. [WTF? What just happened? Did the CEO just… run off?!] [Who was the girl in the white dress? She looked so fragile. The way he picked her up was pure movie romance!] [Is everyone blind? What day is it? Their five-year anniversary! That must have been Mrs. Thorne! She’s probably pregnant!] Someone set the pace, and the thousands of comments instantly shifted tone. [OMG, this is what real rich-guy love looks like! He was so worried! That look in his eyes was lethal!] [It has to be his wife and baby! I saw her holding her belly! This is so romantic!] [Ugh, I’m swooning! Billionaire romance IRL!] I watched the chat scroll up the screen, then I closed the live stream. I pulled the SIM card—the one that had held my life for the past five years—out of my phone. I snapped it in half, rolled down the window, and tossed the pieces out into the city traffic. The taxi arrived at the airport curb. A voice announced the final call for my flight. I pulled my suitcase, looked back at the gray, indifferent city one last time. My second phone vibrated in my pocket. A new message. “Text me when you land. I’m waiting outside the arrivals terminal.”

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I walked out on my own wedding day, frantic. I’d just gotten the call: my mother had been in a terrible car accident. But when I reached the hospital, she was fine. Unscathed. And my bank account had an extra ten million dollars—a deposit from my soon-to-be father-in-law. Camilla Blackwood dragged me back to her Hamptons estate, her manicured fingers pinching my chin, her laugh a cold, brittle thing. “Ten million is what it cost to buy off my little traitor, then?” From that night on, she brought different men home, night after night. I was a captive in the guest suite, forced to listen to the sounds of her retribution echoing through the wall. It lasted for three years. Until I found myself retching into the porcelain, a medical report confirming what my gut already knew: a terminal diagnosis. I watched the news from the bathroom floor—a live feed of Camilla on her private island, celebrating the birthday of A-list actor Ryan Foster, with drones spelling out a giant heart in the night sky. I steadied myself against the vanity and called her. “I want a divorce,” I rasped. Her reply was immediate and sharp. “Fine. But first, you pay back that ten million dollars. With interest.” 1 I gripped the phone so tightly my knuckles went white, a heavy silence settling in. “Well, Jasper?” Camilla’s voice crackled, impatience barely veiled. “Do you have the ten million ready?” “Oh, Cam, is this your ‘husband’?” A man’s light, mocking voice cut through. “The guy who checks his pockets for fifty bucks before he buys coffee? Where’s he going to find ten million?” Camilla’s tone was pure, cutting mockery. “Hear that? No money, no divorce. You’re stuck, Jasper.” Her words were like shards of ice, shattering the last fragments of my sanity. Since the disastrous non-wedding, Camilla had kept me a prisoner in this gilded cage of a marriage, and revenge had become her only sport. I’d stay up making her late-night detox smoothies, only for her to pour the drink down the sink in front of her friends. Her expression was one of cool disdain. “An amenity bought for ten million? I find the service rather distasteful.” Even when she allowed me into her bed, her last words, as she pulled away, were always cold. “Ten thousand dollars a pop, deducted from your account. Satisfied?” Gathering every ounce of courage, I reached for her sleeve. “The day of the wedding, I actually—” She yanked her arm free, her eyes two chips of frozen glass. “Still making up stories? Is the next one going to be that you’ve got a terminal illness?” “You cursed your own mother with a car crash for money, Jasper. What lie are you incapable of telling?” Her companion, the one with the snide voice, wrapped an arm around her and chuckled. “Cam, even I stopped using that one in middle school.” She grabbed my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze, her words dropping like stones. “Jasper Lowe, is there one single, solitary truth that’s ever passed your lips?” 2 My heart sank into a well of absolute despair. I looked at the massive, unusable number sitting in my banking app, my fingertips cold. I hadn’t touched a single cent of that ten million since my father-in-law deposited it. “I haven’t spent any of it, Camilla,” I explained into the phone, my voice raw and brittle. “Haven’t spent it?” She scoffed. “Jasper Lowe, why did you take it, then? Who are you trying to fool now? The account’s monthly activity is zero because you moved it already, didn’t you?” “You forcefully claimed half of it under the pretense of joint marital assets!” I was trembling. “The remaining five million—” That remaining five million had been frozen by Jonathan Blackwood, making it impossible for me to pay Camilla back. “What, you can’t access it?” Her voice was laced with derision. “Or you just don’t want to? I haven’t forgotten the look on your face when you abandoned me at the altar for cash, Jasper. Now you want to play the martyr, pretending you’re morally above it?” The line went dead, the click of the disconnect jarringly final. I slid down the cold tile wall, collapsing onto the floor. Camilla had been unbelievably stingy post-marriage, barely providing enough for basic living. I had to report every expense over a hundred dollars, subjecting it to the ruthless scrutiny of her secretary. The remaining five million was an astronomical figure to me. I had no idea how I would ever repay it. The phone’s busy signal buzzed for a long time before I finally lowered the hot device. A crushing sense of powerlessness enveloped me. Everyone in the city believed I was the Cinderella story come true—the fortunate Mr. Lowe who had married into the Blackwood dynasty. But no one knew this little songbird in a golden cage wasn’t even allowed to flutter his wings. Camilla had seized all my identification, locking me in this villa. She’d promised she wouldn’t give me another chance to escape. As for money… she allotted me only enough for subsistence, with every dime monitored. Loud, exaggerated gasps of admiration drifted up from the living room below. The news was still broadcasting the show. The brilliant, heart-shaped drone formation dominated the night sky. “Oh my God, Cam is so romantic! I heard she bought him that island as a birthday gift!” “Now that’s true love, isn’t it? Dropping millions just for a movie star’s smile.” “Ugh, I bet the guy upstairs couldn’t even afford the catering for that party, let alone the drone show.” “Of course not. A man who runs off for ten million? What does he have besides a pretty face? He’s not even in the same league as Ryan Foster.” 3 I used to be the subject of a real-life fairy tale. Camilla was the sole heir to Blackwood Industries, worth billions, proud and untouchable. I was just a kid raised by a single mother from a working-class background. We were worlds apart. Yet, this woman, this untouchable queen, had never shown a hint of contempt when she found out I was working late shifts at a convenience store to help my mom. The very next day, she quietly tucked a homemade lunchbox into my backpack, with a note: “Don’t work on an empty stomach.” Later, when my mother needed surgery, Camilla secretly settled every bill. When I found out, I was overwhelmed and speechless. She simply wiped the tears from my face, pressed her forehead against mine, and whispered: “Jasper, you don’t have to carry the world alone anymore. From now on, you have me.” In that moment, the sincerity and tenderness in her eyes made me believe the fairy tale was real. Until the wedding. In my tuxedo, waiting in the groom’s suite, I got the call from the hospital: Mom was gravely injured. My mind went blank. I ran out, frantic, without a word to Camilla, who was already walking down the aisle. When I burst into the hospital, I found my mother sitting up, perfectly fine, and my father-in-law, Jonathan Blackwood, standing there with a grim smile. He shoved a transfer confirmation slip into my hand, his voice like chipped granite. “Ten million. It’s the price for you to disappear. Remember, if you breathe one word of this to Camilla… next time, the accident won’t be a staged one.” I felt like I’d been plunged into a freezing lake. That’s when Camilla, who had come running after me, walked in. She saw me, holding the receipt, standing next to my perfectly healthy mother. The light in her eyes went out. Later, she defied her entire family, dragging me back with a nearly obsessive zeal, though her eyes were now filled only with hatred. “Jasper Lowe, is money really all you love?” I wanted to explain, but Jonathan’s cold threat echoed in my head. I bit my lip until it bled, swallowing every word of explanation, every ounce of my humiliation, along with that ten-million-dollar anchor. But seeing the tabloids—Camilla and the actor Ryan Foster embracing on a private beach—the self-deception finally shattered. The look of utter adoration in her eyes in the photo was identical to the one she’d once reserved for me. My hands trembling, I waited for her to return in the dead of night and grabbed her sleeve. “Camilla…” My voice was a choked whisper. “Let’s not do this, please. Don’t make me live like a joke.” She paused, her eyes slowly descending to my white-knuckled grip, then rising to my face. She looked at me like I was an irrelevant object. “A joke? Jasper, the moment you ran off for ten million at the altar, you became the biggest joke in the city.” She leaned in, her breath cold against my ear. “A commodity with a price tag doesn’t get to negotiate terms with me. Your only value now is to stay right here and pay for your choice.” Since that day, the rumors of Camilla and Ryan had become inescapable. A churning wave of nausea rose in my throat. I stumbled into the bathroom, dry-heaving violently, nothing coming up. The feeling of suffocation was overwhelming. I needed air. I put a hand against the wall and walked toward the front door. My fingers had just brushed the handle when two large, dark-suited bodyguards materialized in front of me. “Sir, Mrs. Blackwood gave strict instructions. You are not to leave the premises while she is away.” I clenched my hands, my voice tight. “I just want to walk in the garden.” The bodyguard’s face was impassive. “Apologies, Sir. Mrs. Blackwood’s order permits no form of exit without her express permission.” 4 I stood frozen in the foyer, watching the sliver of sunlight cut by the doorframe, a profound emptiness consuming me. I remembered how Camilla used to take me everywhere. Under the vast, silent stars of the Southwestern desert, she promised we’d see the world. In the morning mist by the coast, she promised me limitless freedom. Even outside my shabby childhood home, she seriously planned a trip for my mother and me to see the Northern Lights. On our one-year anniversary, Camilla took me on a road trip across the Great Plains. Huddled against me under the endless night sky, she pointed to the horizon and whispered: “Jasper, see how big the world is? You can go anywhere you want. I want you to be my free little prince forever.” But now, she’d trapped me in this villa, swearing she would never let me escape again. I rushed back to the bathroom, another wave of retching, my throat burning, but still nothing. “Uncle Jasper?” A clear voice broke through the panic. Nolan, Camilla’s young nephew, stood at the door, his eyes filled with worry. He was staying for the summer—the only source of warmth in this cold house. “Come with me.” He took my hand and led me through the hallway to the balcony of his room. As the glass door slid open, the night air, mixed with the scent of pine and grass, rushed in. I inhaled greedily, gasping, tears streaming down my face, uncontrolled. Nolan quietly handed me a tissue. “Uncle Jasper, I know what they say… but I don’t believe you’re like that. Is there some kind of mistake between you and Aunt Cam? I’ve seen the photo in her study drawer—the one from the Plains. The way she looked at you… she can’t fake that.” A lump formed in my throat. A teenager understood this simple truth, but Camilla refused to see it. Sometime after midnight, the sound of the front gate opening jolted me awake. A minute later, the unmistakable sounds of drunken laughter, low moans, and whispered exchanges drifted from the master suite next door. It lasted until dawn. The next morning, I went downstairs to find Camilla and Ryan eating breakfast in the sunlit dining room. She was spreading jam on his toast, her lips curled into a gentle smile I hadn’t seen in years. Normally, her “guests” were gone before sunrise. This was the first time she’d kept a man for breakfast. Ryan looked up and saw me, a smug smirk curving his thin lips. “Ah, you must be Mr. Lowe. I’ve heard so much. Did you catch the drone show last night, at home? Pity. It was truly stunning in person.” I ignored him, walking straight to Camilla, and placing the folded divorce papers next to her hand. Ryan faked surprise. “A divorce, Mr. Lowe? But I thought you owed Cam a rather large sum of money?” I looked into Camilla’s deep, emotionless eyes. Every word was deliberate. “I will pay the money back. In whatever way I can.” Camilla slowly set down her knife and fork. After a long pause, she spoke, her voice distant. “Fine. Starting today, I will grant you three hours of unsupervised time outside. Let’s see how you intend to repay the debt.” “But if you fail to repay it, don’t ever dream of freedom.” 5 I started looking for work, but the power of the Blackwood name was absolute. No company dared to hire me. I knew Camilla was trying to break me. I picked up a broom and became a municipal street cleaner. My meager wages were a drop in the ocean compared to the “debt,” but three hours of freedom a day—even sweeping the sidewalk—was better than permanent captivity. Passersby stared, their gazes a mix of shock, contempt, and morbid pleasure. Their whispers followed me like an infection. “Look! It really is Mr. Lowe! Why’s he sweeping the street? Hasn’t he drained Blackwood dry yet?!” “Ugh, ‘Mr. Lowe’ my foot. Just a discarded trophy husband. That’s what you get for betraying Cam.” “Ran off for ten million, now he’s paying the price. Good for him!” “Seriously, he can’t even hold a candle to Ryan Foster.” I kept my head down, my spine straight, my nails digging into the broom handle. It doesn’t matter. At least the air out here was moving. Just then, the screech of an engine tore through the air. I looked up just as a bright blue McLaren jumped the curb onto the sidewalk. CRASH—! The car slammed into me, knocking me hard to the ground. A blinding pain shot up my right leg, and the broom clattered away. I gasped, a faint, worrying ache blooming in my abdomen. Ryan stumbled out of the car, reeking of alcohol. Perhaps because I was wearing a generic uniform, he didn’t immediately recognize me. “Watch where you’re going, garbage man! Trying to scam me, are you? Targeting my car?” His voice was grating. I gritted my teeth, trying to push myself up. “You… you drove onto the sidewalk.” “Bullshit!” He spat, and three or four stylishly dressed friends spilled out of the car, immediately crowding around and joining the attack. “Foster, don’t waste your breath on a street rat. He’s clearly a professional fraud artist!” “Desperate for cash, huh? Trying to pull a big one?” The insults rained down like dirty water. “You hit me. You have to take responsibility,” I managed. Ryan threw his head back, laughing hysterically. “Responsibility? Do you know who my wife is? You think you can blackmail me?” He pulled out his phone, his voice instantly turning into a pathetic whine. “Baby—! Come quick! Some crazy man deliberately hit my car and is yelling at me! It’s on my usual street, I’m so scared…” Camilla arrived quickly. I remembered months ago when I’d had a fever so high I was barely conscious. I’d managed to call her, but all I got was a clinical busy signal, followed by the sound of her and another man in the room next door later that night. Her gaze landed first on Ryan. She rushed to him, checking him for injuries. “Are you alright?” she asked, her voice tight with a concern I hadn’t heard in ages. Only then did she turn her attention to me—battered, bruised, and sitting in the dirt. Her eyes were calm, devoid of expression, as if looking at a piece of roadside trash. “What happened?” Her tone was coolly distant. “He intentionally walked into my car, then demanded money!” Ryan nestled into her embrace. I bit my lip, refusing to speak, instead pointing to my bleeding arm and scraped knees, and then to the clearly illegal position of the sports car. Her gaze paused on my wounds for a fraction of a second, so quickly I thought I imagined it. “Jasper Lowe, apologize.” 6 Ryan recognized me then, his pupils shrinking, quickly replaced by a smug grin. “He hit me!” I refused. “I said, apologize.” Her voice deepened, and the air around us immediately solidified. “I won’t!” Camilla seemed momentarily enraged, then a cold smile touched her lips. She took two steps forward, leaned down, and spoke one word at a time. “You want a divorce, don’t you?” My heart stopped. She straightened up, her voice ringing clearly across the shocked onlookers. “Apologize to Ryan and his friends. Three deep bows, head to the pavement, for each of them. Do that, and I’ll sign the papers immediately.” The world went silent. She was using the one thing I desperately wanted to crush the last vestige of my dignity. The memory of the disconnected fever-call screamed in my ears. She wasn’t going to show me mercy. She hadn’t for a long time. I closed my eyes, inhaling the freezing air. When I opened them, only a dead emptiness remained. I didn’t look at anyone. I braced my hands against the filthy asphalt, dragging my injured leg, and slowly, deliberately, bent my spine. The moment my forehead touched the rough pavement, a fresh wave of jeers and whistles erupted around me. The first bow: for the betrayal purchased by ten million dollars. The second bow: for my love and dignity ground into the dust. The third bow: for all the pathetic, remaining illusions I held onto. Each forced bend was like a thousand-pound hammer striking my back. When the third bow was complete, I stayed there, forehead pressed to the ground, tears silently mixing with the dirt and blood. “That’s enough,” she said, two frigid words. She didn’t spare me another glance, turning to wrap an arm around Ryan. Her tone softened instantly. “Feel better now, darling? Let’s go.” Before leaving, Ryan exchanged a meaningful glance with his friends. I was still kneeling, the dust and blood a sticky mask on my face. My stomach was cramping violently, but my mind felt only the desolate cold of the Arctic. Suddenly, several shadows, reeking of stale alcohol and cheap cologne, loomed over me. It was Ryan’s group of “friends.” “Lowe, that was a good thump,” the woman with the gold chain slurred, squatting down. “Camilla doesn’t want you anymore. How about us girls take care of you?” Another, with a cheap peroxide perm, leaned close. “Want to go to the hospital? We can take you. But you’ll have to show us how grateful you are…” They exchanged vulgar smiles, dragging me toward a dark, secluded alley, surrounding me completely, blocking out the last of the light. Late that night, Camilla’s face was chalk-white as she turned on the house manager. “It’s hours past his three-hour limit! Where is he? What kind of job are you people doing?” The manager lowered his head. “We… we assumed, since you agreed to sign the divorce papers, that you no longer required us to restrict Mr. Lowe’s movements…” “You fool!” She violently slammed her wine glass down. Before she could erupt, her phone buzzed with a news alert. The headline was stark: “Municipal Worker Found Dead After Violent Assault at 3:28 AM…”

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My parents took me to the group home to pick out a sister. I scanned the swarm of girls our age. I was about to walk toward the quiet girl from my homeroom class, the one I knew—Autumn. Then, a sudden barrage of text—like subtitles or a bad movie scroll—slashed across my vision. [Ugh, the side character is so annoying. Our FL Baby is poor but has integrity. Who wants to sell their freedom for cash?] [He uses his wealth to adopt the FL, then tries to emotionally blackmail her, causing all the drama with the ML.] [Who cares about his dirty money? His family deserves to be ruined by the ML later on.] [Poor FL Baby, always stuck under someone else’s roof.] I froze, horrified by the invasive, toxic commentary. I yanked my hand back from where it was reaching for Autumn and quickly grabbed the hand of a different girl, huddled in the far corner. Emotional blackmail? Ruined by the ML? No way was I going to be that guy. No way was my family, the Montgomerys, going to go bankrupt because of some idiotic web novel plot. She needed her freedom—the freedom to eat gruel and live miserably, apparently. I wasn’t going to stand in the way of her noble poverty. 1 “Tris, you said you wanted a little sister, right?” My mother, Eleanor, patted my shoulder and gestured toward the room full of kids. “Go on, pick the one who catches your eye. ” I was just scanning the sea of girls. My eyes landed on Autumn, the girl I already knew. She was solitary but seemed polite. I had said I wanted a sister, but I hadn’t expected them to take me seriously. Still, since my parents had brought me here, picking a quiet, likable one seemed easy enough. Our family certainly wasn’t struggling. With that thought, I headed straight for Autumn. But just as I was about to reach out my hand, that wall of text exploded across my vision again. [Is the side character seriously going to keep hounding our FL Baby even here? Isn’t it enough that he follows her around school?] [Seriously! The side character is the worst! Our FL Baby doesn’t want to go with you!] Side character? Female Lead? I stopped, confused. Were they talking about Autumn and me? [Can the smelly side character please back off? Our FL Baby is poor but has integrity. Who wants to sell their freedom for cash?] [I’m a first-time reader. Why are they saying that? What happened later?] [Oh, you don’t know. The side character, a rich kid, adopts the FL, then tries to emotionally blackmail her, causing all the drama with the ML.] [Who cares about his dirty money? His family deserves to be ruined by the ML later on.] [Poor FL Baby, always stuck under someone else’s roof. She hates the side character but never dares to say it. So tragic.] [It’s okay! He won’t be a nuisance for long. The Male Lead will make sure he and his whole family pay!] Bankrupt? Male Lead? He’ll make sure my whole family pays? I jumped back, my move toward Autumn stopping dead. “Son? What’s wrong? Are you shy?” My mother misinterpreted my sudden halt, immediately stepping forward to take Autumn’s hand herself. I reacted instantly, grabbing Mom’s arm. The move was too sharp, too obvious. She looked surprised. The bullet screen commentary went nuts. [What’s going on? Why isn’t the side character grabbing our little Autumn?] That one line sealed it. I was the doomed “”side character”” who would blackmail the “”Female Lead,”” be utterly despised by her, and finally get bankrupted by the “”Male Lead. “” Bankruptcy? No! Absolutely not! “I don’t want her!” I shouted, the volume surprising even me. Autumn looked stunned. My mother was completely taken aback. “I want her to be my sister!” I quickly scanned the room, my eyes landing on the girl I’d seen earlier, huddled in the quietest corner, looking completely isolated. It didn’t matter who the new sister was. It just couldn’t be Autumn. Mom hadn’t expected me to choose that particular girl. She was pretty, yes, but radiated an almost palpable ‘stay away’ vibe. However, since they had given me the choice, they wouldn’t argue with my selection. We quickly handled the adoption paperwork. As I led my new sister out of the group home, the familiar text reappeared. [What is this? Didn’t the story say the side character would adopt the FL?] [Who cares why he didn’t! This is a good thing for our FL Baby!] [Exactly! The FL didn’t end up in a gilded cage! She’s finally free to wait for the ML to find her and love her!] Yeah, I’m truly evil, aren’t I? I thought cynically. I would have forced her to leave a life of misery for a big house, pressured her to spend our money, and forced her to have a good life. A villain like me definitely shouldn’t inflict such harm on the “”FL Baby. “” Let her enjoy her freedom and eat her metaphorical gruel at the group home. I tightened my grip on my new sister’s hand and strode out the front door. 2 My new sister was exactly as she appeared—solitary and shy. But she was undeniably cute, which made her reserved nature easy to overlook. “What’s your name?” I asked her, once we were home. “She’s called Watery,” Mom answered for her, using the name from the paperwork. “I’m not Watery,” she said. It was her first time speaking since arriving. Her voice was soft and sweet, and her demeanor was incredibly endearing. “I don’t have a name. Whatever Papa, Mama, and Brother say I’m called, that’s what I’ll be. ” Hearing that, Mom and Dad were immediately heartbroken, and they handed the naming rights back to me. “Then you’ll be Marina,” I decided. “”It’s Latin for ‘of the sea’ or ‘star of the sea,’ but even in Chinese, the character for Miao is triple water symbols. It suits you. “” She nodded fiercely, clutching my hand tightly, her eyes shining with joy. Her happiness was infectious, and I felt a genuine warmth. Watching her, I couldn’t help but think of Autumn. If Autumn had been the one to come home with us, she would never have been this sweet. She probably would have complained that the food wasn’t organic, or the house wasn’t “”free”” enough, spending our money while whining about being restricted. Then, she’d run off with the “”Male Lead”” and ruin my family. A complete user! No. I wouldn’t allow that kind of person into my life. Now that Marina was adopted, the next step was school. She was only a few months younger than me, but her previous school was miles away. I convinced Dad to arrange a transfer to Northwood Prep, the school I attended. “I want her to go to school with me,” I insisted. “I want to go to school with Brother, too,” Marina murmured softly, standing beside me. She’d just been dressed in a new designer dress by Mom, her hair pulled into two neat little braids. She looked like a delicate porcelain doll. The transfer was simple enough for my father, Robert Montgomery, to arrange. The next morning, Marina took my hand, and we walked into my homeroom. The class went silent, seeing me walk in with an unfamiliar girl. “Tris, what’s up? Since when do you hang out with anyone besides Autumn? Who is this?” A guy named Joel asked. “This is my sister, Marina Montgomery,” I announced. Marina was a little shy, but she didn’t hide. She just gripped the edge of my blazer, her wide eyes taking in the room. The teacher assigned her a desk two rows away from mine. Marina’s brow instantly furrowed, and her eyes welled up. “Can’t I sit next to Brother?” she asked, pulling on my sleeve, her voice thick with hurt. “Of course, you can,” I said without hesitation. But another voice cut in at the exact same time. “No, I don’t agree!” It was Autumn. She stood by her desk, her expression dark. I glanced at her, and the bullet screen commentary flared up again. [I almost forgot—the side character and our FL Baby are still seatmates.] [Why doesn’t Baby want to switch? If he moves, no one will bother her!] “What business is it of yours?” The sight of her, coupled with the toxic plot summary I’d read, instantly made her unlikable. “You’re my current seatmate,” Autumn frowned. “Even if you don’t like me, you can’t just force me to give up my spot to someone else. ” [Exactly! Baby is so brave! She won’t submit to the villain!] [The side character is too much. Why does he think he can just demand the FL’s seat? Does he think being rich means he can get whatever he wants?] What were these people talking about? Did they have any common sense? I looked at Autumn as if she were insane, then addressed the bullet screen. “When did I ever say I wanted you to move?” I then turned to the kid who sat next to Marina: “Hey, why don’t we switch? You can take my spot. ” My desk was perfectly situated—prime real estate in the classroom. The student agreed immediately. And Autumn? The one who had just righteously stood up for her right to her seat? Though no one had touched her spot, her eyes suddenly went red. She began to sniffle and cry softly, but the loud, dramatic inhalation meant everyone knew she was upset. It was completely ridiculous. No one had even looked at her crossly. Why was she crying? The commentary instantly erupted. [See? The side character made the FL cry again.] [He’s a total scumbag. If he didn’t want to switch, fine, but why be so cruel?] [Thank God the FL Baby wasn’t adopted by him. Who knows how much she’d have been bullied. ] The comments were as nonsensical as Autumn’s tears. 3 I had assumed the weirdness was confined to the bullet screen and Autumn, but it turned out some of my classmates were just as delusional. They had been right there. They had seen what happened. Yet, knowing I hadn’t bullied Autumn, they still treated her like she had suffered a terrible trauma. They seemed to instinctively protect her, their “”own kind,”” the first girl in the class, against me—and by extension, against Marina. The strange thing was, they blamed Marina for my actions. The malice on their faces was palpable whenever I left the room. The worst incident happened on Marina’s birthday. I gave her a delicate silver locket. It was expensive—a small fortune for my allowance, saved up over three months. But when she opened it, her eyes lit up like scattered starlight, and her smile was so genuine that I decided the money was worth it. I told Marina to wear the locket to school, and it immediately attracted everyone’s attention. “My brother gave it to me,” Marina whispered to the kids who gathered around her desk, showing it off modestly. The kids “”oohed”” and “”aahed. “” “It must be great to be Tris Montgomery’s sister,” someone sighed. “It must be great to be his seatmate, too,” someone else chimed in. “Autumn used to get tons of nice gifts from him. ” “That’s different,” I snapped, not wanting to be associated with Autumn. “The gift I gave Marina was carefully chosen, perfect for her. Autumn’s were just random trinkets I bought on impulse. ” Another soft, annoying cry immediately echoed through the classroom. I glared at Autumn, annoyed, then crouched down to ruffle Marina’s hair. “I’ll buy you fried chicken tonight. ” “Okay!” Marina answered sweetly. My Marina is so much better. My favoritism was completely obvious. I thought this blatant partiality would make others understand her importance to me and prevent them from bothering her. I was wrong. Because of Autumn’s presence—and the narrative inertia that still favored her—my preference for Marina became the ridiculous, unwritten reason they started to bully her. The next day, I had a slight fever, so Mom and Dad kept me home. Marina went to school alone. She was perfectly sweet and told me, “Goodbye, Brother,” before she left. I watched her go, but she never came home. Thirty minutes after the bell should have rung, I grew frantic. Ignoring my stomach ache, I rushed to the school to find her. The classroom was empty. Except for Marina. She was curled up, alone, sobbing quietly in the corner. My heart shattered. I rushed to hug her, and that’s when I saw it—the silver locket, now lying in pieces near her feet. “Who did this? Who hurt you?” I demanded. “They… they broke my necklace,” Marina choked out. 4 The next morning, I stood on the dais with Marina next to me, my face grim as students filed into the room. The shattered pieces of the locket lay on the teacher’s desk. As the kids arrived, those who were close to Autumn couldn’t meet my eyes. They fiddled with their backpacks or stared at their shoes. Their guilt was perfectly obvious to me. I scoffed. “Yesterday, when I wasn’t here, someone destroyed a locket I gave Marina, worth nearly twenty thousand dollars. ” “I’ve already notified the principal, and she’ll be here soon to pull the security footage. Whoever touched my sister needs to give me an explanation today. ” I spoke with a deep, menacing tone, focusing my gaze pointedly on Autumn. Autumn’s face instantly went pale. The bullet screen reappeared. [What is the side character doing? He’s trying to intimidate our Baby!] [That look is so cruel. It’s not like our FL Baby did it.] [The FL Baby deserves the best things in the world!] [Anyone who loves Autumn knows that locket should have been hers! Good job, kids! If our Female Lead can’t have the best, no one else should!] If the earlier comments were just nonsensical, these last ones genuinely enraged me. I didn’t care where these invisible idiots came from, but they were, in effect, accomplices. Female Lead? Side Character? This was my life. I was the only real protagonist here. Before Autumn could start her inevitable, preemptive tears, the principal arrived. Her expression was severe. She played the security footage from the previous afternoon for the entire class. My face darkened with every passing second. Four or five small boys had surrounded Marina just as she was packing up. She hadn’t worn the locket during the day; she’d kept it safely tucked away, only putting it on to wear home for me. As she put it on and turned to leave, one of the boys blocked her way. Then, he reached out, snatching at the chain around her neck. Marina was terrified and confused. She immediately covered the locket with her hands, asking fearfully, “What are you doing?” At that time, the only other student in the room was Autumn. Autumn was watching them the entire time. Yet, she allowed her friends to continue. She watched as they shoved Marina, screaming insults, trying to snatch the locket. Marina was tiny and slight—she was no match for a group of boys. She was quickly pushed to the floor, and the locket was ripped off her neck. The boy who grabbed it held it up to Autumn like a trophy. “Autumn! Look! We got it! Don’t worry, we’ll give it to you right away! This pretty locket should have been yours!” “No, it’s not!” Marina cried out from the floor. “My brother gave it to me!” “Why are you crying? The best things in the world belong to Autumn. If she likes it, it belongs to her,” the boy scoffed. “Your brother likes Autumn, too. He won’t even blame her! Even if he came here, that locket would still be Autumn’s!” “It is not!” Marina wailed, suddenly finding the strength to jump up and shove the boy holding the locket. The locket went flying, smashing instantly into a dozen glittering pieces on the hard floor. I finished watching the footage, my gaze settling on the frightened, wide-eyed Autumn. Autumn. Again. It all stemmed from her, and yet here she was, playing the innocent victim. “Who said that locket was Autumn’s to begin with?”

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I stumbled across a post on my mother’s private social media account. “Would an entire set of expensive designer jewelry be too cheap for my daughter’s eighteenth birthday gift?” My heart stuttered. My parents pinched every penny, stretching one dollar to do the work of two. I couldn’t believe they were considering such a massive extravagance for me! Fearing they were overworking themselves, I screenshot a three-day, budget-friendly tour package priced at $999 and anonymously commented on the post. “A daughter who feels her parents’ love will be happy, material things don’t measure up.” Five minutes later, she replied. “Thank you for the advice, but I already took my little princess on a graduation trip to Europe last week.” “She had an incredible time.” 1 I froze for several seconds. My hand shaking, I tapped through to the poster’s profile. The latest photograph was a family of three posing in front of the Eiffel Tower. The girl looked about my age. She was draped from head to toe in high-end Parisian couture. Even her handbag—a quilted Chanel—cost more than my parents claimed to earn in a year. My mother, Evelyn, was clutching the girl’s arm, her eyes in the camera’s focus brimming with undisguised adoration. My dad, Richard, the one who always claimed to be too busy, was even cooperating, forming a heart shape with his hands alongside the girl. In the background, I could see several bulky shopping bags overflowing with expensive logos. My fingertips went cold. I scrolled back to the reply. “I already took my little princess on a graduation trip to Europe last week.” Following that was a new comment from the poster. “But I still want to give her another surprise, so I’ve decided to book the penthouse ballroom for her birthday party and invite all her friends.” “I can’t wait to see her face light up.” The accompanying photo was a staging shot of a banquet hall—crystal chandeliers, a towering floral wall, a professional event planning team. The location tag read: The Grand Continental, Downtown. It was the most luxurious venue in our city. The rental fee for one night was enough to cover my family’s living expenses for three years. The last time I brought up my eighteenth birthday, I remember my mother taking my hand, tears welling up as she pleaded, “Sasha, your father’s company isn’t doing well this year, and my position is facing layoffs. Can we just have a small cake at home for your birthday?” “When our situation improves, I promise I will make it up to you.” At the time, I hugged her tightly, my heart aching for her. “Mom, I don’t care about all that. As long as we’re all safe and healthy, that’s all that matters.” Thinking about it now, the ‘later’ she promised was likely a promise meant for another daughter. The truth hit me too hard, too fast. I slumped back in my chair at my old, beat-up desk, gazing blankly around the room. My bedroom was no more than ten square feet, the paint peeling slightly at the edges. My desk was a relic from elementary school, its corners worn smooth and white. The most expensive item in my closet was a t-shirt that cost less than fifty dollars. “We’re a regular family,” my mother always told me. “We can’t compare ourselves to your classmates.” But now I knew: it wasn’t the family that was ordinary. It was only me. My father leaves before dawn and returns after dark. My mother, aside from her job, is constantly doing housework. Where did they find the time to travel with another girl? Where did they get the money for a Europe trip and a lavish party? I pulled out Evelyn’s number, my thumb hovering over the dial button. It rang seven or eight times before she answered. “Hello, Sasha? What is it? Mom’s busy right now,” her voice was rushed, and I could faintly hear the sharp, insistent notes of a piano in the background. My throat tightened. “Mom, where are you?” “I’m… I’m at the grocery store, buying some food. What’s wrong? Are you short on cash? I’ll Venmo you twenty dollars later.” “…” “Why aren’t you saying anything? Are you feeling sick?” 2 I fought to keep the tremor out of my voice. “I need you to come home. Now.” There was a silence on the other end. “Sasha, don’t be so dramatic. I’m tied up right now, we can talk tonight.” “I want you here now!” I practically screamed. Then, I softened my tone immediately, letting a sob catch in my throat. “Mom, my head is throbbing. I think I have a fever.” It was the first time I had ever lied to her. In the past, whenever I was sick, she would drop everything and rush to my side. Once, I had a high fever in the middle of the night, and she carried me two blocks to the urgent care clinic. The doctor said another hour and it would have been dangerous. She stayed up with me all night, her eyes red and swollen from crying. “Okay, okay, I’m on my way. Don’t move, just lie down.” Hanging up, a crushing wave of misery washed over me. My mother does care about me. There had to be some misunderstanding about that photo. Maybe it was a relative’s child, or she was helping a friend. I clung to that fragile hope. Twenty minutes later, Evelyn rushed through the door, clutching a bag of fever reducers and a small box of expensive artisanal fruit tarts. “Why the sudden fever? Did you kick your blankets off again last night?” She reached out to feel my forehead, her brow furrowing. “You don’t feel warm.” As she did, my eyes caught a glimpse of a brand-new necklace peeking out from her collar. It was the same iconic piece—a Cartier Love necklace—worn by the girl in the profile photo. I’d seen it in a magazine; it was worth a small fortune. My chest felt like it had been struck by a hammer. Those last, desperate glimmers of hope shattered into dust. For all these years, my mother had been good to me, but she was always strictly frugal about material things. She constantly reminded me that we weren’t well-off, that I needed to be sensible. She’d say Dad worked hard and we couldn’t waste money, that they had to save up for my college tuition. Because of this, I had repeatedly found excuses to skip class gatherings and had agonized over buying a single paperback book for outside reading. Now I knew. Her tears and tight budget weren’t about poverty. They were about saving money for another daughter. “Let’s take your temperature,” Evelyn said, shaking down the thermometer from the medicine bag. I watched her, my heart twisting with anguish. I had always told myself to be understanding, that my parents had it tough. But seeing the truth laid bare, all that ‘understanding’ felt like a cruel joke. My eyes were stinging. I finally spoke, my voice raw. It was the first, and only, time I ever challenged her. “Mom, Jenna in my class got a MacBook Air for her eighteenth birthday.” “Sarah’s parents took her to the Caribbean for five days.” “Even Beth, whose family has less money than ours, got a handmade scarf from her mother and the expensive art supplies she really wanted.” Evelyn’s hand, holding the thermometer, froze in mid-air. The forced smile on her face evaporated. “But,” I said, hastily wiping my tears and forcing a weak, wobbly smile. “I told them I wasn’t jealous. I told them my mother makes me breakfast every morning and hasn’t missed a day in six years.” “I told them when I broke my leg in high school, she took a month off work to care for me, carrying me up and down the stairs every day.” “I told them when I bombed a test, she never yelled. She just hugged me and said, ‘Try harder next time.’” “How could she not love me? How could she not give me the best?” “I’m almost eighteen, Mom. Maybe you’re preparing a huge surprise for me.” “Mom, you…” There was too much to say. Too much hurt. But the tears were uncontrollable now. My throat was so tight and sore I couldn’t speak another word. I just looked up at her, my chin jutting out defiantly. Evelyn fumbled, trying to wipe my tears, but they just kept coming. She sighed. After a long moment, she spoke in a low voice, “Sasha, it’s not that I don’t love you. It’s just… we really are struggling financially.” “Your father’s company truly has been underperforming this year, and my unit is…” I scrubbed my face clean with my sleeve. My voice was ragged, defeated. “Yes, I know you’re struggling.” “That’s why I wore a forty-dollar school jacket for three years.” “That’s why my sixty-dollar backpack lasted five years.” “That’s why I never asked for a birthday gift over twenty dollars.” “I didn’t even attend a single tutoring session; I studied every night under my own lamp!” …By the end, I was breathless, my voice just a whisper. 3 I looked up at her, clinging to a final, desperate hope. “Mom, I never cared how much money you spent on me.” “I don’t need a MacBook, I don’t need a trip to Europe.” “But couldn’t I just feel, properly feel, that I matter, just this once?” “All I want for my eighteenth birthday is confirmation that you and Dad will always be my absolute rock.” I wanted to rip out my heart and show her how hard I had tried to be a good, sensible daughter for eighteen years, how much I had internalized their supposed ‘hardship.’ But why was she silent? Why wasn’t she rushing to explain, to compensate, to cry and tell me she had a hardship, that I was her only truly beloved daughter? “Say something!” I shoved her arm abruptly. She was startled by my intensity and reached out to hug me, but I pulled away. The air grew heavy and cold, broken only by my choked sobs. Finally, Evelyn spoke: “I know we’ve let you down all these years, Sasha. For your eighteenth birthday, we absolutely will—” “I want a party at The Grand Continental. I want to invite every single one of my classmates.” I interrupted her, a surge of adrenaline pushing the words out. I was making a desperate gamble: force them to choose. Would they choose me, their biological daughter? The air chilled again. Then, my mother’s phone rang. It was a distinctive, expensive ringtone I’d never heard her use. She glanced at the screen, her face paling, and made a quick move to disconnect the call. But I snatched the phone first. Before I could even press the answer button, Evelyn shrieked, “Fine! Your father and I will arrange a Grand Continental birthday party for you!” The caller ID was still glaring on the screen. Izzie. I stopped. I didn’t dare answer. I didn’t want to lose this fragile, stolen moment of affirmation. A base, desperate voice screamed in my head: I must win. I must be better than her. I nodded slowly, handing the phone back to my mother. She immediately powered it off, then—in a rare moment—sat down beside me to plan the party details. I let myself sink into this warmth, even though I knew it was a lie. Then, she suggested we go shopping for my party dress. I walked out of the dressing room, wearing a simple but stunning cocktail dress, just as I heard her on the phone again. “Yes, my love, I’m coming right now…” The tone was soft, tender, exactly like the one she used when trying to soothe me—but this time, I knew it was genuine. She urgently scanned the price tag. “Just wrap up everything she tried on.” “I have an emergency, Sasha. I’ll be back later to make dinner.” I listened to the electronic voice announce the four-figure total of the transaction. I laughed, a sharp, self-deprecating sound. The first four-figure outfit I’d ever owned was purchased as the price of her escape. The metallic tang of blood filled my mouth. The saleswoman beamed, commenting on what a loving mother I had. I felt utterly abandoned, my palms dug into my skin. I had already chosen to abandon the truth, hadn’t I? Why was she abandoning me again? My body reacted before my mind could. I followed her. She drove straight to The Grand Continental. It was my first time entering such a lavish place. I felt like a thief crashing a high-society party, every breath catching in my throat. The concierge raised a curious eyebrow at my faded jacket juxtaposed with the crisp designer shopping bags in my hand. Before he could speak, I slapped my ID down on the counter. “I’m looking for my mother. She booked a debutante event here…” The concierge immediately snapped to attention, summoning a colleague. “Take Ms. Montgomery to Suite 803. This is a VIP…” In the elevator, the attendant enthusiastically spoke about the event’s grandeur. “The economy is rough, Miss, we haven’t hosted a reservation this large in five or six years.” “Your parents must really love you. Is it true you’re their only one?” I was already standing at the door. My heart was aching unbearably. I took the room key, but hesitated. If I didn’t open the door, I could still pretend we were a happy family of three. But a stolen, fragile bubble of happiness was bound to burst eventually. 4 The moment the door swung open, a young girl inside, half-dressed, immediately covered herself and shrieked. “What is the cleaning staff doing? I told you not to disturb me! How dare you just walk in?” She wore sophisticated makeup. The silk ballgown she was trying on was likely worth more than ten thousand dollars. And my mother stood behind her, attentive, like a personal attendant. Six eyes met, and the air solidified once more. I stared at the diamond-encrusted heels on her feet. Last month, I had found them in my mother’s closet and briefly thought they were my birthday gift. They looked so elegant and expensive. I even secretly tried them on, thinking Mom had finally bought me something nice. But the next day, they were gone. When I asked, Evelyn stammered that she had returned them; they were too expensive. It turned out they were meant for the girl standing right here. I swallowed the bitter taste rising in my throat. Ignoring the girl’s shocked expression, I marched straight into the suite. The walls were already covered with Izzie’s personal photographs. From her baby shower to her eighteenth year—eighteen separate frames weren’t even enough to display them all. My entire life, I had never been to a portrait studio. I didn’t even own a single decent professional photo. I remembered winning an academic award in middle school that included a free portrait session, but Mom refused the fifty-dollar fee for the album, saying, “Fifty dollars is enough for five pounds of steak. Wouldn’t you rather have that?” Now, those photos felt like a violent slap, waking me up to the sheer, unforgivable unfairness. “Hey! I’m talking to you! The security here is appalling! If you don’t leave right now, I’m calling the manager!” the girl finally found her voice, yelling into her phone. “Izzie, stop it—” Evelyn rushed forward to intervene. “Sasha, let me explain—” “Explain what?” I spun around, staring at my mother. “Explain how you treat someone else’s daughter like gold and your own daughter like dirt?” “Explain how you cry poverty to me while spending fortunes on her?” “Go on, explain it!” I roared.

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The third Valentine’s Day since Killian and I separated. I found him in the downtown piazza, lighting a spectacular burst of fireworks for his mistress. Our eyes met across the crowd, and for a fleeting, agonizing second, the world fell silent. Jules, my childhood friend, pulled me close. He pressed a freshly purchased hot latte into my hand and steered me through the throng, his arm a solid, grounding weight around my waist. That night, well after midnight, I heard the faint snick of the lock turning. I didn’t have time to react. Killian Thorne was in the room. He slammed the door, crossed the floor in three strides, and tackled me onto the bed, his mouth finding the sensitive skin of my shoulder. He bit down—not playfully, but savagely, until the metallic taste of blood filled the air. “Three years,” he spat, hovering over me. “Three years I’ve been gone, and you couldn’t wait to parade your lover in front of me? Don’t forget, Genevieve, we’re still married.” I drove the heel of my palm into his face, the sound sharp in the darkness. I laughed, a bitter, hollow sound. “You forget,” I countered, the sting in my cheek secondary to the one in my chest. “It was your idea for the ‘open’ marriage.” … Killian backed away, his silhouette looming by the corner of the bed, the scarlet mark of my handprint faintly visible in the gloom. I sat against the headboard, catching my breath. We were locked in a stalemate, two exhausted boxers refusing to drop their guard. Then his phone chimed. “Killian, I miss you…” His posture softened instantly. He glanced at me, a flicker of something—pity? ownership?—in his eyes, and walked to the balcony to answer the call. Through the glass doors, the tenderness on his face, the genuine sweetness in his smile, pierced me with the force of a thousand needles. I tasted the coppery tang of blood rising in my throat, which I quickly swallowed. He finished the call, extinguishing his cigarette and letting the last plume of smoke drift toward my face. “Aria is scared of the dark. I have to go.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll let this slide. Don’t try those pathetic games of trying to make me jealous, Mrs. Thorne.” “Killian,” I said, my voice flat, devoid of emotion. “Let’s get a divorce.” I slid the pre-signed papers across the nightstand. I watched him, my face a mask of weary calm. He paused, then his eyes filled with familiar mockery. “I came back, didn’t I? Is this some dramatic performance?” “I told you, no one is a threat to the ‘Mrs. Thorne’ title. You shouldn’t be so intolerant of Aria.” “Genevieve. Cut the games and take the win.” I ignored him, picking up my pen and signing my name on my copy. Seven years. I was simply exhausted. The smile vanished from Killian’s face. He strode forward, his fingers clamping down on my forearm. “Is this because of Jules? You want to leave me for him?” The ache in my wrist was nothing compared to the shards of glass tearing at my heart. My silence only intensified the fury in his eyes. After a long, torturous moment, he released me and let out a chilling, empty laugh. “You’re truly desperate for my attention, aren’t you? Don’t waste your time, Genevieve.” He flung my arm away and left without a backward glance. I sank to the floor, finally unable to suppress the blood that rose in my chest. It pooled onto the pristine white rug, a stark, wilting rose. Today was our seventh wedding anniversary. [NEWS ALERT: Thorne Corp CEO Killian Thorne and his beloved wife, celebrated concert pianist Ms. Aria Bellweather, personally presided over the groundbreaking ceremony for the 99th school they have jointly sponsored, a symbol of their enduring love…] [Aria Bellweather wins the prestigious International Gold Medal again! CEO Thorne took the stage himself to present the flowers…] [To celebrate Ms. Bellweather’s birthday, Mr. Thorne has commissioned a three-day, non-stop fireworks display over Ashford City!] No matter what channel I surfed, the screens were filled with the public celebration of Killian and Aria’s romance. Killian, immaculately suited, presented flowers, his eyes filled with a softness I hadn’t seen in years. Aria, blushing and demure, nestled into his embrace. It was jarring. I’d only seen that look on him once—seven years ago, when he placed his hand over his heart and swore: “I pledge my life to send Gen flowers forever, to protect her all my days!” The audience in the broadcast clapped and cheered. “When did Mr. Thorne remarry? I thought Mrs. Thorne looked different?” a small voice muttered, causing a brief silence. Aria looked up at the camera, her eyes welling up with tears in a perfect display of delicate distress. “There has only ever been one wife for me, from the start, and it is you!” Killian declared, his face radiating devotion. He slipped a diamond band onto her finger. This declaration solidified Aria as the true Thorne matriarch in the public eye. The camera zoomed in on the rings, their hands tightly clasped. My numb heart clenched. My eyes locked onto the screen. That ring. We had personally designed that wedding band in the second year of our marriage when our love was at its peak, and he had spent a fortune having a master jeweler craft it. Now, it was on the hand of another woman. Step by step, Killian had replaced me. He had transformed Aria into a renowned pianist, the one who would stand beside him, the legitimate Mrs. Thorne. When did it begin, this slow, insidious process? The first time I saw Killian, he wasn’t the powerful CEO. He was a desperate, shivering creature struggling in the dirt, starving. It was a brutally cold winter night. He was wearing a threadbare t-shirt, pinned to the ground and beaten for stealing a cold, stale piece of bread. His body was a mass of cuts and bruises. I felt pity and told my driver to save him. I thought it was a single act of charity, but it set the gears of fate in motion. Years later, I finished a concerto and found him working as catering staff in the performance hall. A pair of thugs burst in, smashing a bottle over his head. “You little bastard! You think you can run from me? I’ll kill you today!” Red wine mixed with his blood, splattering his face as the punches rained down. A shrill woman spat at him, cursing. They were his parents, trying to force him to quit school and work. He refused, trying to earn his own tuition, only to be found and beaten again. I begged my father to finance his education. Soon after, the financial prodigy, Killian Thorne, emerged. My father, recognizing his raw talent, sent him overseas for advanced study and opened his network to him. Killian started his own company and quickly became Ashford City’s new power broker. When Hartley Inc. faced an internal financial crisis, Killian abandoned his flourishing overseas business and returned to help my father without demanding a penny. “Without you and Gen, I would be nothing,” he told us. “From this day forward, it is my life’s mission to protect the Hartleys and Gen.” Killian’s promise was fierce and unwavering. For years, he was my guardian. When I was kidnapped, Killian single-handedly came for me. The thugs taunted him, threatening to throw me into the ocean unless he cut off his own finger. Without a moment’s hesitation, he severed his left pinky finger. The police arrived shortly after, and he took a bullet, collapsing in my arms. But I was safe. “Gen… you came into my life like an angel and saved me,” he murmured. “From the first moment, I loved you. I swore then I would spend the rest of my life protecting you.” I accepted his proposal, and we married. He said he had nothing, so he fought tooth and nail for success. He risked his life to love me. Now, he risked my life to hurt me. We were the most envied couple in our social circle—until Jules came home. The Abbotts and Hartleys were old family friends. When Killian and I attended their dinner, he overheard stories of Jules’s childhood crush on me, the talks of a potential engagement. That night, Killian and I had our first earth-shattering fight. We were frozen in a three-month cold war. During that time, he hired Aria Bellweather as an intern. When I went to his office, ready to reconcile, I found Aria dabbing a tea stain off his shirt. The moment Killian saw me, the warmth in his face evaporated. We argued all the way to the car. A delivery truck suddenly swerved toward us. On instinct, I lunged, pulling him behind me. We both survived, but my left hand—my pianist’s hand—was permanently damaged. The chasm between us, unspoken, only deepened. Later, we were at a restaurant when we overheard Aria playing piano. Killian was mesmerized. He called her music celestial. The international competition I had been forced to withdraw from due to my injury soon had a new competitor. “Darling,” he said, his voice casual. “Since you can’t participate, we shouldn’t stifle another pianist’s rise.” Under the table, my hands throbbed. My heart ached just as fiercely. “… Fine,” I whispered, the tremor in my voice barely audible. Killian, who usually tracked my every mood, didn’t look at me. He generously transferred my personal piano teacher and my private studio space to Aria. … I sighed, staring at their smiling faces on the television. I slowly reached up and removed the human hair wig, revealing the smooth, pale skin of my scalp—the result of aggressive chemotherapy. Now, he was even ready to give away the title of ‘Mrs. Thorne,’ the last thing he’d promised me. It didn’t matter. I wouldn’t be needing it. Anyway, I was dying. At the auction house. “I’ll get that necklace for you, Gen. No matter the cost.” Jules sat next to me, his voice low and comforting. I nodded, my gaze drawn across the room. Killian was there, his expression stormy, with Aria standing beside him, looking smug. “Mr. Thorne never attends public events unless it’s work. He must be here to buy jewels for Ms. Bellweather.” “I heard he’s planning a lavish wedding for her. He must be stocking up on custom jewelry.” “The way he spoils her! It’s the kind of love story movies are made of!” My eyes were glued to Killian. Years ago, rumors that he relied on the Hartleys to start his company made him avoid public intimacy with me. Now, he was openly affectionate with Aria, draped around her like a trophy. “Focus, Gen. It’s starting.” Jules gently nudged me. I missed the dark, calculating look Killian cast my way. “One million.” “Three million.” … Killian’s assistant kept raising the paddle. Everything I showed the slightest interest in, Killian would preemptively snatch up at an outrageous price. The room buzzed with admiration. “Mr. Thorne is so devoted to Ms. Bellweather! He’s spending a fortune!” My fingers tightened around the handle of my clutch. I offered a weak, self-deprecating smile. “And now, the final lot… The Deep Sea Dream!” My breath caught. My vision blurred with immediate grief and intimacy. The delicate, pale blue necklace was breathtaking. Jules raised his paddle, setting a new high bid. “Ten million, going once!” “Ten million, going twice!” “Ten million—” “The Blind Bid.” The deep, resonant voice shattered the silence of the hall like a bombshell. My knuckles were white. I stared at Killian. He knew. He knew what this necklace meant to me. Why would he…? He was unfazed. He had his assistant retrieve the necklace immediately and fasten it around Aria’s neck. “Tell me, Genevieve,” he asked, meeting my stare with a cold smirk. “Doesn’t Aria look lovely in this?” Furious, dizzy, and fighting the rush of blood in my throat, I stood. “She doesn’t deserve it!” The sound of my slap echoed throughout the silent room. A bright red print flared on Killian’s face. He paused, covering his cheek, his eyes glinting with a dangerous, mocking light. I raised my hand again, this time aiming for Aria, but Killian’s strong grip locked my wrist down. “You want the necklace so badly? Kneel. Kneel down and beg for it.” “Or better yet,” he added, his voice low and vicious. “Have Jules kneel down and beg me.” I snatched my hand back, trembling with rage. Killian knew this was my mother’s last design, her final piece of work. It was irreplaceable. He had always stripped me of what I loved and given it to Aria. Years ago, he claimed Aria reminded him of the talented, young me, and he couldn’t let her talent go to waste. He found her the best tutors. Their relationship quickly moved beyond professional. On my last birthday, Killian didn’t show up. I found him in the studio, personally guiding Aria’s fingers across the keys, teaching her the techniques I had taught him when we were dating. I felt a paralyzing chill. I couldn’t bear to think that my husband, the man I considered my life, would betray me. I wandered the streets, distraught, and nearly got hit by a car. Jules rushed me home. Killian offered no explanation. He watched my breakdown with cold, judgmental eyes. My heart was pulverized, one grain at a time. My favorite cashmere coat disappeared from my closet. “Doesn’t Mr. Thorne’s gift look amazing on me, Gen?” Aria asked me later, the coat tailored to fit her delicate frame perfectly. Killian ignored my silent fury. “Aria comes from a humble background. She didn’t have a proper winter coat. Don’t be so petty.” Before our engagement, he had purchased a precious jade pendant and crawled on his knees, three steps for every bow, up the steps of the temple to pray for my well-being. That pendant now hung around Aria’s neck. “The jade is worn out after all these years,” Killian explained carelessly. “I’ll buy you a new one.” I snapped. I drove to the studio and smashed everything. He shielded Aria, his eyes colder than I had ever seen them. “You hysterical bitch!” Killian walked out, taking Aria with him, and didn’t come home. The second month he was gone, I found out I was pregnant. I stared at the two lines on the test, laughing until I was sobbing. Killian finally called me to meet in our usual cafe. I lowered my eyes, about to present the ultrasound. “I’m pregnant—” “I’m in love with Aria. Let’s make it an open marriage, just like I said.” His cold, serious demeanor was a knife to my eye and my heart. My world spun. I heard the distinct sound of my heart shattering, spilling blood onto the floor. I never got the chance to tell him about the baby. Aria called, claiming she was afraid of a thunderstorm, and the formidable CEO panicked. The ultrasound report fluttered from my hands and landed on the ground. Killian stepped directly onto it, a large, dark footprint covering the picture of the child we had once longed for. He rushed out. That night, I cried until I was dry. I took a carving knife and pressed it against my wrist. The blood, the smell, my parents’ frantic screams—I closed my eyes and saw Killian proposing to me. “Gen, marry me?” His eyes held only me. No. Killian, I regret it. I was rescued, but my parents aged overnight. “Gen, please don’t leave your father and me,” my mother begged, her face streaked with tears. “Think of the baby, think of us.” I stopped trying to die, but I lived like a ghost, sinking into severe depression. Meanwhile, Killian traveled the world with Aria for her competitions. The rumors of Aria being the “real” Mrs. Thorne were constant; he tacitly allowed them. He took her to all the places we had promised to visit. He poured his network and resources into her career. The famously private CEO even agreed to a ridiculous celebrity couple reality show, just because Aria wanted the experience. The headlines constantly detailed Killian’s extravagant spending on Aria. He even gave her a five percent share of his hard-won corporation. His open favoritism made me a public joke. But who would have guessed Killian Thorne had two wives? When I was five months pregnant, my mother took me out for a drive. A sedan swerved into our lane, hitting us head-on. My mother died protecting me. The driver was Aria Bellweather. The dam broke. I crawled out of my hospital bed and rushed to find her, screaming for justice. I grabbed Aria’s hair and slapped her until my hand was raw. But a violent push sent me sprawling. Killian stood over a tearful Aria, shielding her with his body, his eyes glaring down at me. His voice was arctic. “It was an accident. Aria just got her license. What are you trying to accomplish?” “Genevieve, you’re not stable.” “Do you realize her hand is also injured? She might never play the piano again! Do you have to make her a cripple like you before you stop?” Tears streamed down my face as I watched their backs disappear. My heart felt ripped open. Beneath me, the floor was slick with blood. … I startled awake, the memory breaking off. I hadn’t brought the necklace home. A sharp pain seized my chest. I instinctively leaned over the wastebasket, spitting up a mouthful of blood. “Gen, you’re bleeding more often now.” Jules’s brows were furrowed. He placed his jacket over my shoulders and prepared to take me to the hospital. I shrugged. A few months after the accident, I was diagnosed with stomach cancer. My father had spent a fortune to keep me alive for three years, but I was weakening rapidly. “The real CEO is here! Ms. Bellweather isn’t feeling well, and Mr. Thorne has summoned every single doctor in the building!” “Oh my God, they’re so in love! Didn’t he place a blind bid for her at the auction house the other day?” “He practically owns this wing; it’s his private medical team for her.” Nurses gossiped as they rushed past the consulting room. “Excuse me, we have an appointment with Dr. Bennett for a follow-up,” Jules said, his voice tight with impatience. The nurse eyed my pale face dismissively. “Are you Mrs. Thorne? If not, wait your turn. Dr. Bennett is with the real Mrs. Thorne now. She has no time for you.” I wiped the blood from my mouth, my face serene. I stopped Jules from erupting. Inside the consulting room. “Congratulations, Mr. Thorne. The baby is very healthy.” Killian looked stunned, then immediately draped his coat over Aria, his eyes alight with tenderness. Aria put Killian’s hand on her lower abdomen, kissing his cheek. “You’re going to be a father, Killian.” Killian smiled. “I’m clearing my schedule to take care of you. I wonder if it’s a boy or a girl. We need to start picking out things.” Killian kept talking, but I barely heard him. The familiar, profound coldness enveloped me. A knife was slowly carving up my heart. “Boy or girl, let’s call the baby ‘Hope,’” he said softly. “For peace and joy.” Hope… My Hope. In that car crash, I lost more than my mother. I lost my baby, my An-An. Peace and joy was what Killian and I had dreamed of for our first child. My mother died protecting a child. Killian, to protect Aria, killed mine. My vision tunneled. As blood rushed to my palm, I turned to leave. “Gen! Did you know I was pregnant? Are you here to congratulate me?” Aria’s eyes held a malicious gleam. “Killian and I are truly in love. Please, just give us your blessing. Of course, the trash I don’t want, I’ll toss your way.” I remained expressionless, pulling Jules toward the exit. “Stop.” Killian’s gaze landed on me, dark and unreadable. “You still owe Aria an apology for injuring her three years ago.” My face went white. My nails dug into my palm, drawing blood. I stared at him, but he avoided my eyes, casually looping his finger through Aria’s hair. “Your father’s company is still struggling, isn’t it? Just kneel down and bow your head to Aria, and I’ll call off the attack on Hartley Inc.” I saw the premature gray in my father’s hair. Since my mother’s death, he had been crushed, all while having to care for me and defend the company against Killian’s vicious campaign. It was all my fault. A violent tremor ran through my body. Tears spilled onto my cheeks. I let go of my clenched fist. I knelt. My forehead struck the pristine hospital floor, and a hot stream of blood immediately pooled. Killian froze, his hand outstretched, but he did not move to help. I pushed myself up, ignored the searing pain, and walked away. … Aria was chattering excitedly about the pregnancy. Killian, however, was haunted by the image of my desolate, bloodied back. He felt a moment of profound dread, as if something irreplaceable was slipping away. “Someone, call a doctor! That woman who was just kneeling and hitting her head is vomiting blood by the door! She’s dying!” “Isn’t that Dr. Bennett’s late-stage stomach cancer patient?” The nurses’ panicked voices broke through Killian’s trance. His blood turned to ice. He shoved Aria away and sprinted for the door.

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Ten years after graduation, I was suddenly added to a new high school alumni group chat. The notifications were relentless. Everyone was buzzing about a tribute video they were piecing together—a wedding gift for Miles and Ivy. Someone noticed I’d joined and immediately tagged me with an assignment: “Oh, Nora! I heard you’re still back in our hometown. You should film the segments at the old high school campus! “It’ll be perfect for the montage. We need to relive the glory days of the school’s ultimate power couple.” I didn’t reply. Instead, I stared at the ring on my finger, a cold weight settling in my stomach. Miles and Ivy were getting married? Then who the hell was the man I was supposed to marry next month? 1 I stared at that message until the screen went dark. Because I didn’t respond immediately, the tags kept coming. I was the final piece of their puzzle, the “closer” for their grand romantic gesture. It was almost comical. From high school through college, I had been the silent stagehand in their sweeping epic. I thought I had finally stepped into the lead role of my own life, only to realize I was still just an uncredited extra. The group count showed fifty people. Our graduating class had fifty-two. The two missing people were the stars themselves. The former class president was practically vibrating with excitement in the chat: “Once we have everyone’s clips, we’ll have Miles and Ivy record their own vows. That makes fifty-two videos—one for every member of the class. It’s perfect. Remember, everyone, the clips have to be exactly fifty-two seconds long. We need that symmetry.” “God, that’s so romantic,” someone chimed in. “Makes me want to find a high school sweetheart of my own. Anyone looking for a second-chance romance?” “Shut up, Dave. You don’t have Miles’s looks or his brain. The man is a literal neuroscientist now. Go look in a mirror.” “True. They really were the King and Queen. The Golden Couple.” Someone finally asked the question I was screaming internally: “How do we even know they’re getting married? I haven’t seen a formal announcement.” “My wife told me,” the class president replied. “She was Ivy’s roommate when they were doing their post-grads abroad. Ivy talked about her and Miles all the time. Word is, Ivy just flew back into the States today, and Miles was the one who picked her up at the airport.” “My wife saw the invitation in Miles’s car. He went to pick up his first love with the wedding invites already printed. Can you imagine the romance of that?” “You wandered the world, but I stayed here, waiting to welcome you home.” Another message popped up: “Airport? Yeah, that was today. Look at Ivy’s Instagram.” He posted a screenshot. It was a photo of a glass of vintage red wine against a backdrop of city lights. The caption read: Coming home is easy when you’re the one waiting on the other side of the table. I felt a wave of nausea. I hit the “Mute Notifications” button and set my phone face down on the coffee table. 2 Miles didn’t get home until late. He looked startled to see me still sitting on the sofa, the living room bathed in the blue light of the TV. He walked over and pulled me into a hug, his coat still cold from the night air. “Hey, honey. Why aren’t you in bed?” I caught the faint, sophisticated scent of red wine. The Instagram photo flashed in my mind like a crime scene still. I couldn’t help it. I pulled away slightly, my brow furrowed. Miles noticed. He let out a weary sigh. “Do I smell like the bar? I grabbed a glass of wine with some colleagues. I’m going to go jump in the shower.” He practically bolted for the bathroom. Guilt in a man has a very specific velocity. Fifteen minutes later, he climbed into bed beside me. “Still awake? No beauty sleep tonight? Or are we thinking of something else?” In private, Miles was a different man than the reserved, brilliant professor the world saw. With me, he was usually warm, almost needy. It was how I had spent years convincing myself that I was enough. What did it matter if he’d had a legendary first love? I was the one in his bed. I was the one he’d asked to spend his life with. I pushed his hand away. He looked genuinely shocked. I almost never turned him down. I had been infatuated with him since the eleventh grade—a decade of pining, a college-era secret, and finally, the dream come true. He was the air I breathed. He reached over and clicked on the bedside lamp, studying my face. “What’s wrong? Did someone at the lab give you a hard time?” I forced a brittle smile. “My fiancé is the department head. Who would dare?” He ruffled my hair, satisfied that I wasn’t ill, and turned off the light. As soon as his breathing evened out into the steady rhythm of sleep, I reached for his phone. 3 I was still the pinned contact at the top of his messages. We’d set it that way the day we went official. But our last text thread was from a week ago. Miles was always “busy.” I’d learned not to clutter his day with my thoughts or the small details of my life because he never had the bandwidth to respond in real-time. Eventually, I just stopped sharing. If something was urgent, I called. If it wasn’t, I kept it to myself. Miles didn’t have many contacts. Most were work-related group chats. I scrolled down just an inch and saw a name that wasn’t a colleague. Ivy. I hesitated. Once you break the seal of trust, the monster inside you takes over. There was a voice note. Twenty-four seconds long. I didn’t want to hear her voice, so I hit the transcription button. The little loading icon spun for an eternity. Finally, the text appeared: Are you sure you aren’t just doing this to punish me? I couldn’t help myself. I put the phone to my ear and pressed play, the volume at a whisper. I heard muffled sobbing. Then the question, sharp and trembling. I played it over and over, trying to find a name for the hollow feeling opening up in my chest. I scrolled up, back through the months, until I found the beginning. The first message was from her: It’s been twelve years. Are you okay? Twelve years. I had watched them fall in love, watched them fight, watched them break up, and watched her move across the ocean without a backward glance. I thought twelve years was enough time for the ink to dry on that chapter. I thought my devotion, my warmth, and my presence had filled every crack she left behind. His first reply shattered that illusion: Everything is fine, except for the part where you aren’t here. He had sent that text the day after he proposed to me. 4 They didn’t talk constantly. Miles was, after all, a busy man. But he answered every single one of her messages. Sometimes an hour later, sometimes a day. It was like a long-running correspondence that never lost its signal. The frequency had picked up a week ago. Ivy had sent him her flight itinerary. She was landing at 7:00 PM tonight. What followed was a delicate dance of “will they, won’t they.” Ivy threw out bait; Miles didn’t always bite. Until yesterday. Ivy: Will I see you at the gate tomorrow night? Miles: It’s not a good idea. I don’t want Nora to be upset. Ivy: In my memory, Nora was always such a… gracious girl. You’ve been together for years; surely she won’t mind you greeting an old friend? Ivy: Besides, I’m joining your research team. Isn’t it a lead’s job to welcome new staff? If she can’t handle this, how are we supposed to work together every day? Miles had hesitated for hours. Then, at 5:00 PM today, he replied: Safe flight. See you at the airport. Five minutes after that, he had called me. “Hey, I have to pick up a new researcher at the airport tonight, so I won’t be home for dinner. Why don’t you go over to your parents’ place? And don’t eat anything cold—your period is starting soon, remember? Stay warm.” I remembered exactly where I was when he said that. I was walking to the parking garage, planning to drive across town to get that rotisserie duck he loved so much—the place with the hour-long line. Hearing his voice, his “concern” for my health… it had made me feel so cherished. I’d walked to my car with a smile, thinking about how lucky I was. I didn’t realize that his “concern” was just the padding he used to soften the blow of a lie. 5 Miles rolled over in his sleep and pulled me into his chest. “Your arms are so cold,” he murmured, half-awake. “Get under the covers.” The heat of his body felt like an insult. It made everything too real. Me, him, and the ghost that had finally taken on a physical form. He was up early the next morning. He had a guest lecture at a university a few towns over. Before leaving, he touched my forehead, checking for a fever. “It’s getting chilly out. Don’t be stubborn, wear a coat.” I nodded. Just then, his phone buzzed. He glanced at the screen, gave me a quick, distracted kiss, and headed for the door. “Did you pick up your new researcher last night?” I asked, my voice flat. His back stiffened. He turned around, his expression a mask of “casual” curiosity. “Yeah. Caught her at the gate. We should have her over for dinner sometime once she settles in.” I forced a smile. “Maybe. You know I’m not great with strangers.” Miles lingered for a second. “She’s not exactly a stranger. Look, there’s something I need to talk to you about. I just have a crazy couple of days. Can we talk soon?” His phone buzzed again. He silenced it with a flick of his thumb, looking annoyed. “The day after tomorrow?” he pressed. “Tuesday night?” A thousand thoughts raced through my mind. What was the talk going to be? My first love is back, so we’re done? Or, My first love is back, so I need you to be okay with her being in my life every day? I wasn’t going to be the prey in this scenario. I wasn’t going to wait around for him to decide my fate. “If you want to talk,” I said, “it has to be tonight at eight. After that, don’t bother.” 6 Miles’s phone rang for the third time. He finally picked it up. “I’m coming down now. Give me a minute.” We worked at the same research institute. I knew everyone in his orbit. The institute provided him with a driver, a guy named Will who was the soul of discretion. Will never called three times in a row. I walked to the window. Will was standing by the black sedan, circling the car as if checking the tire pressure. But someone was already in the backseat. A woman, her head turned toward our apartment building. Miles walked out, opened the back door, and slid in beside her. As the car pulled away, I got a clear look at her face. Ivy. One look, and ten years vanished. To Miles, she was the “One That Got Away,” the eternal heartbeat. To me, she was the architect of the worst years of my life. She had transferred to our school junior year. She was sunlight and charisma. Within a week, she was everyone’s best friend. Except mine. I was going through a family tragedy then—my mother’s illness—and I had retreated into a shell. Ivy saw me in the corner and decided I was a project. She tried to “warm me up” with relentless, sunny intrusion. I was a teenage girl; I couldn’t hide my heart. Ivy realized I had a crush on Miles. When she asked, I confessed. I thought she was my friend. A week later, she started dating him. 7 The group chat was exploding again. Even on mute, the number of unread messages climbed into the hundreds. They were doing the “video relay” now. The class president and his wife had posted the first one. They were up north, and it was already snowing. They filmed themselves running through a field, laughing, and then stomping the names MILES + IVY into the fresh powder inside a giant heart. It was cheesy. It was sincere. It was exactly fifty-two seconds long. The comments were a chorus of clapping emojis. Everyone was eager to take the next “baton.” I didn’t get it. Why did they care so much? But they were like white phosphorus—once ignited, they couldn’t stop. By the second day, they were on the thirteenth video. People were sharing memories of the “Golden Couple” like they were sacred relics. “I remember when Ivy wrote that ten-thousand-word love letter. It was like thirty pages long. We were all floored.” “And Miles had it bound into a little book! He carried it everywhere. He even designed a custom cover for it.” “God, we’re all so nostalgic. Back then, they were just the hottest couple in school. Now, seeing that they’ve stayed true to each other after all these years? That’s the real dream.” “Seriously. I never got the sweet romance, or the epic drama, or the world-stopping love. How did one girl get it all in her first try?” Yeah. How did one girl get to experience the entire spectrum of human emotion before her twentieth birthday, while I was still trying to figure out how to be the protagonist of my own life? I didn’t know if I was the luckiest person in the world for having avoided that kind of drama, or the unluckiest for being the one left holding the bill.

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