After discovering my rich boyfriend was a serial cheater addicted to online dating, I didn’t cry. Instead, I registered nine fake accounts and catfished him as nine different “dream girls.” My best friend screamed, “You are such a simp! You’re going to get played!” But on Valentine’s Day, I received ten different luxury gifts. She looked at the pile of designer boxes and gave me a thumbs up. “You’re not a simp. You’re a CEO.” 1. On Valentine’s Day, my best friend Chloe and I hauled ten packages back from the mailroom. I opened the first one addressed to my real name, Harper. It was a lipstick set. Maybe a hundred bucks, tops. Chloe shoved her phone in my face, sneering. “See that? To Caleb, you’re worth a trip to Sephora.” I smiled, didn’t say a word, and kept opening boxes. “Harper, seriously,” she groaned. “You need to touch grass. Dump him!” I opened the second box. Chloe’s jaw dropped. “Whoa, who sent that? That’s heavy.” I stayed silent and kept ripping open packaging. By the time I was done, the floor was covered in loot: A Chanel classic flap bag, a Van Cleef & Arpels bracelet, a Cartier ring, gold bars… Chloe’s eyes were the size of dinner plates. “Caleb sent… all of these?” 2. Caleb is my boyfriend. We met online. He’s a trust fund baby, a bona fide rich kid. Initially, I was attracted to his money. He was attracted to my voice. Before we even met in person, I mentioned my phone battery was dying. Caleb overnighted me the newest iPhone. My cat spilled water on my laptop; a MacBook Pro arrived the next day. Eventually, love-brain took over. Caleb flew to Los Angeles, bought a condo, and we moved in together. He convinced me to quit my 9-to-5. He gave me a $2,000 monthly allowance and showered me with surprises. I lived a life I used to only see on Instagram. I swapped my Old Navy flip-flops for Jordans and Jimmy Choos. I used La Mer on my ankles. I wouldn’t touch a bag unless it cost four figures. Dripping in gold, living the dream. Everyone said I was the main character in a romance novel. After all, Caleb was rich, handsome, and had abs. But six months in, I caught him sexting other girls. I cried in Chloe’s arms for three hours. She begged me to dump him. I couldn’t do it. Who in their right mind breaks up with an ATM? The next day, I registered nine burner accounts on Instagram and Snapchat. I created personas: The Texas Cowgirl who loves BBQ and trucks, the E-Girl obsessed with anime and cosplay, the NYC Intellectual who quotes Nietzsche, the struggling LA Actress… Chloe called me pathetic. I ignored her and added Caleb on every account. When I went back to the condo, pretending I knew nothing, Caleb told me his mom was sick and he had to fly back to the East Coast for a month. I nodded like a good girlfriend. “I’ll pack some gifts for your mom.” Caleb was so touched he Venmo’d me $10,000 on the spot. “Buy whatever you want while I’m gone,” he said, looking guilty. I had to bite my tongue to keep from laughing. Ten grand? Sweetie, I’m just getting started. After Caleb left, I juggled ten personalities. I kept a spreadsheet: which persona talked about what, which address to send gifts to, what their “love language” was. My acting was Oscar-worthy. My typing speed was god-tier. By the time Valentine’s Day rolled around, I had manipulated Caleb into sending ten separate gifts. Was it a lot of work? No. It was billable hours. Chloe looked at the haul and saluted me. “You are my hero.” 3. Ten burner phones were lined up on the coffee table. I picked up the “Texas Cowgirl” phone and sent a voice note with a thick accent: “Got the gift, cowboy. When are we gettin’ ribs?” Then the “NYC Intellectual” phone: “Received. Adequate. I expect better effort next time.” Then the “E-Girl” phone: “Omg thank you Daddy for the cosplay fit! uwu.” … Chloe watched the operation in stunned silence. “You are terrifying.” She asked what I planned to do with the loot. I kept the lipstick. The rest went straight to The RealReal and Poshmark. The notifications of cash deposits were music to my ears. My savings account was hitting $60,000. Just a little longer, and I could buy my own place. Just as I was celebrating, Caleb texted. He was coming back. I couldn’t be in the same room with him; I had nine other boyfriends to manage. So, I booked tickets to Cabo for Chloe and me. I sent Caleb a voice note sounding heartbroken: “Babe, I’m so sorry. Chloe just went through a brutal breakup. I’m taking her to Mexico to cheer her up.” Caleb texted back: “I’ll come too! I’ll carry your bags.” Stay away, you clingy cheater. I replied patiently: “I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s really fragile right now. Seeing us so happy and in love would just crush her.” After some back and forth, Caleb finally agreed. To compensate me, he transferred another $15,000. “Have fun, babe. I got you VIP tickets to that festival you wanted.” If my nine other phones weren’t buzzing with his “I miss you” texts, I might have actually believed he loved me. We partied in Cabo for a week. I worked remotely as a customer service rep for his love life. When we flew back to LA, Caleb picked us up in his new G-Wagon. I pinched Chloe until she started crying. “See?” I whispered to Caleb. “She’s a wreck.” In the car, I pretended my phone died and used Caleb’s phone to navigate. I quickly checked his archived chats. Good. He had deleted the conversations with my nine alter egos. That night, while Caleb showered, I executed the plan. I used the nine phones to text him. Nine messages, staggered two minutes apart. When he came out, I pointed at his phone on the coffee table. “Babe, your phone is blowing up. Is it an emergency?” Caleb looked panicked. He grabbed the phone, turned his back to me, and checked. “Nothing. Just spam. Group chats.” “Oh,” I said, giving him a knowing look. He sat down and wrapped his arm around me. “I felt bad about missing Valentine’s Day. I want to make it up to you.” Caleb, the guilt-ridden liar, went all out. He took me to the most expensive sushi place in Nobu, rented a private yacht for sunset, and set up a romantic proposal scene. Proposal? Bro, are you serious? What is this plot twist? 4. I excused myself to the bathroom and called Caleb’s mom. “Mrs. Sterling, your son is proposing. What do I do?” Mrs. Sterling’s voice was calm. “Say yes.” I hung up, looked in the mirror, and hyped myself up. Fine. It’s just a ring. Here’s the backstory: While I was in Cabo, Mrs. Sterling contacted me. She knew everything. She knew about the nine accounts. Instead of threatening to sue me or send me to jail, she offered me a deal. She wanted me to teach her son—who was addicted to online romances—a lesson. The reward? A villa in the Hollywood Hills. Title in my name. “Why should I trust you?” I had asked. “Because you’re the longest relationship he’s ever had,” she said. “You don’t ask questions as long as the money clears. You’re pragmatic. I like that.” So, Mrs. Sterling and I became partners. Caleb was a hopeless romantic with a wandering eye. I was his tenth “real” girlfriend, but the only one who stuck around because I treated him like a job. With his mom’s blessing, I walked out and said yes. The diamond was huge. I posted it on Instagram immediately. Chloe called me screaming. “He’s trash! I support scamming him, but marriage? You’re ruining your life!” “Who stays married forever these days anyway?” “Harper… you can’t tie yourself to a sinking ship.” “You’re thinking too small,” I whispered. “To a gold digger like me, Caleb isn’t a man. He’s a golden goose.” Two days later, I took Chloe to a commercial space under renovation on Melrose Avenue. “Pick a spot. What do we want to put here?” Chloe looked confused. “You’re acting like you own the place.” I pulled the deed out of my bag. Chloe’s scream shattered glass. “Caleb bought you a storefront?!” “Not just bought,” I corrected. “Fully funded operational costs.” “How… how did you do that?”

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I ordered an extra-large suitcase in the middle of the night, only to have the delivery guy press me onto the bed the moment he walked in, accusing me of being a psycho killer trying to dispose of a body. He cuffed one end of a restraint to the headboard. His voice was shaking as he leaned in, his question a terrified gasp: “Ordering a suitcase this size at midnight… who are you planning to put in it?” I surveyed the wreckage of my hotel room—the mountains of souvenirs, the ripped-up packing foam. I sighed, a sound of utter defeat: “It’s your fault. Now it looks like I’ll have to buy a second one to fit everything.” The color instantly drained from his face. The small, two-way radio clipped to his belt looked like it might slip right out of his trembling hand. 1 I’d dedicated the last day of my Charleston trip to being a “marathon shopper.” Now, staring at the Everest of local artisanal products piled on the hotel carpet, my composure completely fractured. Who understands this panic? I’d sworn when I left home I wouldn’t overbuy, but here I was, looking like I’d single-handedly looted the entire historic district and needed to ship it back. To make matters worse, the giant, carry-my-entire-life suitcase I’d brought with me had vanished yesterday. Poof. Gone. I sat on the bed for a frantic minute, then surrendered, grabbing my phone and firing up the Blitz-Ship app. The order note was written through gritted teeth: [URGENT: MUST BE GIANT! 28 inches minimum, 30 is better! Must hold an obscene amount of junk!] I hit send, then looked around at the overflow of pottery, jams, and vintage finds. Still not safe. I quickly added an addendum: [Seriously, the case needs to be big enough to comfortably fit half of an adult human.] The order was picked up immediately. I took a deep breath and continued my desperate battle with the loose-leaf tea and novelty crab-themed figurines. Just before midnight, a knock came at the door. The app tracker confirmed my delivery was here. I peeled off the packing gloves and shuffled over in my slippers. “Hi, is that the suitcase?” Standing in the hallway was a tall, lean guy with a striking face, holding a massive black roller case. One glance, and my heart sank. Damn it. That case still looked borderline too small. “Char Miller?” He stared at me, his eyes guarded, a flicker of hesitation in his gaze. “Is this the case you ordered?” I nodded, reaching for it. But the guy subtly shifted his grip, pulling the suitcase back behind him. I frowned. What was this, a sit-down strike? His nose was red from the cold. Fine. It was late. “Look, it’s freezing. I’ll add an extra twenty to your tip for the trouble?” “It’s not the money…” He lowered his voice, his expression tight. “Why do you need a suitcase this large, this late?” I couldn’t help but laugh. “To pack my stuff, obviously. What else would I use it for? As a minimalist art piece?” His Adam’s apple bobbed. “And you need one this big?” I paused, looking back at the overflowing disaster zone of my room, then back at the case in his hand. A wave of profound grief washed over me. It genuinely wouldn’t be enough. “You’re right,” I murmured, utterly defeated. “One is absolutely not enough. I’m going to have to buy a second one.” The instant those words left my mouth, I saw his pupils dilate with terror. The fear was so intense it was almost comical. But before I could reassure his fragile male ego, my phone buzzed. The pottery studio texted: the twenty-plus delicate clay figurines I’d made were baked and ready for pickup tomorrow. Oh, hell. Two cases definitely wouldn’t be enough. “Ma’am… if I may ask,” the guy’s voice was strained, “why a second one? This one is already substantial.” I sighed, pulling myself back to the conversation. “Because the amount of things I need to pack just increased.” His face went white. “What else do you need to pack?” My mind was still on the kiln-fresh statuettes. I answered without thinking: “People.” He froze. 2 Well, clay people were still people, weren’t they? No ethical problem there. The handsome delivery guy was now trying to subtly retreat, his hand hovering near his back pocket. “Right, ha ha ha. Well, I shouldn’t keep you. The package is delivered. I’m heading out…” “Wait! Don’t go!” A brilliant idea struck me. I grabbed the sleeve of his winter jacket. “Hey, seriously, can you do me a favor?” He yanked his arm back like I’d shocked him with a cattle prod. “No! No! I’m slammed tonight! I have at least five other deliveries!” “Come on. This case is going to weigh a ton when it’s full. I’m a petite woman; I can’t haul it. Can you strap it to your bike and take it to the FedEx Kinko’s around the corner? It’s two blocks away, max. I’ll give you a hundred dollars!” One hundred dollars for five minutes of work. At the mention of FedEx, his body language relaxed a fraction. He hesitated, then asked, testing the waters: “What exactly is going into this case?” I ticked off the inventory on my fingers: “A dozen ceramic mugs, a bunch of hand-stitched dolls, some blown-glass art, and ten pounds of cured country ham. Checked baggage will shatter them all. FedEx is the only way.” He exhaled a massive sigh of relief. He suddenly looked like a normal person again. “Oh. That makes sense.” He paused. “Could I… maybe peek at some of the local specialties? I wanted to grab something for my family.” “Be my guest.” I gestured him in. “Go ahead, look around. If you like something, I’ll send you the link.” He stepped inside. After two steps, his brow furrowed. “You know, you shouldn’t let strangers into your room, especially this late. You’re alone.” I grinned, flexing my biceps (which were completely non-existent). “Don’t worry. I’m fine. I have a black belt in Taekwondo.” He was momentarily speechless, but he followed me in. He hadn’t gotten halfway across the room before he stopped dead. His handsome eyes were fixed on the bathroom door. His entire body snapped taut, transforming into a coiled spring. I followed his line of sight. Underneath the frosted glass door of the bathroom, a slow, dark stream of vivid red liquid was creeping across the floor. 3 Oh, holy hell. The bathroom light was a dim, sickly yellow. The winding trail of scarlet looked, for all the world, like blood draining from a fresh kill. My heart lurched. My first thought was a burst pipe. I took a step toward the bathroom. “Don’t move!” The delivery guy suddenly exploded into action, his voice a guttural command. “Freeze!” I hopped, frustrated. “I can’t freeze! The room is flooding!” As I lunged for the door, he executed a textbook takedown—one dizzying whirl, and I was pinned on the bed. A second later, a sharp, cold metallic click was followed by another. I was stunned. That tactile sensation… it was exactly like the handcuffs in procedural TV shows. I craned my neck to look down. Sure enough! A pair of honest-to-god steel cuffs. Sensing my shock, he put more pressure on my arm. “Stay put! Hands behind your back!” My arm was screaming. I wailed in genuine pain: “Dude, lighten up! You’re going to break my wrist!” His face was cold, his voice like chipped ice. “How about that for a light touch? Did you think about going easy when you were dismembering someone?” Wait, what? My brain completely short-circuited. Murder? Dismembering? Me? He gave me a sneer, secured the other cuff to the metal bed frame, and took a deep, fortifying breath. He looked like a man marching to his execution as he moved toward the bathroom door. “Hey!” I struggled to sit up, both terrified and baffled. “There’s no body! I didn’t kill anyone!” He ignored me completely, dismissing my plea as a predictable lie. With a powerful kick, he sent the bathroom door slamming open. A few seconds passed. The bathroom door reopened. The handsome delivery guy was holding a wet, sodden, crimson wad of fabric. His expression was so complex, he looked like he’d swallowed a live housefly. “What in God’s name is this?” 4 What else could it be? It was my new “Warrior Gown,” a silk designer slip I’d splurged on. I hadn’t even gotten to wear it before some clumsy hotel staffer had doused it in an entire carafe of coffee! I stared at the dripping red material in his hand, my heart breaking all over again. “That’s my dress! My silk dress! It was stained with coffee, so I thought I’d let it soak…” “I totally forgot to turn the water off when you knocked!” The gown was extremely delicate, not only intolerant of long soaking but also prone to severe bleeding of the red dye. The dye had mixed with the overflowing water and turned my tiny bathroom into a terrifyingly authentic crime scene. The delivery guy stood stock-still, petrified, holding the evidence of my shopping addiction. I looked at the ruined dress, then at the souvenirs on the floor now stained pink by the red flood, and my composure utterly snapped. I burst into tears. “I told you I didn’t kill anyone! I’m just a victim of my own souvenir addiction who needed a damn suitcase!” “Hey! Don’t cry!” He panicked, fumbling with the handcuff key, his guilt palpable. He spoke in a rush, explaining everything. Apparently, my midnight order for a massive, adult-sized case was so suspicious that when he picked up the order, his police instincts kicked in. He had immediately called it in. “My name is Jonathan Ryan, and I’m with the City PD Homicide division,” he said, unlocking the cuff and immediately massaging my raw, reddened wrist. He was contrite. “I’m really sorry. There was a dismemberment case in this precinct years ago, and I have a bad case of occupational paranoia, so…” I sniffled. “So I get to be the collateral damage, is that it?” I was just a shopaholic with zero self-control! What was my crime? Jonathan raked a hand through his hair, embarrassed. “Look, about that… you said you needed another case, right? I’ll buy it. The most expensive one. It’s on me. My apology.” I gave him a side-eye. “I want a nice one. With a combination lock.” Jonathan visibly relaxed. “Done. Whatever the cost.” The case issue was settled, but I was still mourning the silk slip. Jonathan ran his hand over his head again. “The dress… I’ll replace that too?” “Forget it.” I climbed off the bed. “No hard feelings. I’m going to see if I can salvage it once it’s dry. Why don’t you help me wring the excess water out?” Jonathan was determined to atone for his mistake. We spent the next several minutes grunting and hauling the heavy fabric in the bathroom. We finally managed to twist the dress into a pathetic, crimson rope. I looked at my wrinkled, ruined warrior gown. My heart ached. “My beautiful gown—wait, what is that?” I stopped, staring at a fresh, darker drip of water on the fabric. “Where did that come from?” Was the ceiling leaking? Jonathan and I looked up simultaneously. Near the sewage line, a large, dark water stain had bled through the ceiling drywall. A fat drop of liquid was forming under the force of gravity, gathering weight, and then falling. The color of the bead was a sickening, undeniable crimson. 5 Jonathan and I both froze. Having just gone through the whole dress debacle, I spoke first. “Maybe someone upstairs is washing clothes? Or did a really messy hair dye job?” Jonathan didn’t answer. He crouched down, dipped a finger into the liquid on the floor, and brought it close to his nose. The next second, he stood up, his expression hardening. “Call 911.” “It’s real blood.” “And based on the drop rate and the saturation upstairs, there’s a lot of bleeding. This is very, very bad.” I jumped, reaching instinctively for my phone, but then thought better of it. I leaned in and whispered, “Are you sure it’s human?” Jonathan frowned. “What are you saying?” I coughed. “I saw a video once. Some weirdos actually butcher chickens or fish in hotel rooms—for rituals or cooking, you know.” Jonathan was taken aback. “People actually do that?” I shrugged. “It’s a big, strange world. We don’t want you rolling up here with a SWAT team only to find two dead trout, that would be embarrassing.” Jonathan’s mouth twitched. “You’ve got a point.” He started to head for the door, grabbing the large, brand-new suitcase I’d just purchased. I panicked. “Hey! That’s my case!” Jonathan didn’t look back. “I’m borrowing it! If this is a murder, this is an immediate evidence container. I’ll replace it with two later!” I was furious! Was this about the cost of the suitcase? No! This was about getting a front-row seat to the scandal! I snatched the ruined dress off the floor and followed him without hesitation. 6 “What are you doing? Get back to your room!” Jonathan frowned, annoyed that I was sticking to him like a burr. “If there’s danger—” I flexed my non-existent bicep again. “It’s fine. Black belt.” Jonathan swallowed whatever retort he had planned. Since it was off-season, the hallway was silent. Only four rooms had the “Occupied” light on. The room directly above mine was 709, right in the middle of the corridor. Jonathan stuck to the classic protocol, standing by the door and giving a soft knock. “Room service, your order is here.” Silence. Dead, absolute silence. No answer. I tutted. “Your knock sounds like a kitten scratching. They won’t hear you if they’re in the bathroom.” I stepped forward, took a deep breath, and hammered on the door so hard it rattled. “Maintenance! Water leak inspection! Anyone home?” Still nothing. Jonathan scowled. “I’m calling the front desk for a master key.” I nodded, but instinctively reached out and pressed the door handle. Click. The door swung inward slightly. It wasn’t locked. Jonathan moved lightning fast, yanking me behind him and drawing a handgun from the holster hidden beneath his jacket. I peered through the crack in the door. That one glance made me gasp. Propped against the far wall, dark and imposing, was a half-man-sized object… It looked exactly like the limited-edition suitcase I had lost yesterday.

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I am a born mimic. Whatever they did, I did back, often with a ruthless, escalating accuracy. Pop-Pop said my long hair meant short wits and cut it off. So, I waited until he was asleep and cut the longest thing I could find on him. Nana, furious, sold me to some strange man. So, I waited for a moment of inattention, shoved her into his rusty pickup truck, took the thousand dollars he paid for me, and bought myself enough junk food to last a week. I was happily gorging on chips when a sleek, black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the shack. A woman with tear tracks and a pearl necklace informed me I was Rue Ashworth, the true heiress, switched at birth. My real parents, Richard and Eliza Ashworth, dabbed at their eyes with silk handkerchiefs and pushed a girl in a spotless dress toward me. “Rue, Briar is your sister now. You need to get along with her.” The fake heiress, Briar, smiled sweetly and called me “Sister.” The next day, while we were shopping at Bergdorf’s, she slipped a million-dollar diamond necklace into my jacket pocket and then casually accused me of theft. I blinked. Then, I copied her move, pulling the necklace from my pocket and swiftly tucking it into Dad’s—Richard Ashworth’s—back pocket. 1 The moment the necklace was “discovered” missing, the air in the jewelry department turned instantly cold. Briar Ashworth covered her mouth, her eyes fixed on me with a knowing, saccharine pity. “Sister,” she murmured, loud enough for a sales associate to hear. “I know people from the sticks are always sticky-fingered, but you’re an Ashworth now. You shouldn’t embarrass the name like this.” My parents and my older brother, Holden, turned their gazes on me, heavy with disgust and disappointment. I was, in their minds, the thief. But I didn’t wait for the interrogation. I simply copied the most extreme reaction I could think of. I ripped off my jacket and sweater in one clean, startling movement. “I didn’t take it!” The sheer vulgarity of the action, the startling flash of skin in the luxury store, stunned them into silence. Mom rushed forward to cover me with my jacket. “Rue, what are you doing? It’s fine if it’s not you. Briar has a quick temper, don’t mind her.” I nodded, accepting the apology I hadn’t asked for. Then, I turned to Briar, copying the exact, veiled suspicion she’d just worn. I covered my mouth and lowered my voice. “I think I saw you take that necklace, Briar. If you have it, you should really take it out. Don’t make things worse.” Briar jumped. “You’re lying! I did not!” I ignored her, acting as her emotional echo chamber, repeating her words back with subtle changes. “But it was only us and our parents here. If it wasn’t you or me, was it Mom? Or Dad? Or Holden?” An embarrassed flush crept up their necks. The store manager was hovering, agitated. “That’s enough,” Dad sighed. “We’ll all be searched. Briar, don’t worry, we know it’s not you. We’re doing this together.” But the next moment, their embarrassment became full-blown shock. The missing necklace was found in the back pocket of my father’s tailored trousers. The store manager looked at the CEO of Ashworth Industries like a common shoplifter. I gasped, copying Briar’s former smug expression and adding a theatrical wink. “See? Told you city folk were sticky-fingered.” Dad’s face went crimson. “I am a CEO! I didn’t steal a necklace! This is preposterous. Check the security feed! Now!” Briar tried to stop him, but my father was desperate to clear his name. The footage showed Briar quickly pocketing the necklace, then slyly slipping it into my jacket pocket. And then it showed me, seconds later, slipping it just as slyly into Dad’s. Confronted, Briar started to sob uncontrollably, clutching her chest like she was about to faint. I rushed over, performed a flawless, movie-style round of CPR to revive her, brought her back to startled life… and then promptly gave a dramatic ‘Guh-buh!’ and collapsed myself. My parents and Holden scrambled to hold me, calling for a medic. Briar, jolted back to consciousness by my overzealous chest compressions, stood motionless, speechless with fury. Heh. That’s just how students of human behavior operate. When I woke up, my entire new family was surrounding the hospital bed. “The doctor says it’s malnutrition, Rue. You’ve suffered too much.” “Briar just lacks a sense of security, dear. You shouldn’t blame her. We’ve told her to apologize.” Briar, tearful, presented me with a box of fried chicken, mumbling an apology. “Sister, I specially made this fried chicken for you.” Mom and Dad beamed with satisfaction. “Rue, d it. It’s Briar’s way of showing she cares.” 2 I eyed the chicken. A faint sheen of oil drifted across the weak, beneath which the glassy eyes of a half-dead chicken stared up at me. It looked utterly unappetizing. But I obediently accepted the container. A fleeting look of triumph crossed Briar’s face. Then, I dramatically grabbed my head and sank back onto the pillow. “My head. It’s pounding. I’m so dizzy.” Mom and Dad panicked, calling the nurse. Only Holden, my brother, looked cold and skeptical. “Rue, Briar spent hours to learn how to make the fired chicken. Her hands are blistered. Are you pretending to be sick because you just don’t want to eat it?” I rolled my eyes, then copied an act of exaggerated virtue. “I’m so sorry, Holden. This broth is my sister’s precious gift. I can’t bear to waste it. Please, you eat it for me.” Just as some saintly child in a fable might offer the best portion to an elder, Rue offered the poison to her brother. Holden, delighted by my generosity, proudly accepted the container. Briar lunged to stop him, but it was too late. Holden downed the entire thing in one gulp. The next second, his face flushed crimson, he clawed at his throat, and collapsed to the floor. “H-help…” The doctor called in to treat my “dizziness” rushed Holden off to the ER. Two hours later, he was successfully installed in the bed next to mine. “Briar, what exactly did you put in that broth?” Dad demanded. Briar continued to sob and refused to admit anything. But from then on, my parents were extremely cautious. They forbade Briar from preparing any food for either of us. I happily stayed in the hospital for two weeks, eating room service and gaining a noticeable five pounds. When I finally returned to the family’s three-story home, Briar was waiting in my new bedroom with all of her designer clothes, jewelry, and several bank cards. “Sister, all of this should have been yours. I’m returning it to its rightful owner. Just please—please don’t kick me out. Just give me a place to stay.” Ah? I copied her, falling to the floor and wailing, pushing the pile of loot back toward her. “Sister, I can’t take these. They’re yours! Please, I beg you, don’t kick me out! Just give me a place to stay!” Briar’s tears stopped mid-sob. She ground her teeth and sank to her knees again. “I’m begging you, Sister.” I copied her again, falling to my knees opposite her. “I’m begging you, Sister.” When my parents opened the door, they found Briar and me facing each other on the floor, weeping and clutching the haul of clothes and gold, as if performing a bizarre, tear-soaked ritual. Mom’s eye twitched. They almost called a priest. Instead, they split the non-clothing items equally between us. Briar seethed, forcing a smile. I smiled, too, but mine was genuine. Selling Nana only got me a thousand dollars. This pile of jewelry was worth a thousand Nanas. My parents didn’t understand my sudden joy. Mom gently stroked my hair. “Rue, you’ll have everything Briar has, from now on.” They meant it. Because Briar had a fiancé—a promising young man from a powerful family. So, two days later, they found me one of my own: Harrison Vance, from a family of equal standing to Briar’s fiancé, Grant Song. “His parents said you two should date for a bit before the engagement party.” Harrison looked at me with open distaste, but his eyes were full of an unspoken, longing affection when they landed on Briar. The first time we met, he didn’t so much look at me as look past me, striding right up to Briar. “Briar,” he purred. “May I call you that from now on?” 3 Briar shyly consented, shooting me a triumphant glance. Harrison gave her expensive jewelry. He gave me a generic silk scarf—a promotional gift-with-purchase. He bought her a custom gown. He sent me a coupon for a spa. He and Briar were caught in a stairwell making out. He gave me… nothing. My complimentary item had been fully revoked. But I had learned. I found Grant Song, Briar’s intended fiancé, and I stole kisses from him. Kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss, kiss. He wasn’t as tall as Harrison, but he was sweet enough to bend down so I could reach. While Harrison and Briar were busy having a clandestine affair and burning through cash, Grant and I were busy having a sweet, clandestine affair and being perfectly pleasant. My parents watched our supposed sisterly harmony and smiled, satisfied. “This is better,” Dad said. “You girls should spend more time together. Briar, take Rue out and introduce her to your friends.” So Briar, Harrison, and a large group of her socialite friends decided to take me hiking in a remote wilderness area. Briar’s friends barely spoke to me, only exchanging knowing glances. “You can’t polish a turd,” one whispered, loud enough to be overheard. Briar stood at the center of her court like a spoiled princess. “My sister is from a dirt farm, and she brought all her backwater habits with her. She grew up with a couple of old people, and the day we picked her up, she smelled like…” A few girls instantly covered their noses, fanning themselves dramatically. I understood. This was the moment for vicious, social-climbing gossip. “It’s true, I grew up with them. But Briar is their blood,” I chimed in, perfectly mimicking her casual cruelty. “They were anti-laundry, anti-shower. She inherited the ‘unwashed’ gene. Sometimes she goes weeks without changing her clothes or washing her feet.” I covered my nose and fanned the air. “That’s why she always has that faint whiff of… old gym sock.” The girls took two shocked steps back. Briar looked ready to pull off her shoes and swear to a jury she scrubbed her feet daily. “You liar! I shower every day!” Her friends nodded politely, but I noticed the frantic, silent texting taking place beneath their fanning hands. Briar bit her lip, terrified I would unleash another, more damaging truth. On the fifth day of our camping trip, Briar brought me a carton of milk. “Sister, milk helps you sleep. Drink it and have a wonderful rest.” I smiled and nodded, then turned and presented the milk to Harrison. “Briar sent this. She said milk helps you sleep well.” Harrison, unsuspecting, drank the whole thing down. The next morning, Briar woke everyone up at dawn. They all tip-toed out to the SUVs. “This place is isolated, full of wildlife. By the time that backwater little hick wakes up, it’ll be noon.” “She’ll lose her mind when she realizes everyone’s gone!” “I even put a signal jammer on the campsite. She won’t even be able to call the police! She’s going to have a rough time.” I, being the accomplished student of human behavior I am, had quietly followed their lead and crept into the back of the SUV. Hours later, as we drove into the city, they were still chattering about how hysterical and terrified I would be, their laughter loud and high-pitched. The noise woke me up. I couldn’t resist letting out a little giggle of my own. Briar and her friends froze, their necks snapping around. “What was that noise? Rue? How are you here?” “If she’s here… then who did we leave at the campsite?” 4 When Harrison was found, his face was like thunder, his arms covered in scratches from stumbling through the brush. He charged at me, ready to slap me. But I hadn’t driven the car. I hadn’t put the sleeping aid in the milk. I had only copied Briar’s “gift.” A quick set of questions revealed the truth. My parents’ faces were sickly pale. They apologized profusely to Harrison’s parents. But they insisted Briar wasn’t “wicked.” “Rue, dear, Briar is just… lacking in judgment, but she’s not evil. Besides, you and Harrison are getting married soon. This would make a spectacle if we let it get out.” I nodded and looked at Harrison. “Yes, Harrison, Briar was just playing a silly trick. She’s not evil.” Harrison was forced to swallow his rage. He shot me a venomous look that promised future revenge. The engagement date loomed. Harrison and Briar whispered constantly, their eyes burning with a poisonous, shared malice aimed at me. But I hadn’t forgotten the insult of the gift-with-purchase. So, on the day of the engagement, standing before two hundred guests, I gave the engagement ring to Grant Song, Briar’s fiancé, and presented the velvet box to Harrison. I pointed at the empty, crimson box. “This is for you.” Harrison looked at the box and at the genuine diamond sparkling on Grant’s finger, as if he’d been publicly violated. Briar snorted out a laugh. “Sister, the engagement ring goes on your fiancé’s hand. Did you seriously not know that?” I was a student of human behavior. Of course, I knew. I copied Harrison’s worst snobbery, tilting my chin up forty-five degrees, my eyes conveying five parts contempt, three parts arrogance, and two parts icy disdain. “What kind of person deserves what kind of thing. In my eyes, this,” I gestured to the empty box, “is exactly what he’s earned.” With a toss of my hair, I walked off the stage, leaving a sputtering, enraged Harrison behind. My parents desperately tried to smooth things over. Holden insisted I apologize. But Harrison had never apologized to me. I hadn’t learned that move. I ignored them and went to the buffet. As Dad and Holden mingled, a waiter with shifty eyes approached me. He claimed Mom had twisted her ankle and needed me to check on her upstairs. A thick layer of malice seemed to cling to him—I could almost taste the coming disaster. I pretended not to notice. When we reached the room, just as he opened the door, he raised his foot, attempting to kick me inside. Years of mimicry had taught me the swift reading of intent. The moment his foot lifted, I was prepared. I hooked my heel behind his and sent him tumbling into the dark room. The room was pitch black. A figure hidden behind the door immediately slammed something into the waiter’s head. He crumpled. A gruff voice from inside muttered, “Well, hello, pretty thing. Someone paid me to ruin you. You’re about to have your biggest society scandal.” Click. The door locked shut. Hearing the lock, Briar stepped out from an adjacent room. She didn’t see me hiding behind a large potted fern. She smirked at the closed door. “Rue. There’s only room for one daughter in the Ashworth house. I’ve prepared a lovely surprise for you. From now on, they’ll never look at you the same way.” “Competing with me? You don’t deserve to.” I watched her, secretly nodding. Ah, that’s how it works. I felt a sudden rush of understanding, a cognitive leap. My parents told me to learn from Briar. I decided to learn the newest, most complex lesson she had just taught me. I got to work. After a long time, my masterpiece was complete. I waited, excited for the praise I knew I would receive. They would be so proud. A few minutes later, Briar, Mom, and Harrison’s parents, trailed by a nervous crowd, rushed toward the room. “Briar, are you sure the waiter said it was this room? I told her she couldn’t have seafood. How could her allergy be this bad?” Mom said, her voice laced with worry. Briar looked down, a triumphant smile tugging at her lips. “Mom, we need to hurry! If Sister has a life-threatening reaction, it will be too late!” She flung the door open! “Sister, I’m coming in to help you, okay?” The next second, every eye in the corridor went wide. Gasps and screams echoed off the marble walls. Briar’s eyes went saucer-wide. She stumbled back. “How… how did this happen?”

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The day I got out of prison, my parents dragged me straight to a promotion party for one of their star students. Three glasses of champagne in, the student, Noah Gallagher—now a District Attorney—leaned toward my parents, his speech slurring slightly. “Professor, Mrs. Albright, you are my saving grace! I wouldn’t be here today if Rory hadn’t taken the fall for me!” I assumed it was drunken hyperbole. “Come now, Noah, you’re the DA. You make it sound like my parents, both brilliant attorneys, would actually throw their own daughter under the bus.” I offered a tight smile. “I was careless. I was the one who accidentally leaked the confidential national security data.” He froze, missing the frantic, subtle headshakes my mother was giving him. “You don’t know? You didn’t volunteer to take the fall? Your dad was running point, waving your signed confession around town…” He stopped, staring at me with genuine surprise. “He said you were underage and would be out in a couple of years. But if I’d had that felony on my record, my career would be dead on arrival.” Slowly, deliberately, I turned my head to face my parents. They lowered their wine glasses, their voices dropping to a conspiratorial hush. “Rory, Noah is a young man. He’s like a son to us now. He needs a spotless career trajectory. He can’t have a stain.” “You’re different. A girl’s career isn’t as critical. Besides, we were able to negotiate an excellent plea deal. We never intended for you to truly suffer.” Never intended for me to truly suffer? Five years of beatings, the electric shock therapy, the solitary confinement… Every spoonful of rancid slop I’d swallowed was a biting reminder of how utterly ridiculous that claim was. I laughed, tears streaming down my face. With a sudden surge of strength, I swept my arm across the table, sending the towering champagne flute pyramid crashing down. “So, having high-powered attorney parents means I deserve to be locked away?” The sound of glass shattering was deafening. “Well, today, I’m an orphan.” 1 Glass shards scattered, one slicing my forearm. Blood mingled with expensive wine, dripping steadily onto the pristine white carpet. I didn’t flinch. I just stared at my parents. How could the people who came to visit me every week, rain or shine, be the architects of my destruction? They didn’t even look at me. My father, Victor Albright, turned to the stunned guests, plastering on his professional, reassuring smile. “Please forgive the scene, everyone. Our daughter… she’s just been released. She’s experiencing a severe psychological break.” My mother, Elaine, nodded in practiced synchronization, her eyes immediately welling up with tears. “It’s been a traumatic five years for her. We haven’t managed her PTSD well. It’s entirely our fault.” The guests instantly switched from shock to sympathy. A few older family friends came over, patting my shoulder. “Rory, sweetie, don’t make a scene. Your parents love you. They only have one daughter; they would never harm you.” “Exactly. Your mother and father made an immense, selfless contribution to the field. They channeled their devotion to you into academic excellence—publishing her case study in the Journal of Criminology. You should be proud of them.” The blood drained from my head. The weekly, mandatory visits. The careful, probing questions about my emotional state, my interactions, the disciplinary measures. They weren’t acts of care. They were data collection. I wasn’t just a scapegoat. I was their lab rat. The final, frayed wire in my brain snapped. I stumbled back, catching the edge of a small side table and flipping it completely. “How could you?! How could you do this to me?!” The scream ripped through my throat. I was blind with fury, oblivious to my father’s hand as it swung high in the air. Snap! The sharp crack of his palm against my cheek echoed the falling table. A stinging cut immediately bloomed where his wedding ring had scraped my skin. I slowly turned, looking at him. He was staring at me, his lips moving, the words more damning than any sentence. “Have you made enough of a spectacle? Stop embarrassing us! You’re having a breakdown. Get home and take your medication!” Drained of all strength, I was yanked out of the ballroom, through the service entrance, and shoved into the back of their waiting car. The moment we were inside the house, my mother slammed me to my knees on the hardwood floor. “Rory Albright!” Her eyes were blazing, devoid of the slightest maternal warmth, only cold, calculated rage. “Do you have any idea what you just ruined? That was Noah’s crucial promotion dinner!” “He’s on the fast track to the DA’s office. You humiliated him in front of the entire Judiciary Committee! How is he supposed to manage his career now?!” My father stood behind her, his voice a chilling monotone. “We poured money and connections into him for five years. We plucked him out of the rural Midwest, put him through school, and worked the entire system for this moment. Your tantrum could have completely destroyed our investment.” “And what about me? I was sixteen, I got into Georgetown Law, and you personally destroyed my future for him…” My father cut my protest off, his tone detached, like a closing argument in court. “Rory, be rational. Noah is a man. He must have a future; a single stain would prevent him from ever recovering.” “You? You’re a juvenile female. The system is more forgiving. The national security leak charge was manageable, and your mother and I mitigated the sentence. It was the only rational, optimal solution.” “Optimal solution?” I laughed, blood and tears mixing on my face. “Were the beatings, the shock therapy, the solitary confinement… were those also part of your calculated, necessary costs?” My mother’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “You have the nerve to bring that up? Clearly, the lessons in that facility weren’t harsh enough! You didn’t learn a thing!” “You’re twenty-one, and you’re still throwing public tantrums? You embarrassed us in front of our entire professional network!” My father took over, his voice utterly cold. “That’s right. You’ve always been stubborn and disobedient. Going in was good for you. A little suffering, a little character adjustment. You needed to see how harsh the world is, so you’d finally learn to obey.” My mother nodded, a sickeningly self-righteous tone creeping into her voice. “A criminal record isn’t a bad thing. It ensures you’ll always rely on us. A girl should be obedient.” I felt as if I’d been plunged into an ice bath. Every punch I took, every hour of solitary confinement, had been a planned component of their warped “tough love” educational program. Even the permanent felony—the lifelong stain—was a deliberate insurance policy to keep me tethered to them. “Are you even human?!” I shrieked. “I’m cutting all ties with you! I want nothing to do with you!” My father’s face hardened. He grabbed my arm, his grip vise-like, threatening to crush the bone. My mother quickly opened a bedroom door, and together they shoved me inside. “You stay in there and think about what you’ve done,” my father’s voice came from the hall, devoid of warmth. “Think about it carefully. Without us, where can a felon go? What can you possibly do?” My mother’s voice followed, softer but even more chilling. “Rory, you’ll realize soon enough. You can’t survive without us.” The lock clicked shut. I collapsed onto the floor, staring at my childhood room. The pale pink walls were long gone, replaced by a cold institutional gray. In the closet, a rack of expensive, tailored men’s shirts hung, clearly not mine. The air was thick with Noah’s high-end cologne. The space in their hearts belonged to him. Now, even my physical space was gone. Sometime after midnight, in the suffocating silence, I fumbled in a desk drawer and found an old, bent bobby pin. My hands were shaking violently, but I gritted my teeth and began slowly picking the lock. I slipped out of that house and into the night. 2 I spent the night curled up in a 24-hour ATM vestibule, hidden from the cold. My parents didn’t come looking for me. As long as I wasn’t actively blocking Noah’s path, they likely couldn’t be bothered. Good. The second the sun rose, I started looking for work. Felony conviction. High school diploma (the college acceptance meant nothing now). Those two labels were plastered across my forehead. Everyone who interviewed me looked at me as if they already knew the whole story. No one would hire me. My cash was running low. I planned to buy a train ticket to a small town in the Midwest, a place where no one knew the Albright name, a place my parents’ influence couldn’t reach. But at the payment screen, a red alert flashed: “Warning: Legal Hold Applied. Cannot purchase ticket.” I tried buying a Greyhound bus ticket. The same message. I froze for a second, then gave a bitter laugh. My parents knew exactly how to use the legal system—the laws they’d sworn to uphold—to legally cripple and confine me. Completely broke, I flipped through my phone contacts, stopping on the name “Uncle David.” He was the only person besides my parents who had visited me in prison. The phone rang for a long time before a nervous voice answered. “Hello?” “Uncle David, it’s Rory.” “Rory?! Where are you?!” His voice was instantly raised. “Your parents said you had a psychological break! They’ve been circulating an official statement on your mental fitness to the Bar Association, asking everyone not to engage with you!” My grip on the phone tightened. “The statement is a lie. They forced it. Uncle David, I need a little cash…” “Rory, listen to your uncle. Just come home.” He lowered his voice, but the fear and helplessness were palpable. “Your father called me personally. He said anyone who helps you is making an enemy of him, and he has the means to destroy anyone who crosses him…” “Rory, it’s not that I don’t care, but I have a family to support…” My heart was sinking with every word. “Noah is a good boy; he treats your parents like his own. Your parents are just ambitious for him, that’s all. They love you, Rory. Everything they did was for the good of the family…” “Uncle David.” I cut him off, my voice dangerously calm. “Do you know about the abuse I suffered in prison? The beatings, the electric shocks, the solitary confinement? Those were all explicitly requested by my parents to ‘teach me submission.’” “Do you know my dream? I killed myself studying to get into Georgetown Law so I could become a prosecutor. They personally destroyed it, just to pave a clean path for Noah.” “I’d rather die than have parents like that. Please take care of yourself.” Penniless, I ended up sleeping on a park bench next to a dumpster. The stench mixed with the cold wind. A single, stale bagel lasted me three days. But it was, at least, freedom. A few days later, I finally found a job: working the janitorial night shift at a massive downtown shopping center. The balding, middle-aged manager looked me up and down. “It’s tough work, kid. You won’t last. Just give me two weeks’ notice if you quit, so you don’t screw up my schedule.” The work was brutal. The mall was always crowded; the restrooms were a constant disaster. Mopping floors, scrubbing toilets, unclogging sinks, changing overflowing trash cans—my hands never stopped moving. The caustic chemicals burned my eyes. Within days, my hands were raw, wrinkled, and covered in thin, painful blisters. Sometimes a drunk customer would vomit all over the floor. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the sting of my mother’s words. My phone rang—an unknown number. I thought it might be a job interviewer, hastily wiped my hands on my scrubs, and answered. “Have you finished playing games? It’s time to come home.” My mother’s voice was like ice. “You won’t find a job, Rory. We’ve made sure of that. No one will hire a documented felon with a psychological record.” I didn’t speak, my fingernails digging into my palm. She must have heard my ragged breathing. Her tone softened slightly, making her words even more suffocating. “Rory, stop being stubborn. I’ve arranged a position for you—a receptionist at your father’s law firm.” “It’s a light schedule, nine to five. Everyone there knows you served time and have emotional issues. No one will pressure you.” I didn’t reply. I hung up the phone and jammed the scrub brush deep into the toilet bowl, scouring the stains with every ounce of frustration I had. Water splashed my face. It tasted salty. I thought that was the end of it. Three days later, she showed up. 3 I was kneeling on the cold tile, wiping up a mess a customer had thrown up, when I heard my mother and Noah laughing nearby. “That custom suit fits you perfectly, Noah. I have no doubt you’ll be the youngest presiding DA in the city’s history.” The conversation stopped abruptly. She had spotted me. Our eyes met. The triumphant smile instantly froze on her face. She strode over quickly, her eyes raking over my ill-fitting uniform and the filthy mop in my hand. “You… you’re working here… doing this?” Her voice was a low, disgusted whisper, a verbal whiplash. I said nothing, bending back down to scrub the floor. “Rory Albright!” She grabbed my wrist. The force of her grip popped one of the thin blisters on my palm. Yellow pus smeared onto her manicured hand, but she didn’t seem to notice. “Look at the state of you! Who are you trying to ruin? Yourself?!” “What will people say about me? About your father? Where will we put our faces?” I yanked my hand back, looking straight into her eyes. “Were you concerned about ‘what people would say’ when you locked me in a federal facility?” She choked on her words, her face cycling from white to deep crimson. She took a deep breath, trying to regain her composure. “Rory, stop the theatrics. Let’s talk rationally. You working in a place like this… It breaks my heart.” “Breaks your heart?” I gave a humorless laugh. “Do you care about me, or are you just embarrassed that your daughter, the brilliant Professor Albright’s daughter, is scrubbing a public toilet?” Her face flushed completely, her chest heaving. “Rory! How long are you going to keep this up?! You refuse to work at the family company, you insist on cleaning filth in this mall—you’re doing this just to spite us, aren’t you?!” I stopped working, turning to face her fully. “Mom, the truth is, you knew Noah’s paper contained the stolen data. You could have pulled the paper, published an erratum, and used your influence to clear him quietly.” I took a step closer, staring her down. “But you didn’t. You waited until the FBI was involved, and you sacrificed me—the kind-hearted idiot who collected the data for him—as a quick, clean solution. You saved time, and you saved Noah’s pristine resume.” “Only I got thrown into prison, and everything I worked for was destroyed. You can’t tell me this level of misogyny and favoritism is normal, even for you.” My mother’s lips trembled. She glanced away, unable to meet my gaze. “Investigating your own parents? Rory, we gave you life, we raised you. Is this how you repay us? This petty, destructive revenge?” A deep, angry voice cut in. My father, Victor Albright, marched over from the other side of the mall, his face thunderous. Behind him, the balding manager trailed nervously. “Mr. Albright, Mrs. Albright, this…” the manager began, wringing his hands, trying to de-escalate. Victor ignored him, turning on the manager with chilling authority. “Mr. Rogers, my daughter is mentally unstable. She cannot be employed here. It poses a risk to your customers and the mall’s reputation.” “But… Mr. Albright, that’s not exactly procedure…” “Procedure?” Victor sneered. “Would you prefer I discuss labor laws with you, or perhaps the few dozen fire code and safety violations I noticed on my way in?” The threat was blatant. The manager’s face crumpled. He glanced at me, sighed, and looked away. “…Rory, gather your things. You need to leave.” I knew then. I wouldn’t be getting my final paycheck. “You are a disgrace! Come on!” Victor didn’t look at me again, turning his attention to Noah. Noah stood impeccably dressed in his bespoke suit, bathed in the mall’s bright, clean light. I stood in rubber boots and industrial scrubs, smelling of antiseptic and trash. The contrast was blinding. Blood rushed to my head. “Fine! You want to play dirty? I’ll go online! I’ll expose the truth about five years ago and everything you did after! Let’s see who looks like the disgrace then!” Victor’s eyes narrowed. A flicker of genuine fear crossed the fury in his face. He paused for a few seconds, then softened his voice, the shift unnerving. “We didn’t come here to threaten you.” “Your little stunt at the party did cause issues for Noah. A few key people have begun to question his background.” Noah stepped forward, wearing a carefully calibrated expression of regret and plea. “Rory, all the blame is mine. Look, how about this? Record a short video. Just say that the crime five years ago was entirely your fault, that your parents had no involvement, and that you regret your actions. I’ll compensate you. I’ll give you half a million dollars.” Victor glanced at the scrub brush still in my hand, his tone patronizing, as if granting a privilege. “If you record this, we promise never to contact you again, and you can continue with… whatever this work is.” A crushing sense of powerlessness washed over me. I knew, with sickening clarity, that I could not win against them. “…I’ll record it. But I don’t want the money. Just leave me alone.” Noah and my father exchanged a look. Noah bit his lip. “No! You have to take the money, Rory. I couldn’t live with myself otherwise.” I was stunned. The desperate need to escape overwhelmed my growing sense of dread. I recited the statement my father had conveniently already drafted, gritting my teeth as the camera recorded my confession. After they left, I clutched the prepaid debit card with the half-million on it. I felt no relief. I quickly packed the few things I had and rushed to the bus station. But at the gate, two police officers stopped me. “Rory Albright, you are being detained on suspicion of felony extortion. Please come with us.” 4 It was only after I was formally charged and placed on a travel restriction that I realized Noah had filed the extortion complaint. My parents were his defense attorneys. They were preparing to personally send me back to prison. Before the trial even began, public opinion had turned into a firing squad. My father used his firm’s official account to publish a lengthy article: “A Father’s Agonizing Choice: When Your Daughter Becomes an Extortionist.” The text was melodramatic, painting me as a vicious, manipulative daughter who had repeatedly victimized her grieving parents. The final line, “As legal professionals, we cannot tolerate crime—even from our own blood,” garnered tens of thousands of likes. My mother, Elaine, posted a case study on prominent law school forums: “From Juvenile Prodigy to Blackmail Felon: A Psychological Case Study.” In it, Noah was a paragon of strength overcoming adversity, while I was the pathological negative example. She framed my search for the truth as a criminal’s sick attempt to project blame onto a loving family. Trolls and bots swarmed the internet. My jail mugshot, a grainy photo of me scrubbing the floor, and even my cheerful sixteenth birthday photo were unearthed, analyzed, and accompanied by the vilest commentary. My phone was flooded with harassing, hateful calls. Every single comment was a deliberate cut to my already shredded nerves. And the handle of the knife was held by my mother and father. Before the hearing, I made one request: the proceedings would be live-streamed. Since they wanted my social death to be a public spectacle, I would make sure the spectacle was complete. On the day of the trial, silence fell the moment I walked into the courtroom. Hundreds of eyes, filled with disgust and condemnation, were fixed on me. Almost simultaneously, Noah entered, flanked by Victor and Elaine. Victor naturally reached out, smoothing a non-existent wrinkle on Noah’s suit jacket, then gave his arm a tiny, approving squeeze—a gesture he only used when he was deeply satisfied. Elaine produced a thermos, unscrewed the top, and handed it naturally to Noah. “Take a sip, Noah. Don’t strain your voice.” My lips were dry and cracked from stress and dehydration. No one offered me a sip of water. The trial began. Victor stood first, presenting the evidence with practiced calm. The first piece was the confession I had been coerced into signing at sixteen. He tapped my youthful signature with a pointed finger, his expression full of painful disappointment. “Sixteen years old. The handwriting of a child, but the actions of a calculated criminal…” He paused for effect, allowing the unspoken accusation to hang heavy in the air. Next, he presented the desperate letters I had written to them during my time in prison. He pulled one out, reading the most desperate line aloud: “‘Dad, Mom, I’m dying in here, please save me…’” Then, he dropped the letter, delivering his devastating conclusion. “This was not a cry for help, Your Honor. This was a performance. A deliberate, five-year-long act of laying groundwork for an eventual appeal and slander campaign. Note the depth of the defendant’s malicious forethought.” Finally, he displayed the forced video clarification. Victor pointed to my numb, vacant face on the screen. “Look at her eyes. No remorse, only the fanatical resentment of a guilty party. This was not an apology. This was a challenge to justice.” With every piece of evidence, the gallery whispered and hissed its disgust. The live-stream comments exploded: [Born Bad!] [Psycho!]. I sat there, feeling as though I was being drawn and quartered by their words. Elaine rose next. Her posture was elegant, her words lethal. “Your Honor, based on my twenty-one years of intimate, close-proximity observation of the defendant, coupled with her behavioral patterns inside and outside the facility, I can confirm that Rory Albright suffers from classic Paranoid Personality Disorder, accompanied by severe Victim Complex and Antisocial Tendencies.” She even offered an anecdote. “When she was seven, she tore up a neighbor’s child’s award ribbon out of sheer spiteful jealousy. We dismissed it as childish mischief. In retrospect, that was the pathological genesis of her current destructive and possessive nature.” She then pivoted to Noah, her tone shifting to proud relief. “In contrast, the plaintiff, Noah Gallagher, has steadfastly served the public interest despite the malicious framing. His psychological resilience and social adaptation stand in stark contrast to the defendant’s deterioration.” Finally, she faced the judge, her voice sincere and firm. “As both a mother and a professional scholar, I implore the court to impose the harshest penalty possible, accompanied by long-term mandatory psychological intervention and isolation. This is our duty to her, and to society.” With that, she turned away, dabbing a corner of her eye with a tissue, the picture of heartbroken restraint. “Life sentence!” someone in the gallery yelled, instantly met with murmurs of agreement. The chat was pure [SUPPORT!] Noah seized his moment, looking at me with a complicated expression. “Rory, our professors have your best interests at heart. Sometimes, a temporary personal sacrifice serves a far greater blueprint. You should try to understand that scale.” A sudden, sharp spasm hit my stomach. It was the physical manifestation of days of fear and pressure. Sweat beaded on my forehead, and my vision swam. Finally, Victor stood, his conclusion definitive. “The defendant shows zero remorse, and her danger to society is extreme. As her legal guardians and attorneys, we request that the court sentence her to a minimum of ten years in a federal penitentiary, to uphold the law!” Elaine faced the judge, her voice softening slightly. “The plaintiff, Mr. Gallagher, is a man of high moral character. Though deeply traumatized, he has voluntarily waived all civil compensation claims, highlighting the vast moral chasm between him and the defendant’s actions.” The pain in my stomach intensified. I had to bite down hard on the inside of my cheek to remain seated. The entire courtroom was waiting for the judge’s gavel to fall and sweep me, the toxic waste, out of their lives forever. I gripped the edge of the table, slowly standing up. “Your Honor, I deny all charges.” “I request permission to call my witness.” A flicker of confusion, then outright contempt, crossed the faces of my parents and Noah. They likely assumed I’d managed to find some irrelevant, broken soul from the park to vouch for me. They stopped sneering the moment the side door opened. Their faces instantly went white.

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My twin sister, Scarlett, and I were identical. Mom always claimed she had to be fair, so she bought two of everything, perfectly matched. But that New Year’s Eve, when we were given our sparkler wands, mine felt damp and soft. It wouldn’t catch a flame. I secretly swapped it for two of Scarlett’s. The moment it lit, the shower of sparks illuminated my eyes, wide with sheer joy. It also lit up Mom’s face, which was instantly ugly with anger. “Who told you to steal from your sister? I gave you your own—isn’t that enough? You have to be so greedy? You love fireworks so much? Go then—” She shoved me roughly out the back door, forcing my small body toward the field where the large, professional-grade firework mortar was waiting. The firework exploded with a muffled BOOM. When the shrapnel and sparking trails of fire rained down on my stunned body, I suddenly remembered all the years of her so-called “fairness.” The matching apples: Scarlett’s was always crisp and sweet; mine always had a rotten, yellowing core. The identical outfits: mine were always called fake by my classmates, falling apart after a month. A searing pain consumed my body, and I closed my eyes. Mom. I’m dying now. You won’t have to buy two of everything anymore. 1. The instant the fuse was lit, the large firework tube—improperly positioned—tipped and angled toward me. The massive impact of the explosion knocked me flat onto the frozen dirt. At the same moment, the rocket burst open against the inky black sky. A torrent of brilliant, streaking light poured down, reflecting in my eyes. It was like a bigger, more beautiful version of the sparkler I had stolen from Scarlett. The one Mom had snatched away after only a few seconds of light. Scarlett’s eyes were red rimmed, accusing me of taking what was hers. I stood there, clutching my own waterlogged, soggy sparkler. Years of unspoken injury and confusion boiled over. I finally looked up and asked the question that had plagued me for years: “Mom, you said they were exactly the same. So why wouldn’t mine light? Why did Scarlett’s work and mine didn’t? If they’re the same, why couldn’t I swap them?” My answer was the stinging slap of her hand. A flash of exposed shame and embarrassment crossed her face before she erupted. “How can a child be so greedy? I’ve been perfectly fair, but you have bad luck, and now you blame me and your sister?” She glanced at Scarlett’s tear-filled eyes, and her rage intensified. A cold smirk twisted her lips. “You love fireworks so much? Then go light that big one. Don’t come back until it’s finished.” Was I really that greedy? I pondered the question. The brilliant fireworks illuminated a twisted, blackened body on the ground. That body was mine. I was dead. My soul drifted lazily back toward the house. On the second-floor balcony, Scarlett clapped her hands, laughing. “Mommy, Mommy, look!” Scarlett and I grew up in the suburbs, rarely seeing such a spectacular, unobstructed display of fireworks. “Alright, sweetie, time for bed now. It’s getting late. I’ll go warm up your milk.” Mom smiled at Scarlett with a loving, indulgent expression and turned toward the kitchen. She habitually reached for two mugs. Into one, she poured the expensive, organic whole milk. Into the other, she poured the cheapest carton of milk from the back of the fridge, labeled with the “expires soon” sticker. Mom wrinkled her nose, as if the cheap, chalky smell offended her. “Scarlett, come here.” I watched as Mom urged Scarlett to drink the milk quickly. I’m dead now. Mom, you don’t need to prepare two of anything anymore. “Aubrey? Where’s Aubrey?” Nana Ruth, upstairs in the bedroom, called my name. Lately, her health had been failing, and sometimes she couldn’t get out of bed. When we arrived at the cabin for the holiday, Nana had given me a holiday card—it was thicker than Scarlett’s. Mom had immediately frowned and challenged her. “Mother, what is the meaning of this? I give the girls identical cards with identical cash. You’re playing favorites, aren’t you?” The old woman scoffed, gently stroking my hair. “Yes, I gave Aubrey a little extra. What’s the difference? Is it fair if I give them both ten bills, but yours are all ones and hers are all hundreds?” Nana Ruth gave me a big, enveloping hug. Unlike Mom, who always recoiled with a frown whenever I opened my arms toward her. “No, Aubrey. Mommy’s hugs have to be double. One for you, one for your sister. If Scarlett isn’t here, giving one only to you would be unfair.” I didn’t understand then. Why was there no mention of “fairness” when Scarlett demanded kisses and hugs from Mom whenever she felt like it? “Where is Aubrey? Didn’t she say she wanted to see the fireworks? Why isn’t she here?” Nana worried, sitting upright in bed. “She went back to her room a long time ago. Mom, you don’t need to worry about her. She’s too clever for that.” Mom let out a cold laugh, her brow furrowed with deep distaste. “Just moments ago, she was stealing Scarlett’s sparkler. I’ve been so fair to her, and she still isn’t satisfied? She really is just like her father—ungrateful, worthless trash.” 2. A look of pain crossed Nana Ruth’s eyes. She clutched her chest, her voice hoarse. “You can’t just blame the child for everything simply because she happens to look like him.” Floating in the air, my soul felt a missed beat. I remembered the times Mom would take us out. An older woman might look at us, dressed in matching princess dresses, and smile. “You certainly balance the scales, you do. You’ve raised two beautiful girls.” “The younger one favors you. So, the older one must favor her father.” Mom’s smile would vanish instantly. The look she’d turn on me was pure poison. Later, because of a poor grade, Mom was called into the principal’s office. The teacher had looked at Mom and curled her lips into a strange, knowing smirk. “I guessed she was your daughter right away. She has her father’s face, line for line. And her grades are just as hopeless, I see. But she certainly has a beautiful face, doesn’t she? No wonder you dropped out to run off with that man. Beauty is a curse, after all.” Her mocking gaze lingered on Mom. Mom forced a smile, a vein throbbing in her forehead. She dragged me roughly out of the school. A slap made my ears ring. “I’ve always treated you and your sister equally. What have I ever denied you? And this is the report card you bring me?” She squeezed my shoulder, her nails digging into my flesh. I bit my lip, afraid to speak. Compared to my clever, outgoing, and verbally charming sister, I had nothing to offer but my looks. I was always timid and awkward in everything I did. “She has his dirty blood in her veins. No wonder I can’t raise her right.” Mom spat the words out coldly that day. Even as a young child, I sensed something deeply wrong about the “father” figure. I gradually realized that Mom’s constant, subtle targeting and disgust were not my imagination. “Elaine, your father and I tried to stop you back then. You said you chose it. You chose to leave school to work, you chose to have those two children.” I stared at Mom, bewildered. She stood there, fists clenched, her face ashen. It was just like when we first returned to the country cabin, and Mom brought boxes of gifts. The women at the village entrance rolled their eyes, their laughter laced with bitterness. “Old Elaine thinks she’s so successful. Got her body taken and her money stolen, and she’s still strutting around like a queen.” Mom’s forced composure broke, and her shoulders slumped. She fled from their mocking eyes in humiliation. “I know you regret it. You hate him, but the children are innocent.” Nana Ruth coughed violently, her eyes filled with profound sadness. “If you don’t want Aubrey, let her stay with me. There’s no need to torture the child.” “What do you mean, I don’t want her!” Mom couldn’t contain her emotions anymore, her eyes bulging. She shrieked, “Did Scarlett have anything she didn’t? What does she have to complain about? Now she’s resorted to stealing from her sister. I’ve noticed before—when I share things out, her eyes are always glued to Scarlett’s. She is so greedy!” Mom seized upon this, railing against me without mercy. “She is an ungrateful leech, just like her father, disgusting.” “She is still just a child!” Nana Ruth pounded her fist on the nightstand. “Don’t think I don’t know. You buy Scarlett designer clothes for hundreds of dollars, and Aubrey the cheapest junk. Her winter jacket had a huge hole that she taped up with clear packing tape! I tried to fix it for her, but when I took it apart, the filling was nothing but rotting, stinking scraps of feather.” Nana Ruth’s voice choked, as if the memory was too painful. I was stunned. So the clothes weren’t always broken because I was careless or didn’t appreciate them. The itchy, foul-smelling jacket wasn’t because I was unclean. I had secretly touched Scarlett’s puffer coat. It was light and soft, like a cloud. Items that looked identical on the outside were truly different. It wasn’t my imagination. It wasn’t bad luck. And it definitely wasn’t Mom’s mistake. 3. Mom refused to speak to Nana Ruth anymore and simply turned to leave. She walked downstairs and locked the front door, acting as if she finally remembered I was still outside. She called out impatiently toward the yard: “Aubrey, get back inside right now!” Scarlett peered over the railing curiously, pouting. “Is Aubrey mad? We let her light the firework, and it was a giant one.” “Let her sulk. Tell her not to bother coming back.” Mom scoffed, locking the door with a sharp click. “There’s a doghouse in the yard. She’s too clever to actually hurt herself. She won’t die outside. Come on, Scarlett, let’s go up to bed. Don’t worry about her.” She led Scarlett upstairs to their room. My soul quietly floated and settled beside Mom. She was reading a picture book to Scarlett. The warm glow of the bedside lamp bathed her face, making her eyes look soft and gentle. I felt a sense of unfairness. Why did Scarlett get to lie against Mom’s chest and listen to stories? While I was tucked into a tiny, unheated utility closet, sleeping on a cramped cot made of metal scaffolding? In the winter, I had to hug my doll and curl into a tight ball just to stay warm enough to sleep. Now I understood. Mom simply didn’t like me. The “fairness” was a performance for me and for others. When it came to Scarlett, she had her own standard, and Scarlett had privileges. Yet, I still pressed against Mom’s back. Clinging to her warmth with an almost desperate greed. Mom’s bed was so soft. Mom smelled so nice… I was a soul now, transparent and non-corporeal. So why were tears still streaming from my eyes? The next morning, Mom prepared breakfast and called Scarlett to the table. “Where is Aubrey? Isn’t she up yet?” Nana Ruth forced herself out of bed, her tone urgent. “Mother, why aren’t you resting? What are you doing out of bed?” Mom seemed to remember my existence just then. She paused, her eyes clouding with that familiar impatience. “Where could she be? Hiding in a corner to cause a scene. She thinks she can steal and still be in the right. It seems I’ve been too kind to her.” Nana Ruth’s body shook. “Early in the morning, where could Aubrey have gone… She’s not in her room. The bed I made up for her is still untouched.” Nana Ruth murmured, then suddenly noticed a flicker of nervousness in Mom’s expression. She tapped her cane sharply, her face grim. “Elaine, tell me the truth. Where is the child? Did she… did she come home last night?” Nana Ruth asked the last part carefully. Mom shied away from her gaze, answering dismissively. “How should I know? She’s in elementary school. She’s not a toddler.” 4. Nana Ruth was choked with anger. Her breathing became shallow, and she clutched her chest, wheezing violently. Before Mom could offer a casual apology to placate her, Scarlett’s wail cut through the air. “No! This doll isn’t mine!” Scarlett rummaged through her suitcase. She held up a cheap, off-brand bunny doll and cried. “Look how crooked its face is and how messy its fur is! It’s a knock-off. Aubrey must have switched it with mine!” Teary-eyed, she pleaded with Mom. The doll she held was grubby, with a crooked face and a seam that was coming undone. Scarlett tossed it onto the floor in disgust. I desperately waved my hands, wanting to say no, that Scarlett must have packed the wrong one by mistake. But Mom kicked the doll aside and quickly knelt to wipe away Scarlett’s tears. See? They could easily tell the difference between my things and Scarlett’s. That doll was the one Scarlett had demanded when we went to Disney World. It cost almost fifty dollars. Mom paid for it without blinking. It wasn’t until she saw me clutching the hem of her jacket that Mom smiled, a strange, knowing smile, and said: “I’m so sorry, Aubrey, Mommy didn’t bring enough money today. Can I buy you one just like it online in a few days?” My eyes had instantly sparkled with delight. I chirped, “Yes, please!” For many years, I was a fool, happily content with Mom’s alleged “fairness.” “See, Mom? Aubrey is just like her father—disgusting. Was I wrong to say she’s a thief?” Mom seethed, seeing the other smudged dolls in the suitcase. Her face darkened. “How did these get dirty? Was Aubrey responsible for that too?” Scarlett hesitated for a second, then quickly nodded. The truth was, Scarlett had dirtied the dolls herself. It wasn’t the first time she’d falsely accused me. Whenever she made a mistake, she’d shout that I was the one who did it. Mom never cared about my explanations. She only saw Scarlett’s tears. “Worthless brat. She’s just jealous of Scarlett. I’ve been so good to her, and she’s still ungrateful? Why did I have to have an extra child? Why did I have to birth this scourge?” Mom’s words were sharp and hateful. Nana Ruth’s eyes widened, her chest heaving. She looked utterly devastated that such vile words could come from a mother’s mouth. “Fine, fine. You don’t want Aubrey, but I do.” Nana Ruth grabbed her cane and, trembling, headed for the front door. Mom frowned, trying to stop her, but Scarlett wailed again, tripping Mom up. “There, there. Mommy will buy you a few more, okay? Since your sister isn’t here, you can have as many as you want.” Mom gently soothed Scarlett. I couldn’t bear to watch this tender scene anymore. I followed Nana Ruth out into the yard. The wind was strong outside, causing Nana Ruth’s frail body to sway. “Aubrey, my sweet Aubrey—” She called out my name, her voice hoarse, but only the barking of the yard dog responded. She stood in the yard, lost and confused, tears welling in her ancient eyes. “Mom, stop looking! Let her sulk. If she doesn’t want to come back, she can die out there—” Mom’s angry voice drifted from inside the house. Several times before, Scarlett had locked me in a storage room, and Mom always assumed I was just being dramatic. “She must have done something bad and is afraid to come out.” Mom always presumed the worst about me. But now, Nana Ruth was heartbroken for me: “How much pain must this child be in…” She ignored Mom’s protests and insisted on walking outside the yard alone. There was a thin layer of frost on the ground, and Nana Ruth stumbled with every step, yet she refused to slow down. “Aubrey, Aubrey, where are you? Come to your Nana, quick—” She called tirelessly, her voice catching with sobs. “Don’t be afraid, child. Nana will protect you.” I drifted in the air, frantic and helpless. I watched, paralyzed, as Nana Ruth walked toward the empty field where I had set off the firework. Suddenly, she let out a piercing scream and collapsed onto the ground. Right in front of her was my unrecognizable corpse.

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I was on the long flight home from Tulum, scrolling through my feed, when I saw the two live photos my husband had posted. Declan never posted on social media. Never. I tapped one of the photos open. A woman’s cloyingly sweet voice—the kind that stuck to the back of your throat—lilted in the background. “Oh, Declan, thank you for taking me to such a fancy restaurant.” I heard my husband’s low, soft chuckle. “Whatever makes you happy.” I froze for a few seconds, the sound echoing in the luxury cabin. Then, I double-tapped the screen. Liked by Ada Wells. The post vanished less than a second later. I smiled, a cold, brittle thing that didn’t reach my eyes, and dialed his number. 1. “Baby?” Declan’s voice, now back to its familiar, gentle cadence, answered instantly. My eyes were dead calm. “Declan Finch,” I said, my voice as flat as the runway I was about to land on. “I don’t care where you are or what you’re doing. You have three minutes to be home and waiting for me.” A beat of silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Then, he simply said, “Understood.” My black Maybach pulled into the circular driveway of our Beverly Hills villa. I stepped out and walked straight into the house. Declan met me in the foyer, a practiced smile on his face, reaching smoothly to take my designer travel bag and jacket. “Welcome back, darling. How was the trip?” I ignored him. I walked past, went to the custom bar, and poured myself a glass of water. Only after draining the glass did I turn to face him, my gaze finally settling on his face. “Explain.” He paused, lowering my coat onto the nearby settee. “There’s nothing to explain, Ada. As you’ve obviously seen, I’m seeing someone else.” His admission—I’m seeing someone else—was delivered with the same casual tone he used to ask if I’d had lunch. The air went silent. I let out a single, incredulous laugh. “Declan Finch, do you even hear yourself right now?” He looked at me, utterly devoid of panic, and said only one thing. “Ada, I’m just exhausted.” The two words landed like a blow to the chest. Silence. I picked up the heavy crystal ashtray from the marble console and hurled it at him. He didn’t flinch. It caught his temple. Blood instantly bloomed across his forehead. I stared, my voice low and dangerous. “I’m giving you one chance. Say that again. Correctly.” Declan slowly raised a hand, wiping the blood smear away from his brow. He looked up at me, his eyes clouded with a chilling weariness. “Ada, I’m genuinely exhausted from being with you.” Exhausted? He said he was exhausted? After ten years together? My hands clenched into fists, my voice trembling. “Declan, we’ve been together since we were fifteen. Married for three years. You think this is some kind of—” “I’m not kidding, Ada!” He cut me off, his eyes finally showing a flicker of pain, a deep, frustrated red. “For the last decade, every time you’ve been angry, I’m the one who groveled and begged, regardless of who was right.” “You mentioned, once, that you loved that rare, high-altitude orchid, and I nearly died trying to retrieve it from the Himalayas for you. But when I came back, your focus was only on the flower and the story, not the man who was in the ER.” “At Charles’s fundraising gala, I had one extra glass of champagne, and you publicly smashed the entire bottle on the floor in front of all my colleagues and walked out, without a second thought for my humiliation.” “And a month ago, because I was busy working and missed our anniversary dinner, you showed up at the office and stormed into my board meeting, acting like a lunatic.” Each sentence he spoke was steeped in bitter resentment. He was bleeding, yet he was listing my sins, detailing his pain. I couldn’t believe it. I wouldn’t. The boy who, at fifteen, climbed the fence in a blizzard to buy me tampons. The young man who proposed to me in front of the whole university at eighteen. The husband who wept with choked-up emotion on our wedding day. Now, every word was a stone thrown at me. My eyes burned, and my body began to shake—from fury, or perhaps from hurt. Declan wiped the blood from his cheek and continued, his voice softer now. “Ada, the night you left the office after that meeting—that was the first time I didn’t immediately chase you down to apologize. I walked the docks alone all night, until dawn. That’s when she showed up.” When he spoke of her, a gentle light touched his features. “Her name is Sherry. She’s a nurse. She’s not gorgeous, but she’s kind and empathetic. She listened to me, like a therapist. She comforted me.” “In the time we’ve spent together, she’s made me coffee, she brings me lunch, she reminds me to rest. Being with her, I realized for the first time that I could be taken care of. I learned that women don’t have to be like you.” My eyes were bloodshot. “So, you love her?” “Yes.” He nodded without hesitation. “Ada, I love her.” “And me?” I lunged forward, grabbing his silk tie and jerking his face down to mine. “Declan Finch, what about me?” He looked at me. There was no love left in his eyes. Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced me. I threw my arms around him, holding him tightly. “Husband, please, don’t do this. Don’t say you love her. You love me. You only love me.” I couldn’t let go of him. I couldn’t let ten years end like this. But Declan didn’t melt into me like he always did. Instead, he slowly, painstakingly, detached my hands, finger by painful finger. I shook my head violently, tears blurring my vision. His next words felt like a handful of needles plunged into my heart. “Ada, if you want to blame someone, blame yourself. You pushed me away, little by little.” He seemed to remember something. “But don’t worry. You’ll still be Mrs. Finch. You’ll still be the wealthy socialite who can go wherever she wants, worry about nothing. But I will no longer be the Declan Finch who loved you.” He picked up his jacket and walked toward the door. “Declan!” I ran after him and bit down on the skin of his neck, hard, channeling all my fury and panic into the pressure of my teeth. He didn’t move. Only when I tasted the metallic tang of blood did I release him. I kept my grip on his arm. “If you walk out that door, don’t you ever think about coming back!” Declan pulled his arm free. “I won’t.” He left. He walked out and didn’t look back. I screamed after his retreating form. “Declan Finch! I swear I will destroy her! I will not let her get away with this!” 2. Sherry Jenkins. A nurse. Thirty-five. Divorced. A full ten years older than Declan. And a divorced woman. I stared at the photos in my hand. Dark hair, round face, slightly sallow complexion. Utterly unremarkable. Plain. This is who you fell for, Declan? I squeezed the file in my hand until the paper crinkled, my eyes burning with a bloody shade of red. The doorbell rang. “Ma’am, Ms. Jenkins is here.” I took a deep, shuddering breath. My carefully sculpted, beautiful face was now an expressionless mask of icy scorn. I turned back. The woman standing there was wearing simple, light blue scrubs. I didn’t bother with pleasantries. “What is your relationship with Declan?” Sherry’s expression was calm, almost annoyingly serene. “Mr. Finch and I are just friends.” “Friends?” I scoffed, looking her up and down with open contempt. “And what exactly do you think you are? That you’re worthy of being his ‘friend’?” Sherry’s brow furrowed slightly. “Ms. Wells, I told you, we are friends. It’s not like you think I was trying to have—” “Smack!” Before she could finish, I slapped the entire file of investigation documents against her face. “This is your ‘nothing’ relationship? This is your ‘friendship’?” “Ms. Jenkins, you’re positively filthy. Sleeping with a man you call your ‘friend’.” Sherry paused, absorbing the three rapid-fire insults, and then let out a light, mocking laugh. “Ms. Wells, I didn’t believe a word Declan said about you, but now that I’ve met you, I finally understand.” I froze. She continued, a triumphant gleam in her eye: “He said you were selfish, self-serving, jealous, and nothing but relentless tantrums. He said the ten years he spent with you were the biggest regret of his life. A total waste of time.” No woman can hear her husband and his mistress casually dissect her character without reacting. My nails dug into my palms, but I didn’t even register the pain. Sherry curled her lips into a smirk. “Ada Wells, so what if I was with him? Declan’s heart belongs to me now. He treats me like gold. Do you honestly think throwing me out will bring him back to you?” “He doesn’t love you anymore, Ada!” She emphasized the last phrase, spitting it out like a curse. I suddenly laughed, the sound hollow. “Oh, really?” I took a slow, deliberate step toward her, my face darkening. “Then today, I’ll show you exactly what I can do.” I gave a cold smile and clapped my hands once. The door opened. Two of my security staff came in carrying a chair and a long, lacquered walking stick from the hallway. Sherry’s eyes widened. “What are you doing?” I curled my red lips. “Showing you how I deal with trash.” “Get her!” The guards immediately grabbed her arms and quickly strapped her into the chair. Sherry struggled wildly. “Ada, let me go! If Declan finds out, he will never forgive you!” Hearing Declan’s name only stoked my fury. I snatched the heavy stick from the guard and brought it down on her body. “Ah!” Sherry screamed in pain. My eyes were scarlet with rage, and I kept striking her, again and again. “You have no right to threaten me!” “Filth is always filth! Did you think you were some kind of savior?” “Even if Declan were standing here, I would still beat you!” It only stopped when Sherry was unconscious and slumped over the ropes. I threw the stick down and issued a final, cold command. “Take her. Dump her right in front of the entrance to the Finch corporate tower.” When the horrible, chaotic scene was finally over. My hands were shaking violently, refusing to steady. I curled up on the sofa, my face pale. I waited from day into night. I didn’t move from that position. I wanted, more than anything, to know what Declan’s face would look like when he saw his mistress. Suddenly, the front door was kicked open. I lifted my head. Declan stood in the doorway, wearing a black trench coat, his face a mask of violent fury. My heart fluttered. I shifted my numb body, managing a weak smile. “Come to avenge your little mistress?” That was all it took. He rushed forward, his bloodshot eyes blazing, and seized my throat. “Ada Wells! Who gave you the right to touch her?!” “Did you really think I was soft?” “Did you think I wouldn’t hurt you?” Three ice-cold questions crushed the air from my lungs. I wasn’t sure if the choking pain was from his grip or my broken heart. But I glared at him and forced the words out. “I did touch her. And you can just go to h—Ah!” He abruptly lifted me and shoved me away. My back slammed into the solid wall. The impact felt like it shattered my ribs. Declan walked toward me, step by heavy step, his eyes burning red. “Ada, did you know Sherry was pregnant with my child?” 3. A child? I snapped my head up. Ignoring the blinding pain in my back, I scrambled up and lunged, grabbing his tie with both hands. “What did you say?” “Declan, what the hell did you just say?” When I was twenty, I had an accidental pregnancy. I’d run to him, ecstatic. But he told me he hated the idea of children because of his own troubled childhood, and that he wanted us to be child-free. I was heartbroken, but I agreed. I went through with the procedure. Later, I even voluntarily underwent a tubal ligation—I got my tubes tied—to ensure I wouldn’t pressure him again. And now? Now he was telling me he’d gotten her pregnant? “You heard me!” Declan shoved me back, screaming at me. “It wasn’t that I hated children! I just hated the idea of you giving birth to my children!” “You’re selfish, jealous, and cruel! One of you is enough! I didn’t want a second one!” I froze in place. His eyes were still red. “Ada, if you had a problem, you should have come after me! Why go after Sherry?” “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting for that child?!” “You killed my child—my child with Sherry—and I swear I will make you pay.” “Guards!” Declan’s voice was arctic as he gave the command to my staff. “However many times she struck Sherry, double it. Apply the beating to her.” The guards immediately came forward and held my arms. My eyes instantly went bloodshot. “Declan Finch, you touch me and my parents will end you!” He spun back, marched toward me, and clamped his hand hard around my jaw. “Look at yourself, Ada! Look! You’re nothing but an expensive parasite, a spoiled leech who only knows how to consume the people around you and depend on others.” “Without me, without your parents, you are trash!” “A person like you, if you weren’t rich, would be doing the most disgusting, low-class things imaginable!” With that, he let go of my face and turned to walk out. I recovered, my eyes locked on his retreating back. I didn’t say another word. I took all thirty strikes without a sound. Until I coughed up blood and finally passed out. The first thing I did when I woke up was ask the nurse’s station for Sherry Jenkins’s room number. I walked to the door and kicked it open. When I saw the scene inside, I couldn’t stop my fists from clenching. They hadn’t noticed me yet. Naked, intertwined on the hospital bed. Declan’s voice was husky and low. “Sherry, please give me another child. I promise I’ll protect you both this time.” “I’m so sorry. I didn’t protect you this time. But I swear, it won’t happen again.” I let out a low, cold laugh. I stood in the doorway, clapping my hands sharply. “Everyone! Come quick! We have a live show! Starring the Pediatric Nurse, Sherry Jenkins, and my husband, CEO Declan Finch!” 4. Medical staff immediately rushed over from the hallway. When they saw the tableau inside, people started pulling out their phones. The two entangled figures on the bed froze instantly. “Ah!” Sherry screamed and buried herself desperately in Declan’s arms. Declan saw me. His face turned to stone. He snatched the sheet and pulled it over Sherry. His clothes were scattered on the floor. Declan tried to cover himself and grab his shirt. I was faster. I kicked his shirt right out the door and into the hallway. Declan ground his teeth, incandescent with rage. “Ada Wells! What the hell are you doing?!” I ignored him. I walked to the bed and yanked the sheet right off Sherry. “Ah!” Her naked body was exposed to everyone. She dissolved into tears, trying to hide behind Declan. “Ada!” His eyes were spitting fire. I smiled at the gawking staff. “That’s Sherry Jenkins, everyone! Your Pediatric Nurse! Did you all get a good look?” “It really is Sherry.” “Holy cow, she’s divorced, right? How did she hook up with Declan Finch, the CEO of the Finch Group?” “I know! She’s not even that pretty, and I hear the Peds nurses say she has a terrible attitude. How did she do it?” “Tsk tsk. That’s the wife right there. Leaving a beauty like that for her?” “Haven’t you heard? The grass is always greener…” Sherry kept weeping and hiding behind Declan. Declan’s face was dark. He roared at the crowd. “Get out! Now! Or I swear I’ll make sure none of you work in this city again!” The crowd scattered, terrified. Declan Finch held sway in LA. Only the three of us remained. Declan stopped trying to cover himself, climbed out of bed, and quickly put on his clothes. Before I could mock him, he lunged, his hand swinging out without hesitation. “CRACK!” The force of the slap whipped my head sideways. “Ada Wells! Are you insane?!” He suppressed his fury, grabbing a fistful of my hair and forcing my head back so I had to look at him. The pain made my eyes water, but I didn’t make a sound. Declan didn’t feel satisfied. He shoved me toward Sherry. “Apologize!” Sherry was huddled in the corner, still sobbing dramatically. My eyes were blazing red. “Go to hell. Never.” At my refusal, Declan tightened his grip. “Ada! Apologize! Don’t make me say it a third time!” I bit down hard on my lip. Sherry reached out a trembling hand and grabbed his arm. “Declan, it’s okay. Ms. Wells is right to be angry.” Declan looked at her, then released me. “If Sherry weren’t so kind, I—” “AH!” Before he could finish, I snatched Sherry by her hair and started slapping her, hard and fast. “Oh, she’s kind! She’s lovely! She’s tender!” “She makes you, Declan Finch, forget your own name! She makes you yearn for her every day! She makes you want to die for her!” Declan seized my wrist, his rage reaching its peak. “Ada, I think you really are—” “CRACK!” I cut him off with a slap across his face. He was stunned. He hadn’t expected me to hit him. I used the moment to hit the other cheek. “Declan Finch! You’re disgusting! You’re a hypocrite!” “No wonder your parents hate you! No wonder you’re just the discarded son of the Finches! No wonder you’ll never measure up to your brother!” “Ada Wells!” Declan’s eyes turned a dangerous, bloody red, fixed on me. Those were the things he could never forgive. I didn’t care. I mustered all my remaining strength and delivered a final, stinging slap. “Declan Finch! Now, let me tell you precisely! It’s not you walking away from me! I, Ada Wells, am walking away from you!” “Whoever wants the title of ‘Mrs. Finch’ can have it. I, Ada Wells, no longer need it!”

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The bachelorette party for my best friend was in full swing. We were playing ‘Never Have I Ever,’ and the shots were pouring. I lifted the last finger I had left, ready to deliver a killer truth. “Never have I ever dated Beltway Royalty.” Someone across the table, a friend of the groom, scoffed playfully. “Oh, everyone in Capitol City claims to have dated some ‘Prince.’ Which one did you bag?” “The Palisades. A Caldwell.” The patio instantly fell silent. Brock, the groom, finally leaned back in his chair, a strange look in his eyes. “So, you were the girl who actually dumped Holden Caldwell?” 1 My vision was starting to blur. I fought to keep my eyes focused on Brock. “How do you—how do you know his name? Are you two, like, acquainted?” Brock snapped back to the moment, fiddling with his phone, his expression returning to normal. “Not acquainted. But in that part of D.C., there’s only one family named Caldwell that matters.” “Yeah, that one.” Sierra, my best friend, leaned in, her eyes wide with gossip. “’Royalty’ means serious money, right?” “Serious,” I confirmed, gesturing vaguely. “His family estate had a private lake on the property. Like, a full-sized, you-can-dock-a-boat lake.” “Holy hell! In The Palisades? That’s more than rich, that’s legacy! Was he good to you?” “He was. Incredibly good. I wouldn’t have finished college without him.” “And, okay, was he hot?” The image of a face, sculpted and precise like a museum piece, flashed through my mind. I nodded. “Put him next to any A-list actor and he’d still win.” That’s the trouble with meeting someone breathtakingly perfect too young. It raises your emotional threshold so high, everything else feels like a compromise. Sierra sighed dramatically. “Rich, gorgeous, and good to you—why on earth did you dump him?” I paused, staring at the condensation on my glass. “It… wasn’t really dumping. You know how those families are. They don’t exactly welcome a girl without the right pedigree into the inner circle.” Brock seemed intrigued. He tossed his phone onto the table and nodded toward the rest of the group. Everyone else here, except Sierra and me from Bay City, were his D.C. friends. They caught his meaning immediately. With knowing glances, they filed out to the downstairs card room. It was just the three of us on the rooftop patio. Brock poured me another drink. “Spill it. Did his mother try to buy you off?” I shook my head. Not quite. A woman in Eleanor Caldwell’s position wouldn’t bother with clumsy tactics. She simply forced me to face reality. It was right before graduation. Holden had planned a trip for us and asked where I wanted to go. I’d seen videos of Iceland’s volcanoes and glaciers on my feed and was excitedly showing him when I heard him on the phone. His tone was tight, edged with a barely contained frustration. “I’ve been too busy lately, I can’t make it back.” … “She’s busy, too. Internships, final papers—she has a lot on her plate.” … “If this is all you’re going to talk about, don’t call me again.” He hung up and turned, catching my eye. The panic he tried to mask by quickly lowering his gaze didn’t escape me. I asked tentatively, “Was that your family?” “Yeah.” “Should you go back and check on them?” “No need.” He saw my phone screen and instantly changed the subject. “So, have you decided where you want to go?” We had just settled on Iceland when a car pulled up next to me on my walk home from my internship. The tinted window slid down, revealing a face of bright, cold elegance. “Miss King, hello. I’m Holden’s mother.” I quickly clocked the license plate—the kind of tag that screamed power, not just wealth. Mrs. Caldwell smiled. “Don’t look so nervous. I just wanted to take you to a quick dinner. I mentioned it to Holden, but he insisted you were too busy, so I decided to invite you myself.” I stayed rooted to the spot, reaching for my phone to call Holden. “Holden is tied up with business right now. Best not to bother him with a trivial matter like this.” With a subtle nod, two large men rushed out. One took my phone, the other ‘escorted’ me into the car. I had no choice but to go. The Caldwell estate was in The Palisades. Through the intricate lattice window, I could see their private lake. I realized then that his family was far wealthier and more entrenched than I had ever imagined. Another woman was sitting in the parlor. Mrs. Caldwell’s lips curved into a cordial smile as she introduced us. “Miss Reed, this is Alexandra Reed, Holden’s fiancée.” My heart plummeted. I stared at the woman, whose quiet confidence and reserved elegance mirrored Holden’s own aristocratic bearing. When did this happen? How had I missed every sign? Noticing my ashen face, Mrs. Caldwell’s smile deepened. “Did Holden not tell you? It was settled ages ago.” “Well, of course, he wouldn’t tell you. There’s no need to share that kind of detail with an outsider.” She left me standing there and swept over to greet Miss Reed. “This is the girl Holden’s been keeping on the side? She’s certainly pretty enough.” Mrs. Caldwell conceded, as if giving praise. “The girl has ambition, I’ll give her that. She’s slated to be her class valedictorian. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have caught Holden’s eye.” Miss Reed gave me a cool, dismissive glance. “I heard her family is from the Appalachian South? How did they meet? Is her background… clear?” “Rest assured, Holden doesn’t mess around. There’s a backstory involved; that’s why I’ve let it go on this long.” “Holden’s father, before he passed, was on a fly-fishing trip and fell, breaking his leg. This girl, she ran down the mountain to call for help. He gave her his card and told her to call if she ever needed anything. She never did, until she was finally old enough to be trapped by her family, who were trying to force her into a marriage for the dowry.” “She called the number out of desperation, and Holden picked up. Lucky girl. He started sponsoring her after that. Then she came to D.C. for college, they finally met face-to-face, and the rest is… this.” Miss Reed managed a thin smile. “Such a deep history with Holden. It makes me feel like the interloper.” Mrs. Caldwell chuckled softly. “Girls from that background, they’re always a little grasping. But you, Alexandra, you have grace and appropriate reserve. Holden knows that, too. Why else would he keep her hidden, never daring to introduce her publicly?” “I can’t control the past. But since the engagement is now being finalized, how does Holden plan to dispose of her?” Mrs. Caldwell remained calm and composed. “Holden has been supporting her for years. If she’s a girl who understands gratitude, she’ll know what to do. If not, I am here. This is a small matter I can handle myself. I won’t need to trouble Holden.” Every word was delivered clearly, plunging like ice picks into my chest. A sudden, dizzying wave of nausea hit me. So that was the source of Holden’s panic. He was getting married, and he didn’t know how to tell me. The line of bodyguards behind me felt like a concrete wall, preventing any chance of a dignified, or even panicked, escape. Miss Reed’s face softened slightly. “With you handling it, Mother Caldwell, I feel much better. Oh, by the way, I picked up a few bottles of Pingus in Spain last month. I thought you might want to try one.” The deal was done. Mrs. Caldwell smiled and signaled the butler to serve the meal. “Tonight’s main course is fish. River trout, prepared by a chef flown in from New York….” They continued their polite small talk. I managed to hold my composure, stood up, and excused myself. Mrs. Caldwell gave me a cold, level look. “Since Miss King doesn’t care for our company, I won’t insist.” This time, the bodyguards didn’t stop me. I went back to the apartment and started packing. I had to figure out my next move. Holden had bought this condo when I started my internship to make my commute easier. Now, with the breakup, I had no reason to stay. Housing wouldn’t be a problem. I was graduating in two months, and I could apply for company housing early. Iceland was out. I told myself it was too cold anyway, and there was nothing to see. I had kept a meticulous log of every dollar Holden had given me. I planned to organize the records and pay back whatever I could immediately. The rest, I would save up and send in installments. Surely, given our history, he wouldn’t be so heartless as to demand immediate payment the second we broke up. What else? I started a list of everything I needed to separate from Holden. The list grew longer and longer. My composure finally shattered when my eyes fell on the ring on my finger. He had given me that ring, promising we would marry right after graduation. I sank to the floor, sobbing uncontrollably. My fingers were shaking so badly I tried several times but couldn’t pull the ring off. The electronic lock beeped. The front door was wrenched open. Holden’s chest was heaving, his knuckles white. Seeing me still there, he took a deep breath, quietly closed the door, and walked in. He began taking the clothes I had stuffed into the suitcase and hanging them back in the closet. I took them down. He put them back up. After a few repeats, I exploded. I roughly shoved the clothes back into the bag. “Holden Caldwell, we’re done.” He was silent for a long moment, then spoke. “I don’t love Alexandra Reed, and I never agreed to marry her.” “That was their decision, not mine.” I ignored him, continuing to pack. He leaned in, his hand pressing down on mine. “Adora. I love you.” I froze, finally meeting his gaze. His eyes were bloodshot. I also saw the wine stains on his chest. His face was flushed, and there was a faint, angry red mark—a handprint—on his cheek. In that moment, my concern for him eclipsed my own pain. I reached up, touching his face, forcing a bright, broken smile. “Holden, I’m fine. I was the one who benefited most from these years. You… you should just listen to your family. Marry Miss Reed…” He pulled me roughly into his arms, crushing my waist. “I won’t do it. No one can force me.” His voice caught, his throat working several times. “Adora King, we are not breaking up. I can handle this. Trust me.” The embrace felt like an anchor. Holding Holden, I suddenly felt less consumed by self-doubt. The situation wasn’t yet beyond saving. Mrs. Caldwell hadn’t managed to convince Holden, so she came after me instead. I thought for a moment, then nodded. “Okay.” “We’ll stick to the plan. We’ll go to Iceland soon.” “Okay.” But faster than the trip to Iceland came his transfer notice. When I rushed home after getting the news, Holden had already packed his things. Two familiar bodyguards stood behind him. My eyes instantly welled up. “Why would you be transferred out of Capitol City? Is this because of me?” He set down his bag and held me, murmuring reassurances. “Don’t cry. It’s a normal organization shuffle. I’ll be back in two years.” I hiccupped, my voice ragged. “Where… where are they sending you?” He lowered his head, silently speaking the name of a town. I’d never heard of it. I pulled out my phone and searched. A remote, desolate little town, thousands of miles from D.C. Wickham County, Wyoming. Surrounded by mountains. To get to the town from the county seat, you had to transfer three times. I instantly understood. This was his mother’s warning shot. I trembled and pushed him away, tears streaming down my face. “Go back to The Palisades now. Go back and tell her you agree to her arrangement. It’s just a political marriage! You can…” “Adora!” Holden cut me off with a sharp voice. “I don’t care about the career hit. Are you going to abandon me over it?” In the two years we’d been together, he had never spoken to me with such severity. I knew he was genuinely angry. I’d hesitated when Holden first confessed to me. Our relationship was already unequal; I owed him too much, and mixing love into it felt wrong. But he was a stubborn man. He only asked if I loved him. He was the gentleman who saved me from my dire circumstances. How could I not love him? He sighed in relief back then. “I love you, and you love me. There’s no better reason to be together.” I’d slowly come to believe that as long as two people were in love, nothing else mattered. Until I met Alexandra Reed. The easy confidence and security that only generations of wealth and privilege can breed. It was something I could never possess. Crying, I whispered, “I’m sorry. But I truly don’t want to be the thing that destroys your future.” He took a deep breath, softening his tone. “You aren’t destroying anything. I’ve wanted to break free of my mother for years. This is my best chance. I have to go. Will you wait for me?” I couldn’t speak. “Will you wait for me?” He lifted my chin, forcing me to meet his eyes, demanding an answer. “…Yes.” His eyes red, he pulled me against him and kissed my forehead. “Infrastructure is bad out there. Cell service is spotty. If you miss me, write me a letter.” “Okay.” “Be a good girl and wait for me here. Just two years.” 2 That was the last time we saw each other. A month after Holden left, I received his letter. He wrote that he was doing well. It was remote, but the people were kind, and the scenery was beautiful. He occasionally went to the villagers’ homes to teach the kids to read. Adora, work hard, live well, and don’t think about anything else. In two years, I’ll come back and marry you. Mrs. Caldwell found me again. Her expression was laden with veiled meaning. “Don’t think you’ve won.” “Today, he’s willing to sacrifice his career for you. But look again in three or five years.” “When others with less talent and less pedigree are climbing higher than him, he’ll blame you. He’ll resent you for not being decisive enough to leave, for holding him back.” “You think love can conquer all? You’re wrong. Eventually, you will only look at each other with contempt.” I couldn’t find a single argument to refute her. It was almost summer, but a chilling cold crept up my spine and spread through my entire body. I managed to drag myself home. An unexpected person was waiting by the door. Alexandra Reed tossed several photos onto the passenger seat and asked, “Want to see Holden Caldwell? I’ll take you.” D.C. to Wickham County, thousands of miles. Hours on a plane. After we landed, Miss Reed’s driver took us the rest of the way in a four-wheel-drive SUV, deep into the mountains. The car stopped after a long drive. Alexandra pointed to a cluster of people by a shallow creek below. “There. Holden’s down there.” I remembered the first time I saw Holden. Broad shoulders, lean waist, standing outside our university gate in a perfectly tailored suit, pristine down to the crease in his trousers. A man so striking he was impossible to ignore even in a crowd. Now, I pressed against the window, straining to recognize him. He was sunburned. He was wrestling a hog with a few local farmers. He was clearly inexperienced and had been knocked around a few times. His trousers were muddy, his shirt wrinkled and dirty. He looked exactly like the man in the photos Alexandra had shown me: dusty and disheveled. For the first time, I thought he looked pathetic. My nose burned, and tears silently ran down my face. How could he let himself look so beaten down? Alexandra sounded genuinely wistful. “Holden was the most promising of his generation among the Capitol City legacy families. My father even said Holden would likely surpass his mother’s accomplishments.” “Eleanor Caldwell didn’t get where she is by being soft-hearted. She will not compromise just because Holden is struggling.” “I’m telling you plainly: if he keeps acting like this, Mrs. Caldwell will abandon him completely.” She rolled down the window and lit a cigarette. “Honestly, Adora, I didn’t want to come between you two. But I’ve enjoyed my family’s privileges for too long to flip the table when they need me for a strategic marriage.” “Holden just doesn’t understand that. He flipped the table completely. But what’s the result?” “He was so successful in D.C. Everyone vying to be in his orbit. Now he’s stuck here, chasing pigs today, looking for lost dogs tomorrow. Do you really want to watch him do this?” “I don’t love him, so I don’t understand. Is love truly more important than a man’s future? If you think so, you can go down and find him now. A man abandoned by Eleanor Caldwell is not a man my family needs for an alliance.” I held onto the window frame, my fingers trembling uncontrollably. In the distance, Holden and the villagers finally subdued the hog. The farmers trussed it up and carried it away. Holden remained behind, bent over, hands on his knees. He looked like a bamboo stalk that had been pressed too hard. After regaining his breath, he slowly started to follow them. A few steps later, Holden suddenly lifted his head and looked directly in our direction. The hill was heavily treed. He didn’t see the car. He turned and continued walking. The sun was setting. I pulled back from the window and said quietly, “Miss Reed, let’s go back.” “Are you sure?” “…Thank you for bringing me.” Alexandra didn’t say another word, signaling the driver to move. She had the answer she came for. In the rearview mirror, Holden’s figure grew smaller and smaller. The mountain air pouring through the window was chilling. The car rounded a bend. The remote village disappeared completely. I closed my eyes, the cold air seeping into my temples. I returned to D.C., and it took me two days to pack my entire life. Before leaving, I cleaned the condo until it was immaculate, as if I had never lived there. As the train pulled away toward Bay City, I thought the breakup letter must be arriving soon. Everything related to Holden Caldwell ended that summer. For the next six years, I heard or saw nothing of him. I worked, I started a company, I focused on surviving. I rarely had spare time. I occasionally dreamt of him. I’d wake up and just stare blankly. The longing was a long, endless rainy season. I couldn’t seem to dry out the part of my heart that belonged to Holden. For years, I regretted it. If only we had said a proper goodbye. The patio lapsed into a strained silence. I wiped my tears away and repeatedly apologized. “I’m so sorry. I shouldn’t be a downer on your wedding weekend.” Brock stared at me for a moment. He picked up the bottle and poured me another drink. “This is a truth night, Adora. Drink whatever you want. I’ve got the liquor covered.” Sierra glared at him. “Tomorrow is the wedding. If she gets wasted, where am I going to find a maid of honor? There’s no time!” “Relax, honey. I’ll handle everything, okay? Adora, seriously, though… do you still love him? Do you still want to be with him?” I tilted my head, thinking hard, and nodded. “I do.” Then I shook my head. “But we can’t be together.” He was probably married with kids by now. Even if he wasn’t, the problems that existed six years ago were still there. Six years wasn’t enough time for me to forget reality. The evening breeze slipped through the patio door. It was humid, warm, and gentle, like a lover’s caress—a characteristic D.C. spring night. The warm air combined with the alcohol was intoxicating. I quickly became dizzy. In my haze, I heard someone on the phone. The voice was distant and loud, filled with bizarre excitement. “I’m giving you a chance, get your ass back from The Triangle!” “I swear it’s her! The real one!” “If I’m lying, you can call me Dad!”

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When Blair Vaughn credited the multi-billion-dollar project I architected to her newly promoted assistant for the ninth time, I submitted my resignation. Everywhere she was, I chose absence. When she gave her star interview on Bloomberg, I had every monitor in the executive lounge shut down. When she braved a Nor’easter to deliver me a latte, I instructed security to keep her outside the lobby doors. Hearing she canceled three video conferences with international funds just to corner me, I immediately booked a first-class flight to a secluded villa in Montauk. I blocked her number, unfollowed her on every social platform, and formatted the hard drive that held ten years of our memories. The twenty-year-old me helped her highlight textbooks in a crowded university library. The twenty-five-year-old me shared instant ramen with her in her startup’s cramped office. The thirty-year-old me finally learned to pour the cold coffee down the drain. That same night I was publicly branded, for the ninth time, as the desperate social climber looking for an undeserved step-up, I kept vigil over a cold dinner and saw the photo of her and her assistant kissing. Ten years of ‘us against the world’had become a pathetic joke. But that’s fine. Waking up now is better than never. “Ms. Vaughn, there’s persistent market buzz that Vaughn Capital’s legendary performance is actually the result of the genius of former Chief Analyst, Landon Reed. What is your response to this, especially given his recent departure?” At the Annual Titan of the Year Summit, Blair, thanks to her explosive growth metrics, had become the youngest CEO to ever grace the magazine cover. When questioned about our relationship, she smiled elegantly into the camera: “We had a professional, employer-employee relationship. He is no longer with the firm.” Her expression hardened slightly. “As for the rumor that I was his fiancée, I would hope certain individuals would recognize their position and not indulge in too much fantasy.” Outside, the city lights flared to life. I leaned back on the sofa, watching the wall clock. Four hours. Blair still hadn’t called. Just yesterday, the firm’s valuation had passed the fifty-billion-dollar mark. Wild with triumph, she’d wrapped her arms around me and called me her lucky charm. She promised, this time for sure, that she would formally introduce me as her fiancé at the summit. My heart had nearly burst with a joy I hadn’t felt in years. I’d asked her nine times before to go public, and nine times she’d promised and then found an excuse. This was the first time she’d initiated it. Full of eager anticipation, I’d helped her polish her speech. The next day, she delivered a fatal blow in front of every major financial news outlet. She followed it up by replacing my profile picture with Nolan Scott’s on the founder’s page of the company website, sealing my permanent exit. My phone screen flickered, illuminating the headline: #TheSocialClimber’sDelusion trending at the top of the finance news feed. My fingers stiffly tapped the link. The comments section was flooded with thousands of replies, each one dripping with contempt and mockery. [LOL, if I remember correctly, this is the ninth time Landon Reed has been rumored to be the ‘genius behind the curtain,’ right?] [He really thought he could climb the ladder and bag the elite CEO. Doesn’t he ever look in the mirror? Who does he think he is!] [Blair has been dropping hints for months that he’d stop at nothing to get ahead. Now that she’s clarified, maybe some people will finally take a hint!] [Landon needs to check out the gala photos. Nolan Scott, the new VP, that’s the pedigree who deserves our Investment Queen.] I followed the link to a story titled “The Golden Couple: A Perfect Pairing.” The accompanying photo showed Blair and Nolan standing intimately close. Under the gleam of a crystal chandelier, she was looking up at him, radiant, as they shared a celebratory toast with intertwined arms. Seeing that, a sharp, searing pain shot through my chest, and the blood in my veins felt like it had turned to ice. The celebration dinner, prepared for her, was ice-cold on the dining table, a mirror of my own heart. As I rose to scrape the spoiled food into the disposal, the digital lock on the apartment door chirped. Our eyes met. Blair immediately rushed into my arms, her tone carrying her usual practiced coyness: “I’m so sorry, Landon. The board insisted on a last-minute emergency session. They wouldn’t let me leave.” That same excuse. Every broken promise, every late arrival, the same tired script. She seemed to forget that I built this company for her, and no one—no one—had the authority to keep her from me. All my fight had drained away. I couldn’t even bother to argue. Her gaze fell on the table. She frowned slightly, displeasure coloring her voice: “What have you been doing all afternoon? This is last night’s food. Why haven’t you cleaned it up yet?” A bitter, metallic taste coated my tongue. I mechanically forced a small smile. “You told me yesterday you were coming home to celebrate, and asked me to have everything ready for you.” She froze, then her expression morphed into a look of contrived remorse and a coaxing smile. That lasted only until I asked, “Were you really in a board meeting?” Her face immediately darkened. “Landon, what is that supposed to mean? It was a simple omission. Just because your name wasn’t mentioned, are you really going to act like this? Are you interrogating me?” Her face was etched with faint fury. In the past, the mere sight of that expression would have made me instantly surrender. I would have been terrified of upsetting her. Now, I only felt exhausted. “The news online. I saw it.” That single statement made her pause. She gave a cold, dismissive laugh. “It’s all for the funding round. The firm needs a fresh narrative, a new buzz to keep attracting outside attention.” She waved her hand dismissively. “Besides, why are you being so petty about an assistant?” Having been in this circle for so long, I understood packaging and marketing. But within the empire I had meticulously crafted for her, I could not tolerate my hard work being so carelessly handed to another. Looking at her entitled, unapologetic face, I abandoned the argument. I walked to the counter, gathered the gifts I had prepared for her, and, one by one, dumped them into the trash can in front of her. As I pulled the door shut to leave, I heard her furious, panicked voice: “Don’t you dare come crawling back and beg me to marry you later!” I didn’t pause. I wouldn’t. Never again. In the elevator, I stared blankly at the rapidly descending numbers. My phone buzzed. It was Nolan Scott. Against my better judgment, I answered. [Landon, thanks. Blair loved the model optimization. From now on, just forward all your creative designs straight to me. It saves Blair the trouble of having to forward them again.] [Oh, and I appreciate everything you’ve done for Blair and the firm. Don’t worry, we’ll definitely be sending you an invitation to the wedding. Best man, maybe?] Even though I had fully expected the venom in his voice, my heart still twisted with dull pain. Blair and I met in college. Though she came from a modest background, I never judged her for it. At twenty, we were hopelessly in love. I sacrificed my offer from a top Wall Street investment bank to help her start her company. At twenty-three, she accepted my proposal. I thought I had secured our entire future. At twenty-five, when her company gained momentum, I turned down every outside job offer to be the silent architect behind her success. Ten years of mutual support. In the eyes of the financial world, we were the perfect, formidable pair. But the moment she hired a male assistant, everything soured. She began to deliberately distance herself from me in public and blur the lines of our partnership. Despite our long-standing engagement, she strictly forbade anyone inside the company from knowing about it. After repeated attempts to get her to commit, she finally promised me a formal title once the firm crossed the fifty-billion-dollar valuation this year. Instead, to promote her new protégé, she systematically transferred my credit—over and over—until I became known as the calculating social climber of the industry. My phone vibrated again. I thought it was spam and went to delete it, but it was my private attorney, Mr. Wallace. “Mr. Reed, Ms. Vaughn’s new equity raise plan is ready to launch. Should I submit the documents naming you as a key partner to the board?” “Scrap that.” Wallace was silent for a moment, then asked tentatively, “Do you mean… you want to add more favorable terms?” “Liquidate all my passively held shares and instruct the legal department to initiate intellectual property protection proceedings for my core investment strategy models.” My 180-degree turn seemed to stun the lawyer into silence. Everyone knew I was Blair’s most loyal anchor. Fearing her funding would dry up, I poured in all my personal savings and network connections. Fearing her decisions would falter, I worked through the night doing data analysis and risk forecasting for her. To the outside world, I was a nameless analyst. But to her, I offered my brilliance and my entire playbook without reservation. In front of the board, she once dismissively commented: “Without my platform to execute them, his strategies are nothing but a pile of worthless data.” I was naive enough then to believe it was just posturing, a tactic to consolidate her own authority. Now I understood. For ten years, I was merely the sharpest knife in her drawer. “From now on, I don’t need to be informed of anything regarding Vaughn Capital. Handle everything strictly according to commercial law.” The next day, I returned to the apartment to collect my personal belongings. As I reached the study door, I heard soft laughter from within. The door was slightly ajar. Blair had her back to me, straddling Nolan Scott, whispering sweetly. Nolan saw me but showed no sign of alarm. Instead, he twisted Blair’s face toward him and kissed her with calculated, languid passion right in front of me. When he pulled away, he intentionally baited her: “Blair, if you keep passing me Landon’s analysis, he’s going to get upset with you again!” Blair leaned back in his arms, her voice dripping with contempt. “What is he? He’s just a tool.” “I’ve been bored with him for years. If I didn’t still need him, I would have tossed him out of the firm ages ago. He just analyzes the data. Give him a little sweet talk, and he’d give me his life.” I bit the soft inner cheek of my mouth. The bitter taste of my own blood couldn’t override the cold, searing bitterness that filled my chest. Years of total commitment, the sweetest memories—each one was a boomerang of pain, slicing deep into my heart. My last flicker of hope died. The conversation inside continued. Nolan looked at me through the gap in the door, his eyes full of malice. “Blair, do you think Landon will get so depressed he’ll try to hurt himself when he sees the photos of us?” Blair chuckled and kissed Nolan’s cheek. “You’re the one to talk. You intentionally let the media see us. You just had to use a headline to cut him off completely.” She ran her fingers through his hair. “You’re so wicked.” “Do you like it?” Nolan deliberately moved his hips, eliciting a playful gasp and laugh from Blair. I didn’t need to see any more. I walked to the elevator. My phone flashed an alert from my security app. I had accidentally triggered the voice recording function on the way in. No wonder a strange playfulness had always been in her eyes whenever she finally promised me a formal title. I called my lawyer’s assistant to arrange the collection of my private items and put the apartment on the market. I also forwarded the damning voice recording to Wallace for evidence. I wanted no more ties to Blair Vaughn. My car had just pulled up to my private studio building when a text from Blair came through. [So, you send your lawyer to beg for peace? Where’s all that backbone from yesterday?] [I refused to see him. I want you to come over personally and apologize to me, and then fix the European deal you messed up. Only then will I consider this over.] A few days ago, I would have instantly complied. For her, I would have done anything, given her everything I owned. Now, I simply replied with three words: [Legal documents attached.] Blair likely assumed I had sent a long, groveling list of gifts for her to choose from, as in the past. Her next message was even more brazen: [Oh, so you do have the nerve to throw away my gifts? And now you’re begging to make up? I saw a few pricey auction pieces lately, but you did make me angry, so they’ll cost you extra, darling ~] I didn’t bother to reply, blocking her number instead. My lawyer messaged me: The apartment found a buyer immediately; the transfer would be quick. I nodded and entered my studio to catch up on the backlog of work. I didn’t expect Blair, with Nolan in tow, to storm the building. She was stopped by the front desk and furious. “Do you know who I am? How dare you block me?” she spat. “Get your boss out here! If he’s not standing in front of me in three minutes, there will be consequences.” She was barking orders, clearly still unaware that I had completely severed ties. The receptionist, following my instructions, did not budge. Blair’s fury ignited. “You wait right there, I’ll have Landon fire you! Your boss practically works for me—how dare you stop me?” She pulled out her phone, only to realize my number wouldn’t connect. She froze, a rare flicker of panic in her eyes. It was at that moment I happened to be walking toward the elevator bank to leave for a meeting. Nolan immediately pointed. “Isn’t that Landon Reed? I knew he couldn’t really ignore you, Blair. He’s just trying the hard-to-get act to make you come to him.” Blair instantly regained her composure. She marched up to me, rage fueling her stride. “Landon Reed, are you insane?! There’s a limit to a temper tantrum. You dare screen my calls? I’ll ruin you in this entire sector!” She raised her hand to point a finger at my face, but my attorney, standing behind me, caught her wrist and quietly warned her to show respect. I looked at her with cold indifference. “I’d like to see you try.” Blair looked utterly shocked that I would speak to her this way. “What did you say?” Nolan quickly tried to mediate. “Landon, don’t be stubborn. You know you’ll just have to beg Blair to take you back later.” Blair sneered at this. “You’d better think carefully. If you burn this bridge completely, you won’t have another chance to be my lapdog.” She stepped closer. “I’ll even be generous. Kneel right now, in front of everyone, apologize, and transfer the shares of this pathetic little studio to me. I’ll forgive you.” I stared at her greedy, grasping expression, feeling a momentary disorientation. How had I been so blind, so stupid, to love this person? Blair, misinterpreting my silence as fear, became more arrogant. “Don’t forget, all your contacts and your so-called reputation are built on the back of Vaughn Capital’s platform. Without me, you are nothing!” “If you don’t agree, I’ll issue a company-wide announcement immediately, ensuring you never work in finance again!” She was convinced she had me cornered. Nolan fanned the flames: “Come on, Landon. Just suck it up. Without Blair’s platform, you’re just trash that no one would hire, not even to fetch coffee.” They made me laugh. I let out a genuine chuckle. “That sounds marvelous.” Blair was stunned by my reaction. “What did you say?” I raised my hand and took a document from my attorney, then flung it onto Blair’s chest. “Vaughn Capital was merely an experiment, a sandbox where I realized a youthful ambition. If I choose to, I can build ten more firms, a hundred more.” “As for your platform, I am the platform. As for the blacklist? Perfect. Let’s start tallying the damages.” Blair’s face went instantly pale. She stared at me in disbelief, as if I were a complete stranger.

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The day after my D&C, I was scrolling through a late-night forum when I came across a thread. “What’s your partner’s ultimate Get-Out-of-Jail-Free Card?” I paused, typing out a response: “The time he shielded me during the Ariel City Collapse…” But then, a newer, explosive comment snagged my attention. “I’m a high-end companion, and I’ve found true love. He’s gorgeous, loaded, and booked me for thirty years straight. He’s obsessed, keeps my legs shaking and my back aching!” “His death immunity? Easy. His wife finally got pregnant after years of grueling IVF, and I just casually mentioned I didn’t want some kid competing with me for his attention. So, he forged the NIPT report, convinced her the baby had Trisomy 21, and pressured her into a late-term abortion.” She followed it up with a picture. Under the dim, expensive bar lighting, a man’s large, clearly defined hand was wrapped tightly around the woman’s waist. “He can’t even sleep unless he’s holding me now, honestly. He’s utterly dependent.” My entire body went cold. Every drop of blood in my veins solidified when I saw the jagged, pale scar that ran across the back of the man’s hand. It was the exact, unmistakable scar my husband, Hudson Miller, had gotten saving me during the collapse. … 1 The comments section was a battlefield of rage. Instead of shame, the woman—who went by “ZoeyLane” on the platform—doubled down, flaunting her conquest with venomous arrogance. “I’m the other woman? Funny. The one who isn’t loved is the real third wheel, sweetie! I’ll do anything for true love—what’s wrong with that? You’re all just jealous I snagged such a high-value man.” When someone agreed with her, she replied, ecstatic: “See? You get it, babe! His wife has fertility issues; that kid was her last shot after five years of IVF. She cried and prayed for that baby, and I made him get rid of it with a single sentence. If that’s not true love, what is?” “His wife will never get pregnant again naturally, but he promised me I’m the only one who will ever bear his child.” “LOL. I’ll share my experience once I’m settled in the penthouse. Gotta go now—he’s calling for me. Time to go satisfy my man.” I stared, rigid, at the screen, a core of ice forming in my chest. Just a week ago, I was at home, resting, trying to hold onto my five-month pregnancy. Hudson had returned with a look of utter defeat, handing me the printout. The diagnosis: positive for Down Syndrome. My world shattered then. I’d collapsed onto the floor, screaming until my throat was raw, begging Hudson if there was any way—any way—to save the baby. He had held me, his face buried in my hair, his eyes red and wet. “Sia, it’s the amnio report. It’s definitive. We can’t bring a child into this world just to suffer. We have to terminate.” He had held my hand through the entire procedure. My five-month-old baby—the one I’d waited five years for—became a mangled mess of tissue and blood. For the past week, I’d been a ghost, the grief a physical, suffocating weight. Hudson had canceled everything, hovering over me until today, when he finally felt my emotional state had stabilized enough to go back to the office. Staring at that picture, I dug my nails into my palm, biting my tongue until I tasted copper. Only pain could alleviate the choking terror. Once the initial shock passed, I did the only thing I could: I followed ZoeyLane’s account. Then, I sent Hudson a text. “Still at the office?” He replied instantly: “Yeah, swamped. Why, babe?” I didn’t reply. I called an Uber and headed straight for his office downtown. Years of love, decades of history—I couldn’t let a few toxic comments destroy that. I needed to see his face. I needed to know. I ran into his assistant, Ben, in the lobby. “Mrs. Miller? You’re here?” Ben looked genuinely surprised. I didn’t speak, just brushed past him and entered the private elevator, riding it up to Hudson’s executive floor. I pushed the door open. The scene I expected—an empty office, proving his lie—was not what I found. Hudson was there, seated behind his vast mahogany desk, his expression sharp and focused. When he heard the door, he looked up, his brow lifting in surprise. His tone was light, playful. “Well, hello, Mrs. Miller. What’s this? Checking up on your husband? Didn’t think you were the ‘pop-in’ type.” Seeing his familiar face, the agonizing tension I’d carried all the way across the city finally broke. Relief and agonizing regret flooded through me. My eyes burned, and I started, instinctively, to walk toward him, ready to collapse into his arms. “Don’t come closer!” Hudson’s sudden, hoarse shout cut me off. I froze. He was pinching the bridge of his nose, his face contorted in discomfort. “Seriously, sweetie. I think I’ve caught that brutal flu that’s going around. You’re recovering from surgery; your immune system is shot. Don’t get near me.” He really did look terrible. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his breathing was shallow and rapid, and his face was flushed a deep red. He was issuing low, strained groans. My heart immediately went out to him. “Hudson, maybe we should go to the ER. You look terrible.” But then, my gaze drifted to the side. The vast, glossy glass wall that overlooked Ariel City was a perfect mirror. And in the reflection, I saw a woman’s head, partially obscured beneath his desk. 2 A chill, more profound than any fear, started at the base of my spine and crept up to the roots of my hair, freezing my tears in place. It took every ounce of my self-control not to scream. “You know what? Never mind. I just got a sharp, stabbing pain in my side. I think… I need to go home.” Without waiting for his response, I fled. It wasn’t a walk—it was a frantic escape. The moment I hit the street, I realized it was pouring rain. My foot slipped, and I hit the pavement, landing hard in a puddle. I didn’t care about the cold or the pain in my hip. It was nothing compared to the agony in my chest. The phone vibrated. It was Zoey. She had posted a new video with a caption: “Daddy’s so smart. He knew his wife would check up on him, so he had his assistant warn us. Not that I was scared. Right under her nose—it was the hottest thing ever.” I clicked the video. Her voice, a low, playful purr, filled the audio. “Was that thrilling, Baby? Having your wife right there?” “Stop messing around,” the man’s voice, raw and strained, chided her. “We were almost discovered.” But beneath the harsh tone, a tremor of undeniable affection and pride was present. I bit down on my lip until the metallic taste of my own blood coated my tongue. Soaked to the bone, I made it back to the house and called the hospital. “Hello. I’m calling about the amniocentesis report I had two weeks ago. I just wanted to confirm there were no administrative issues.” The nurse’s voice was gentle, professional. “Oh, yes, Mrs. Cole. Everything was perfectly fine. The baby was perfectly healthy. Didn’t you see the report? It was emailed directly to your husband.” The baby was perfectly healthy. Those five words, light as air, felt like five separate shards of glass stabbing into my heart. A tidal wave of nausea hit me. I slammed the phone down and ran to the bathroom, vomiting until I was dizzy and weak. Five years of IVF. Over five hundred needles. The endless hope. The daily, desperate prayers for a child. All of it—a monstrous, elaborate joke. The malice of it climbed over my skin. Huddled over the toilet, I laughed and cried, a manic, broken sound. I eventually took a scalding shower, then retreated to the bedroom to search Zoey’s account. Her early posts were typical of an escort—highly curated, provocative photos. But the ones related to Hudson—Zoey’s “Daddy”—were the poison. One, from a year ago: She posted a picture of an employee badge. Zoey Lane. The caption: “Landed a new gig! Time to clock in with my investor!” Another, six months ago: It was our wedding anniversary. Hudson had told me he was stuck at the office. I scrolled through Zoey’s feed and saw a picture of him with her—not at the office, but on a weekend getaway in Laguna Beach. The caption was a kissy face emoji. That night, he’d brought home my favorite takeout—which I now realized was their leftovers. The phone screen went dark, reflecting my tear-streaked face. Hudson came home late. “Still awake? Does your stomach still hurt?” The moment his hand touched my arm, I flinched away. He frowned, a flash of impatience crossing his features. “What now, Sia? I’m exhausted. We can’t do this tonight. Save the drama for tomorrow. I need to sleep.” After he fell into a deep, heavy sleep, I reached for the phone on his nightstand. I typed my birthday. Password Incorrect. The rejection felt like a slap. Desperation fueling me, I found Zoey’s birthdate on one of her public profiles. I typed it in. Unlocked. In his messages, the contact “Baby Zo” was pinned to the top. I scrolled up. The filth was endless. Three days ago: “Baby, can’t you sneak away tonight? Your miserable wife is being such a warden.” “Easy, Baby. Just a few more days. She can’t be left alone right now.” This morning: “I need you now. I’m wearing the sheer silk set you love. Hurry.” 3 I tortured myself, reading every word. I clamped my jaws shut, but a choked sob escaped anyway. Next to me, Hudson woke instantly and, practically in his sleep, pulled me against his chest, stroking my hair. “What is it, sweetie? Still upset about the baby? I’m here. I’m not going anywhere.” His embrace was warm, his hand, with that brutal, jagged scar, was steady on my back. My mind spun back to the Ariel City Collapse. The teenaged Hudson, running toward me through the dust-choked air, throwing himself on top of me. The boulder that crashed onto his arm. He hadn’t made a sound, but his hot, dark blood had splashed onto my cheek. We’d been trapped for two days. He was in agony, every breath a struggle, yet he kept whispering, over and over: “Sia, don’t be afraid. We’re getting out. If I… if I can’t hold on, you drink my blood, you eat my flesh. Just promise me you’ll survive.” He loved me so desperately then. The memory, The Defining Moment, had been my Golden Ticket for him, granting him eternal absolution. How did everything change so completely? I lay there, stiff in his arms, watching the sky lighten. At breakfast, I asked him a casual question. “Do you know a Zoey Lane?” Hudson’s body tensed, but he recovered instantly, spooning me a bowl of oatmeal. His tone was dismissive. “Yeah. Ben’s been swamped, so she’s a new administrative assistant. Why?” His attempt at indifference was perfect. I decided, in that moment, to give him one last chance, for the sake of that teenage boy in the rubble. I took a spoonful of the oatmeal and said, my voice cold, “Fire her. I don’t like her.” Hudson frowned, his mask slipping. “She’s just a glorified runner. Is that really necessary?” “Yes. It is necessary. I don’t want her here.” “CRASH—” Hudson slammed his ceramic bowl down. Shards scattered, one nicking my cheek and drawing blood. His voice was suddenly shrill, enraged. “You don’t like her? What the hell did she do? She’s a perfectly normal, hardworking assistant. I have bent over backward to accommodate your grief, but are you seriously being this ridiculous, Sierra? You’re demanding I fire an innocent woman just because she’s a woman? You’re going to empty out the entire company of female staff just to appease your paranoia?” My ears rang. In all our years together, this was the first time Hudson had ever exploded at me. His face was a mask of pure hate. I stared at him, my eyes welling up. “Funny. Are you touching your conscience when you say you two are innocent? Is she your assistant, or your goddamn…” “Enough!” Hudson violently shoved the entire table, sending dishes flying. His eyes were full of contempt. “I think your anxiety is flaring up again. It’s the depression. You’re being delusional and irrational! Always looking for a problem!” He grabbed his keys and stormed out, slamming the door. I sank to the floor, my heart hammering. Depression. That word was my deepest trauma. Years ago, when we first moved to Ariel City, Hudson’s fledgling architecture firm was just taking off, only to have his work stolen. In my panic to save him from financial ruin, I went to confront the thief. In the ensuing struggle, I fell down a flight of stairs and lost our first baby. That was the first time I saw Hudson truly break. He knelt by my hospital bed, sobbing, snot and tears mixing, whispering desperate apologies. That loss triggered my clinical depression. I was inconsolable, constantly harming myself, unable to cope with the loss of the child. Hudson lost his work. He drove for GrubHub during the day and nursed me back to health at night. Later, the original manuscript was recovered, his name was cleared, and he started his own firm. My depression slowly faded, but the injury to my abdomen left me unable to carry a child without medical assistance. It was the darkest period of my life. I never imagined the man who offered to sacrifice his life for mine in the rubble would one day intentionally kill our second child. And then use the memory of my deepest pain—my depression—to stab me again. I wiped my tears and walked into the study. I needed to print the divorce papers. The Golden Ticket had finally expired. 4 I wanted a quiet ending. But Zoey wouldn’t allow it. She sent a friend request with a chilling message: I’m pregnant. My face went white. I clenched my fists and accepted the request. She immediately sent several messages, starting with a copy of a prenatal scan. “Three weeks along. Guess those expired contraceptives did the trick. Unlike you, Ms. Cole, my little one is naturally conceived. A golden child.” “Honestly, I wasn’t planning on getting pregnant so fast, but here we are. You should do Hudson a favor and file for divorce. He’s ecstatic about this baby.” “Oh, and speaking of ecstatic: Hudson is throwing a small celebration for us tomorrow at The Grand Regent Hotel. Nine AM. It’s an engagement party. You’re welcome to attend.” She attached a photo. Hudson was holding the ultrasound printout, his eyes wet, his expression the picture of tender, overwhelming love. Even when I was pregnant, he had never looked at me like that. I gripped the phone, a visceral, churning hatred spreading through me. My baby was brutally murdered, and they were celebrating their ‘true love’ with a new one. A wedding… Hudson and I hadn’t even had a proper wedding. We were too poor then. No time, no money. I swallowed down the blood in my mouth. Hudson didn’t come home that night. He only sent a text: Working late. Won’t be back. I sat in the dark living room all night. At nine the next morning, I drove to The Grand Regent Hotel. Zoey was even more radiant than in her photos. She wore a slinky white gown, and a cascade of diamonds circled her slender neck. Hudson was in a crisp dark suit, effortlessly mingling, a flute of champagne in his hand. In that moment, everything I had suppressed—the grief, the rage, the betrayal—broke. I charged the stage. In Hudson’s stunned gaze, I slapped Zoey, hard, twice. “Sierra! What the hell are you doing? Have you lost your mind?!” Hudson violently pushed me away, turning to shield Zoey in his arms. I fell, ignoring the sharp twinge in my abdomen, and scrambled up, my hand flying out to slap him across the face. Under his dark, menacing stare, I started to laugh, a wild, broken sound. “What, hurt your little girlfriend? Good. She deserved it. Both of you! This woman is a whore, a high-end escort, a rotten piece of trash who sleeps with anyone who pays her. She’s not just a mistress, she’s a…” “SMACK—” I hit the floor again. The punch knocked the words clean out of my mouth. “Shut your filthy mouth, Sierra!” Hudson’s hand was still raised. Veins bulged in his forehead; his eyes were bloodshot. “Are you crazy? This is my product launch! What is wrong with you? I told you, Zoey is an employee! You’re having a psychotic episode! Spreading vicious, disgusting lies about an innocent woman? You’re evil! You’re sick!” He grabbed my arm, forcing me down, pressing my knees onto the shards of a broken glass display. The glass dug in, searing pain shooting up my legs. Zoey whimpered behind his shoulder, but when she looked at me, her eyes were pure, smug triumph. I realized I’d been set up. This wasn’t an engagement party. This was a public launch that looked like an engagement party, designed to humiliate me and prove her victim status. Security—called by an attendee—finally wrestled me away. My hands were cuffed behind my back, my face was throbbing and bleeding, and I was pinned to the floor like a beaten dog. Hudson glanced at me, his face devoid of emotion. “Officers, she is my wife, but she deliberately assaulted this woman. I will not cover for her. Please charge her to the fullest extent of the law. She needs a harsh lesson.” “Also,” he added, his voice chillingly calm, “she has a history of severe depression and is currently unstable. After her detainment, please transfer her directly to a psychiatric facility. I will coordinate the intake.” The police hauled me up and escorted me to the cruiser. The crowd was silent, all eyes on me. I didn’t resist. I stared at Hudson. I watched him gently wipe the tears from Zoey’s face. I watched him tenderly touch her abdomen. A terrible, desolate smile spread across my face. My laughter turned into a wail, sharp with blood and tears. “Hudson! I hate you!” My vision swam. A sudden warmth spread below me, staining the pristine white marble a shocking red. “Sia!!” I heard Hudson’s desperate scream as the world went black.

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Spencer and I applied for the same top-tier Master’s program. We were both aiming for a spot under Dr. Sofia Ramirez, the most sought-after advisor in our field. But she only had one spot left. I hesitated, the familiar guilt tightening in my chest. “If I get it, will it crush Spencer?” My family laughed it off, a wave of dismissive confidence. “It’s based on merit, Caden. Don’t hold back. Just do your best. “You’re both Albright sons. We’ll be happy no matter who gets in.” But on the day of my final interview, I watched as my adopted brother, Spencer, laid his cards on the table. He didn’t just submit a recommendation letter; he submitted a personal note from our mother, Dr. Eleanor Albright—the industry titan. “Mom said if you take me, she’ll personally vote to fast-track your next professional promotion, Dr. Ramirez.” Then, my CEO father, Jonathan Albright, called the department head directly. “Take Spencer Albright, and I’ll fund your research project with a ninety-million-dollar endowment.” My A-list actress sister, Quinn, sent a video message to Dr. Ramirez’s personal assistant. “Choose Spencer, and I’ll recommend your daughter for the lead role in my next prestige series.” My pop-star sister, Scarlett, went even further, sending two exclusive VIP passes to her sold-out stadium tour. “If you take my brother, I’ll personally mentor your son and get his foot in the door.” Spencer looked at Dr. Ramirez, his eyes bright with victory and a carefully calibrated smugness. “They also said, Professor, that if you choose Caden instead of me, all those promises? They’ll do the exact opposite.” I watched the triumph blooming in Spencer’s features, and the blatant, nauseating display of my family’s collective bribery. I stood up. I leaned in, and I whispered just one sentence into the ear of the professor who was already reaching for Spencer’s file. Dr. Ramirez, poised to select Spencer, instantly spun around and pointed straight at me. “I apologize,” she declared, her voice ringing with sudden resolve. “I choose him.” 1 Spencer thought he hadn’t heard correctly. “Professor, who did you just choose?” Dr. Ramirez was definitive. “Caden Albright. Your older brother, Spencer.” Spencer bolted out of his chair, pointing frantically at the desk. The recommendation letter, the endowment papers, the VIP passes. “Professor, did you not see any of this? That letter is hand-signed by my mother!” “I saw it,” Dr. Ramirez said, calmly returning the letter to its envelope. “But the decision of who to mentor belongs solely to me. I choose Caden.” Spencer’s jaw locked. “Do you truly believe my family won’t make you regret this?” Dr. Ramirez hesitated. Everyone knew the Albrights were people of their word—for better or worse. The biotech CEO father. The industry-leading mother. The A-list actress sister. The chart-topping singer sister. They were vindictive, tenacious, and terrifyingly powerful. Any one of them could make life miserable for a university professor. More than that, Dr. Ramirez’s own children could be caught in the crossfire. But she still sighed, a deep, steadying breath. “I’m sorry. My decision is final.” Spencer was incredulous. His eyes, rimmed with hurt, swung to me. I stood beside Dr. Ramirez, meeting his gaze with a cold, unwavering stare. He turned heel, slammed the door, and was gone. Once the sound of his angry footsteps had faded, Dr. Ramirez turned to me, her knees buckling as if to fall. I quickly steadied her. “Dr. Ramirez, please, don’t!” “You’re a miracle worker,” she pleaded, her voice choked with emotion. “Please, Caden, you have to save my father!” 2 Just moments ago, I had leaned over and whispered: “Is your father dealing with a persistent, hacking cough? Does he consistently wake up at three in the morning? And did he travel to Southeast Asia exactly one month ago?” Dr. Ramirez had kept all those details—the exact symptoms, the specific travel location, the time of the nocturnal wake-up—completely private. Multiple doctors had failed to diagnose the issue. She had suspected a tropical pathogen or something worse, but as a respected academic, she couldn’t dare voice her deepest fears about a curse or a spiritual attachment. But I had articulated every minute detail. I let out a slow sigh. “Don’t worry, Professor. It’s a small problem.” 3 A week later, the warmth returned to Dr. Ramirez’s face. Her father was well, the ominous cough gone. She had zero regrets about accepting me, even knowing the consequences of crossing my adoptive family. Now, she understood everything. The fate of every Albright had been fundamentally broken. My mother, the industry leader, was initially destined for obscurity and to die of a broken spirit. My father, the CEO, was fated to be perpetually broke, struggling just to stay above water. My sister Quinn, the actress, was meant to suffer a horrific accident that would disfigure her and end her career prematurely. And my sister Scarlett, the singer, was born to be deaf and mute, dying young. I was the exception. I was born with a gift—a natural-born spiritual anchor. I saw their doomed fates and quietly adjusted the energetic architecture of our home. It was a subtle, constant manipulation: lifting Mom’s career higher, filling Dad’s coffers, safeguarding Quinn’s face, and granting Scarlett a voice like velvet. But I was forbidden to ever speak of it. Revealing the truth would instantly strip me of my abilities. They were kind to me, in the beginning. The money I earned from odd jobs and small projects I funneled back into the family, and they did use some of their wealth to raise me. Then Spencer arrived. He was the orphan of my parents’ dear friends. The funds allocated for me dwindled. Soon, I had to formally request even ten dollars from Mom and Dad. They would wipe away my tears and say, “Spencer has no one. He is entirely dependent on us. Besides, if we don’t favor him, people will say we’re biased toward our own. Caden, you have to consider the family image.” So, I stopped crying. I watched them elevate Spencer, piece by piece. Since he was the descendant of a revered old-school artist, the Albright name gained enormous cultural prestige by adopting him. I celebrated their success silently, constantly working in the shadows to maintain the energetic balance that kept them safe. But when I got home from the interview, the atmosphere felt wrong. Quinn and Scarlett, who rarely visited, were both there. Spencer was on the sofa, his eyes red-rimmed and dramatically wounded. Quinn grabbed my wrist in a vice grip. “Do you have any idea how long Spencer has been planning this Master’s program? Why are you always so difficult, always trying to snatch things from him?” She yanked me toward the attic door, shoving me inside. “Stay in here and think about what you did. You can come out when Spencer forgives you.” The cold, damp energy immediately rushed up to meet me. I desperately lunged for the door, trying to stop her from locking it. But Quinn was faster. Click. The deadbolt slid home. “Don’t lock me in, Quinn! I’m scared!” She knew. When I was five, I’d accidentally gotten locked in the attic. When she finally found me, I was burning with fever and nearly died. She’d sobbed, holding me, swearing repeatedly that she was a terrible sister and promising to never let me near that dark, terrifying space again. Once we got rich, she’d even paid a maid to guard the attic entrance just in case I wandered in. Now, for her new brother, she had shoved me in herself. What I’d never told her was that when I was five, it wasn’t an accident. The attic was the spiritual “sewer” of the house—where I locked up all the toxic energy and accumulated bad luck to keep the family’s good fortune flowing. The trapped, resentful energies had drawn me in and savagely retaliated. Those dark forces had not dissipated. “If you’re going to steal from your little brother, you need to understand the consequences,” Quinn’s voice was cold on the other side of the door. “You’re an adult now. A little attic can’t hurt you.” “No! Quinn! Please, don’t!” Her footsteps faded. The air behind me grew thick and heavy with concentrated spiritual grime. I couldn’t dare turn around. A shadow flickered at the bottom of the door. My eyes lit up. “Scarlett!” Scarlett looked through the narrow gap, a slight frown on her perfect face. “Scarlett! Do me a favor! Go get the protective sandalwood charm from my room, okay?” She nodded. And left. A moment later, she was back, holding the charm. I was nearly weeping with relief. Maybe this sister, the one I’d protected for twenty years, still cared. “Is this it?” The small, hand-carved sandalwood charm dangled in front of my face. I reached for it, desperately hoping she would slide it under the door. But then: CRACK! She snapped the charm clean in half. The protective amulet that had shielded me for two decades was mercilessly broken. “Scarlett!” I screamed, a raw, insane sound. She dropped the pieces on the dusty floor. “You’re genuinely pathetic, Caden. You’re this old and you’re still trying to steal from Spencer? Quinn and I have real talent. We made it on our own. We don’t need whatever garbage you’re fiddling with. Who knows what black magic you used to get that spot over Spencer. Breaking this is probably for the best.” She turned to leave. “Scarlett! Scarlett, come back! I could actually die in here!” Shrieks and agonized cries echoed from the dark attic. My desperate screams were deafening. But downstairs, I heard music start up, drowning out my misery. I don’t know when the music stopped. I only remember slumping against the door, my body weak and shivering. The door cracked open a tiny bit. Mom and Dad looked in. “Caden, are you okay?” “Dad! Mom! Get me out! Please!” I clawed at the doorframe, tears streaming. The spiritual toxins were invisible to them, but they were driving me to the brink of collapse. My parents exchanged a look, and I thought I saw a flicker of pity. “We’ll get the key.” They left. I waited and waited. It was dark before anyone returned. The maid Quinn had stationed outside the door stood there. I looked at her with wide, pleading eyes. “Where are Mom and Dad?” “Don’t bother, Mr. Caden. Young Master Spencer was very upset. The Mister and Missus, along with the two young ladies, were unable to console him. They’ve already left for a vacation in the Bahamas.” “What did you say?” My hands, clinging to the doorframe, slid down to the floor. They had forgotten me. I didn’t know if I could survive the night. 4 Dr. Ramirez was the one who kicked the door down and pulled me out. I spent a day and a night in the hospital, recovering, before I could finally open my eyes. Dr. Ramirez squeezed my hand, thanking me profusely. “You told me to keep my younger child home yesterday, and you were right—the exact spot she was supposed to be at collapsed! You saved my family’s life again! I couldn’t reach you yesterday, and I had a terrible feeling. I should have trusted my gut…” She clenched her jaw. When the attic door finally opened, even the maid Quinn had hired gasped in horror at my state. My phone pinged. A new post from Spencer. The background was exactly the white sands of the Bahamas. Spencer, in stylish summer wear and expensive sunglasses, was grinning and throwing up a peace sign. My sisters were flanking him, making heart shapes with their hands. Mom and Dad looked on, faces filled with doting adoration. The caption read: [Why would I ever be upset? With a loving family like mine, I’ll never feel anything but cherished.] Dr. Ramirez sighed. “I know I sometimes get caught up in my two kids, but this level of favoritism is beyond belief!” I put the phone down, my fists tight. “Since they value Spencer so much, I’m going to make sure the one they’ve so carefully protected becomes my ultimate failure.” 5 It wasn’t long before my mother called me into the study room. “I hear you’re applying for the National Science Advancement Award, the same one Spencer is going for?” I nodded. “Withdraw your application. Spencer needs this award to qualify for a more prestigious national fellowship.” “I want to apply for it too.” Mom frowned. “You have other academic achievements you can use, Caden. Why are you so fixated on this one?” I looked straight at her. “Because this award is the most significant competitive edge in the field. Mom, you’re afraid of me blocking Spencer’s path. But even if I withdraw, do you think every other candidate will just hand him the prize? It’s a contest of merit.” “Nonsense!” She slapped her palm on the desk. “I understand merit! But I absolutely refuse to have you, my own son, stand in opposition to Spencer!” I froze. “Caden, you’re Spencer’s older brother. If you stand against him, he’ll be hurt.” A bitter, wrenching laugh escaped me. “Mom, are you truly worried about him? Or are you worried about your own standing?” She paled. “Spencer is the descendant of a revered artist, your late friend’s orphan. Everyone in the industry knows. If he shines, the world sees you as the noble, generous savior—the one who deserves to be held in the same esteem as that late artist. You think I haven’t figured that out?” Mom’s face was chalk white. I’d overheard them recently. Mom and Dad, consulting in the study. I heard my father’s sigh. “This will be unfair to Caden, but it will bring the Albright name so much more prestige.” I smiled bitterly. “Prestige. That’s all it ever is. Is giving the four of you a chance to shine worth sacrificing my entire life? Am I not your son? Am I not Quinn and Scarlett’s brother?” “Slap!” A stinging blow landed across my face, unexpected and vicious. Mom looked at me with incomprehension and disgust. “What ridiculous garbage are you spouting?” She grabbed her handbag and stormed out, looking both furious and like she was running away. “You truly are an ungrateful wretch!” 6 Dr. Ramirez was officially warned by my parents, but she ignored them. She threw herself into helping me secure the Science Advancement Award. However, soon after, our lab equipment suppliers collectively and suddenly backed out of their contracts. Without the right gear, our research was impossible, and the application was dead in the water. Dr. Ramirez used every contact she had to borrow what we needed. But the next day, those colleagues and friends sheepishly returned and took their equipment back. Several even cut off contact. One of Dr. Ramirez’s close friends stammered out a hint: “It’s not what we want to do, but there’s a major corporate investor who’s made it clear… you know, the one who funds a lot of our key projects…” He gave her a meaningful look. ‘You get it?’ Dr. Ramirez and I silently made way for them. Only one person had the financial clout to cripple nearly every collaborative project in the area. My father, Jonathan Albright. I clenched my fists. “It’s fine. We’ll build our own.” Dr. Ramirez and I sourced components ourselves. Within a month, the custom rig was nearly complete. The day I got my breakthrough data, I posted an innocuous photo of the results on my private feed. My mother called instantly. “Do you really have to fight your family—fight Spencer—like this?” Before I could answer, I heard Scarlett’s voice from the background. “Spencer failed his experiment and hasn’t eaten all day! Why are you so vile, always taking what belongs to others!” I hung up without a word. Mom called back, her voice tight. “Caden! Withdraw the application. Delete the post. Do you hear me?” I pressed the ‘End Call’ button. But the next day, Mom showed up at the university. Everyone was stunned. “Is that Dr. Albright? The Dr. Albright, the industry titan? I heard she won’t even step foot on an Ivy League campus! Why is she here, at our small local school?” “Oh my God, she’s my idol! I got into this program because of her! I need an autograph!” I stood in the crowd, watching my mother in genuine shock. Spencer was right beside her, and the two of them commanded all the attention. Her eyes met mine. Her expression instantly cooled, and she quickly looked away. The award selection was held shortly after her “inspection.” My findings were the most innovative and academically sound. Yet, I was rejected. I didn’t even qualify for an honorable mention. Dr. Ramirez sighed heavily. “Turns out Dr. Albright brought Spencer and the judges to a private dinner when she was here. She’s an industry titan, Caden. No one wants to risk crossing her.” The realization hit me hard. I smiled, a painful twist of my mouth. On the walk back to the dorms, several cars suddenly blocked my path. “You’re the actress Quinn’s little brother, right?” “Look who we have here. Are you the one who ruined Scarlett’s last live stream?” I was completely confused. Someone shoved a phone in my face. It was a clip of Quinn’s recent interview. When asked about her private life, she’d paused, sighing dramatically: “Oh, you know… my younger brother. He’s causing trouble again, making things difficult. My headaches are back. Otherwise, things are fine.” Next was a clip from a music awards ceremony where Scarlett had noticeably missed a note. In a post-performance interview, she’d sighed: “There’s been some family drama lately. My brother, you know… well, I shouldn’t make excuses. Missing that note was my fault, and I apologize to my fans.” Scarlett never missed a note. My sisters were deliberately signaling to their massive fan bases—painting me as the troubled, difficult sibling. Now, their combined fans were surrounding me. “A big deal, aren’t you? Causing the A-list actress and the pop star to both look upset?” “Honestly, you’re just not as good as Spencer. Why is that so hard for you to understand?” “Your family might spoil you, but we fans won’t tolerate your spoiled behavior, rich boy!” Someone grabbed my collar. I tried to turn and run. Another person tripped me. I fell face-first onto the pavement. A sharp, brutal punch landed squarely on my cheek. Through the window of a Rolls-Royce, stopped at the red light, I saw Quinn and Scarlett’s startled faces. I screamed, “Quinn! Scarlett! Help me!” The light turned green. They exchanged a quick look. And the tinted window slid up. “You little leech! You think you can bother our sisters?” “Let’s teach you how to behave, you spoiled brat!” 7 A few kind strangers intervened and pulled them off me. On the walk home, my clothes were shredded. My shoes were gone, and every step left a bloody print on the sidewalk. “Whose kid is that? Looks like a lunatic.” “Kids today are crazy. Walking around like that.” I pushed open the door to the house. Everyone turned to look at me. A massive, professionally tiered cake sat on the dining table. Oh. Right. It was Spencer’s birthday. “You come home looking like that? Did you know it was Spencer’s party and decide to deliberately start a fight?” I looked at the cold, judgmental faces of my parents and my sisters. I smiled, a wide, unsettling grin. I kicked the spiritual mirror, the one that kept the house’s energy clean, sending shards everywhere. I grabbed the lucky money-tree plant and violently ripped it out of its pot. I took the cake knife and slashed the red, braided safety rope hanging on the wall—the one that had guarded their lives. “Caden Albright, are you insane!” My eyes were red, hot, and wild as I spun to face them. “Go to hell. All of you.”

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