All because Elias, the self-proclaimed Ascended, coughed during his morning mantra, my father’s business was gutted by sundown. The Guru, perched atop his mountain of self-righteousness, proclaimed: “Your father’s deliberate distraction during my spiritual cleanse was a transgression. This is the universe’s necessary correction.” I dragged my crippled right leg—a souvenir from a night I regretted—and filed the lawsuit. The cost was instant and brutal: the company’s swift, ignoble collapse, followed by my father’s fall from our penthouse balcony. He didn’t die, but the shock cleaved his mind in two. They locked him away in a sterile, padded room. In that raw pit of despair, my wife, Sherry, tossed in the final stick of dynamite. She grabbed my left leg—the good one—and leaned in, her eyes cold as chips of glacier ice. “Drop the suit. Now. Or you and your father can both rot in hell.” It was the moment the illusion shattered. Every cruelty, every loss, had been Sherry’s carefully orchestrated defense of her ‘spiritual guide.’ As the crushing weight of betrayal pinned me to the floor, my father’s cell phone, which I’d salvaged, suddenly buzzed. On the other end was the voice of my eighteen-year-old self. “Dad! I finished my last final! You and Mom just keep working—I can walk home myself.” That walk home. That was the day I’d found Sherry being jumped in a dark alley. The day I played hero. The day I earned this mangled right leg. A frantic, electric hope surged through me. I choked out a warning to the past. “Don’t save her, do you hear me? Don’t save Sherry! For God’s sake, I’m begging you!” I needed to see it. I needed to know if without my intervention, without my money and protection, she could still ascend to the heights she’d reached, leaving ruin in her wake. Eighteen-year-old Gabe was understandably bewildered. “Sherry who? And who are you? Why do you have my dad’s phone?” I fought to keep the desperation from my voice. “It’s me. You. The twenty-eight-year-old version.” “Are you kidding me? Give the phone back to my father or I’m calling the police!” The memory of my dad’s vacant, institutionalized stare tightened my chest like a garrote wire. “Your father can’t talk right now, but I can prove it. You have a heart-shaped birthmark on your inner thigh, and you’re planning to buy a strawberry layer cake on the way home to celebrate.” The birthmark had appeared my senior year. Nobody knew about it. The cake idea had literally just popped into my head the moment I left campus. A pause stretched across the line, heavy with disbelief and dawning fear. Then: “You’re really me? Okay, then tell me—am I successful at twenty-eight? Do I have a happy life?” No. You fell in love with a beautiful poison, and it destroyed everything you ever cared about. Just then, I heard footsteps on the stairs. Sherry. Panic made my voice a desperate rasp. “Listen! Don’t walk home today. Don’t try to save anyone, ever. That person will be the reason you’re crippled, and the reason your family suffers!” The basement door was thrown open. Sherry stood framed in the dim light, her expression cold and hard. I fumbled, slamming the phone shut and shoving it deep into my jeans pocket. “Who were you talking to?” she demanded, her voice an icy threat. “No one,” I ground out. She crossed the room, grabbed my throat, and squeezed. “Trying to call for help? I suggest you save yourself the effort of resistance.” A second later, her bodyguards dragged me out by the back of my collar and violently dumped me into the room she had converted into my father’s makeshift wake. Elias, dressed in flowing linen robes, stood over me, holding a long, flexible switch—a cane fashioned from a slender branch—like a holy weapon. “Mr. Gabriel,” Elias said, his voice dripping with condescension. “Your repeated attempts to undermine the faith have clearly opened you up to possession. I must perform an exorcism.” “For cleansing the heart and purifying the body,” he added, gesturing to the guards. “Strip him.” My fingernails dug into my palms. Rage tasted like metal on my tongue. “I’m not possessed! You are the sickness! Sherry, I’ll drop the suit! Just don’t let him defile my father’s memory like this!” Sherry hesitated, a flicker of something—maybe doubt, maybe pity—in her eye. Elias cut her off, his voice injured. “You’ve refused to drop the suit for months, but a single day in the dark basement breaks you? This is the cunning of the evil spirit! He’s feigning submission to seek retribution later. Ms. Sherry, do you trust him or do you trust me?” Sherry’s face hardened. She chose him. “I trust you, Elias. Guards, take his clothes.” They swarmed me. My struggles were futile against four men, especially with one bad leg. The cloth was ripped away piece by piece. Humiliated, naked, I was forced to kneel before my father’s photograph. The shame was a physical blow. I wanted to smash my head against the wall and end it all. The next second, Elias’s switch whipped down, biting deep into my skin. A white-hot slash of pain ripped across my back, followed instantly by a bead of blood. Elias’s voice was sanctimonious, ringing in the room. “Your father’s spirit would not wish to see his son controlled by a demon. He was kind to Ms. Sherry in life, so she will bear witness to the casting out of this evil, so his soul may finally rest.” I tried to scramble away, but Elias’s leather boot slammed down onto my injured right knee. I collapsed, face-first, gagging on dust and pain. Sherry watched. Her brow was furrowed, but she made no move to stop him. She knew. She knew exactly how I’d earned that injury. Time dissolved into agony. Finally, Elias grew tired. My back was a raw, bloody mess. I lay on the floor, barely breathing. Sherry walked over, knelt down, and tenderly cradled my cheek. A flash of something that looked agonizingly like sorrow crossed her eye. “Elias does everything in adherence to the higher law, Gabriel. Don’t blame him,” she murmured. “Just be sensible, and no one will ever take your place as my husband.” I looked into her eyes, silent, a tsunami of hatred roiling in my heart. It’s been an hour. My eighteen-year-old self must have avoided her now. Soon, Sherry would be nothing more than a ghost. I was transferred to a hospital, more dead than alive. The doctor, a kind man, shook his head sadly. “The lacerations on your back are severe, no water for days. But there’s good news, inexplicably. Your right leg—it’s healed. Overnight. Like it was never broken.” I stared, stunned. Before I could process the miracle, a flurry of hushed voices drifted in from the hallway. “Did you hear? CEO Sherry was in a nasty car wreck on her way to the office. Her right eye is completely gone.” I froze. Then, my father’s cell phone rang again. It was my younger voice, excited. “Finally! I managed to call you back. I took an Uber home last night, and guess what? I saw an alley where a bunch of thugs were roughing someone up. Someone had their right eye gouged out! Crazy, right?” Gouged out. The original timeline: I saved Sherry, losing my right leg. The new timeline: I didn’t save her, my leg healed, and she lost her right eye. The trade was made. But the victory felt hollow. I frantically searched for news about my parents. My mother’s suicide headline was still there. The photo of my father in the asylum was still trending. Why? I avoided Sherry. Why hadn’t their tragedy been erased? Then, the young voice on the phone continued. “Oh, and Mom and Dad gave me a million dollars! I’m going to start a company. I’m meeting with investors next week.” A rush of forgotten memory. After I saved Sherry, I took her in, discovered her terrifying business acumen, and used my family’s money to fund her. That was the start of the massive Sherry Empire. The original tragedy must have been locked into the past, regardless of the injury swap. It meant the funding was the key. Sherry will be at that investment meeting. “Listen to me, this is critical,” I urged the younger me. “Next week, if you meet a woman named Sherry, no matter how brilliant she seems, do not pick her. Don’t even talk to her. Pick the other one. The one named Andrea.” Andrea (Andrea) was Sherry’s greatest rival, a brilliant mind who’d died young from an illness exacerbated by financial stress. If I funded her and ensured her health, she could become our family’s shield, or better, our sword. Young Gabe, now completely terrified, agreed without hesitation. I stayed in the hospital for a week. Sherry never visited. The news, however, was filled with images of her and Elias. Elias sitting in three days of meditation, praying to heal her eye. Elias building fifty-five “wellness shrines” in her name. I laughed, a dry, bitter sound. I tried to call young Gabe again, but the phone just gave a dead signal. Our connection was fragile, only active when he reached out first. The day I was discharged was the day of the investment meeting. I walked out, a free man with two good legs, sick with worry, hoping young Gabe had chosen Andrea. I arrived home that evening. The front door was ajar. A guttural, agonizing sound was coming from the living room. Father. A knot of dread cinched my stomach. I sprinted inside. My father was lashed tightly to a support column. In front of him sat a basin of murky black fluid. Elias stood over him, holding a surgical scalpel. “Elias, what the hell are you doing!” I screamed, slamming into him and sending him sprawling. Elias scrambled toward Sherry, whimpering. “Darling, Gabriel’s father is cursing you from the asylum! That’s why your eye is damaged! He’s possessed! I was trying to drain the malignant blood and replace it with a purified plasma, to give him a clean slate!” Sherry was pale but supportive. “Elias is only trying to help your family, Gabriel. Don’t be hysterical.” I looked at the woman I had loved for a decade. She was a stranger. “You are the ones who are possessed! Sherry, he’s not a guru, he’s a damn monster!” SMACK. Sherry’s palm stung my cheek. Her eyes flashed with fury. “Do not disparage my Ascended! Not another word, Gabriel.” Elias shot me a triumphant smirk. Then, with a practiced motion, he slashed the scalpel across my father’s wrist. Blood immediately sprayed onto the floor. “Stop! Stop it!” I screamed, lunging forward. Sherry’s fist slammed into my jaw. The world went dark. I woke up on the sofa. Sherry’s jacket was draped over me. She sat nearby, looking at me with that complex mix of guilt and disdain. I bolted up, grabbing her by the jacket lapels. “My father! Where is he? What did you do?” “His evil spirits were too potent, even for the sacred text,” Elias announced, standing nearby, his arms crossed. “A true pity. Such a sin, I weep for him.” I swung, catching Elias with a desperate, heavy backhand. “You animal!” Sherry’s grip snapped onto my wrist, her voice glacial. “Enough, Gabriel. I’ve already sent your father to the city hospital. With the professional doctors, he’ll be fine.” I shoved her away and ran, blindly, to the hospital. The doctor there told me, “Mr. Elias withdrew all funds for the procedure. We can’t operate.” I collapsed. I called Sherry. Elias answered. “Ms. Sherry is currently in a deep meditation. Do not disturb her.” “You took my father’s surgery money! Give it back, you bastard!” I screamed into the phone. Elias sounded utterly detached. “The Enlightened is compassionate. Your father, if he had led a life of good deeds, would already be out of danger. The surgery is three hundred thousand dollars. That money can fund so much genuine charity. That’s enough virtue to save your father for the rest of his life. I will not return it. And all your bank accounts are frozen.” He hung up. I sat on the cold floor, watching the heart monitor flatline to a single, terrible line. I changed the past. I saved myself. But the core tragedy remains. Just as the finality of the loss consumed me, a voice cut through the sterile silence. “I’ve paid for Mr. Gabriel Senior’s surgery in full. Prepare the operating room immediately.” I looked up, dazed. A woman stood there, familiar yet unrecognizable. It was Andrea—Andrea—the rival who’d died five years ago. She was alive. Young Gabe had done it. My father was saved. I rushed to Andrea, my gratitude a torrent. She just smiled. “You should be thanking yourself, Gabriel. If you hadn’t funded me all those years ago, I wouldn’t be here today.” I watched over my father as he recovered. Whether it was the surgery or young Gabe’s altered choices, my father woke up mentally sound. He was lucid, not the drooling wreck I had known. But my mother’s death remained a fixed point. This meant my entanglement with Sherry was not over. Young Gabe contacted me again. He’d gotten his test scores. They were excellent. He was debating between the top American university—the one Sherry attended—or a study abroad program. The university is too close to her orbit. “Go abroad! You must study overseas! And never, ever come back!” I told him. If he missed Sherry entirely, the tragedy would be erased. Young Gabe promised that my parents were selling everything and moving the entire family overseas in one week. A week later, on the day my father was discharged, Sherry announced she wanted to visit him. I took her to the small shrine I had secretly built for my mother and father. But as we arrived, a construction crew was already dismantling it. Elias was leading them. I lunged forward, pushing the workers back. “What are you doing! My father is gone—can’t you let him rest!” Elias’s tone was indifferent. “Your father’s virtue was insufficient, Gabriel. I plan to convert this site into a public meditation center. It serves the community. A final act of virtue on his behalf.” Rage blinded me. I slapped him. Sherry instantly shoved me away. “Gabriel, have you lost your mind? Get out of here! This is not your place to cause trouble.” I slapped her too. Harder. “Sherry, I regret the day I saved you. I should have left you to those thugs in the alley!” Her eyes widened, shocked, a complex blend of confusion and a flicker of something ancient and terrible. Elias clutched his stinging face and cried out to her, “Darling, you promised you would always love me! He attacks me, and you do nothing? You lied! I’m leaving you!” Sherry’s brief moment of confusion evaporated, replaced by cold fury. She immediately ordered the guards to seize me. My father, just out of the hospital, saw the scene and went ballistic. He grabbed a nearby metal bar, swinging it wildly at Elias and Sherry. Sherry didn’t flinch. She simply pushed him. He stumbled, hitting the back of his head hard against a concrete headstone. Silence. Then a gurgling sound. I rushed to him, cradling his head. “Dad! Dad!” Sherry looked down at me, her expression a chilling disappointment. “Gabriel, I warned you not to make a scene. You brought this upon your father. You will never pay for the sin you’ve created.” Then the phone rang. Again. Young Gabe. “Our flight leaves in five minutes. I’ll call you when we land.” I smiled. A real, deep, satisfied smile. Sherry looked at me, her face clouded by fear. A construction worker suddenly shouted, “Ms. Sherry! This is an empty coffin! There’s no urn, no remains!” My heart soared. I managed to unlock the phone and search the news for my mother’s death. It was gone. Instead, an article popped up about a celebrated American businesswoman achieving a massive breakthrough in her overseas firm. The name: Eleanor Z. The knot in my chest dissolved. I looked up at Sherry, taking in her scarred eye, her frantic expression, and the dead man at my feet who was no longer my father. “Sherry,” I whispered, relief washing over me, “It’s finally over for us.” The world faded to black.

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The climax of the holiday dinner arrived not with the dessert, but with a piece of plastic. My stepdaughter, Setlla Maxwell, took the gift card I’d handed her—a discreetly wrapped fifty-dollar bill I’d included with a sincere card—and dropped it with an audible clatter into the trash can beside the dining table. “Five hundred?” she scoffed, the number ringing with deliberate contempt. “Are you serious? You tossing a handout to a pauper? Mom said she was sending me five thousand this year, directly wired.” She stared me down, her usually bright blue eyes narrowed into slits of accusation. “Honestly, only Dad would fall for a cheap date like you. My mother is actually generous.” I gripped my fork, saying nothing. The silence in the dining room was thick enough to choke on. But then Liam—my husband, Setlla’s father—suddenly wiped his hands on his napkin, picked up his phone, and slid it across the tabletop. “Fine,” he said, his voice terrifyingly calm. “If your mother is so generous, then you can go live with her.” He publicly dialed his ex-wife’s number. “Vicky,” he stated into the phone, his gaze never leaving Setlla. “Your daughter finds our home ‘cheap.’ I’m returning her custody to you. Come pick her up now.” On the other end, after a long, stunned silence, Victoria’s voice finally came back, cold and sharp. “That girl? I cut that anchor loose ages ago, Liam.” 1 The line went dead with a resolute beep-beep-beep. The sneer of triumph on Setlla’s face froze instantly, replaced by a mask of horrified denial. “No! That’s impossible! My mom would never abandon me.” She shrieked, jumping to her feet. “This is a lie! You two—you two set this up to trick me!” Her bloodshot eyes locked onto Liam, then swung venomously toward me. “My mother loves me most! She told me I was her little princess! She would never! It’s you! You’re the one who poisoned her against me! You did this!” On the final word, her finger jutted out, nearly poking my cheek. Liam’s face darkened instantly. He pulled me back, his tall, broad frame shielding me completely. He looked at his spoiled, entitled daughter, and I could see the bottomless pit of disappointment in his eyes. “We set this up?” He let out a harsh, chilling laugh. “Setlla, you’re sixteen, not six. Your mother loves you? How exactly has she shown it? Has she ever bought you a single cashmere sweater, or paid for one of your AP courses? Was she the one who stood up for you when you got into that mess with the soccer team, or the one who rushed you to the ER when your fever spiked at 3 AM?” A rapid-fire series of brutal questions. Setlla couldn’t answer any of them. Since the divorce, Victoria’s love for her daughter had existed solely in text messages and the carefully curated fantasy of phone calls. “So what? She promised me a better life! Her love is unique!” Setlla stammered, though her voice was already trembling with tears. “Unique manipulation, you mean.” Liam brutally tore through the flimsy illusion she clung to. “She has groomed you to believe she’s your savior, all so you would constantly fight me and Harper. Do you know why?” He leaned in, forcing her to meet his stare, his words slow and deliberately cruel. “Because she wants you to be her retirement fund. Her new boyfriend’s family? They have money, but they won’t fund Victoria forever. Her only solid investment was you—her perfectly brainwashed, dutiful daughter.” “You’re lying! You’re just lying!” Setlla screamed, clamping her hands over her ears, shaking her head violently. Liam didn’t stop. He was committed to this, the most painful form of tough love. “But now, she doesn’t need that investment anymore. Because she’s pregnant.” Setlla’s head shot up, her disbelief staggering. “She’s pregnant, three months along. It’s a boy,” Liam continued, his tone clinical, bordering on monstrous. “She has a new child, the real bond to her new family. Which means, you—her ex-husband’s daughter—have just transitioned from a future financial asset to an obsolete burden. Do you understand now?” “I don’t believe you! You’re tricking me!” Setlla’s control snapped entirely. “You want to shatter her image so your new wife can take her place! It’s you, you home-wrecker!” She lunged, directing all her displaced fury and confusion onto me. 2 She grabbed my arm and began to shake me wildly. Liam’s face was stone. He clamped down on her wrist and physically yanked her away from me, throwing her several feet back. Setlla stumbled, catching herself on the wall. “That is enough, Setlla! You ever lay a hand on Harper again, I swear to God—” Liam’s voice was a low, terrifying growl of warning. “I will! I’ll make her leave!” Setlla spotted my coat and scarf hanging in the hallway—an expensive cashmere piece I’d bought myself as a treat. She flew at it, grabbing the fabric. With a wild, guttural cry, she flung the beautiful, oatmeal-colored cashmere coat I’d saved three months of salary for, straight out the second-story window. “Get out! Get all your trash out of this house!” Unsatisfied, she rushed into my office, which also served as my art space. A moment later, the sound of breaking glass and tumbling objects echoed through the house. When we got there, my small sanctuary was a disaster. Lipstick tubes snapped in half, powder compacts pulverized, and my favorite perfume pooled on the floor, the sickly-sweet, destructive scent mixing with the rage. But the worst was the small, framed charcoal sketch sitting on my bedside table. It was a portrait of Liam and me—the first thing I’d ever truly drawn well, a birthday gift that had taken me weeks. The glass frame was now shattered, and a thick, dark scarlet line of lipstick had been savagely smeared across the paper, slashing through my face. “See this?” Setlla was holding the broken lipstick tube aloft like a weapon. “I’m going to destroy everything you care about! This house doesn’t want you!” She even pulled out her phone, snapped a photo of the wreckage, and sent it to Victoria. Mom! Look, I smashed all of that woman’s cheap stuff! I stood up for you! Come back, let’s kick her out, this house is ours again! She looked up at us, a final, defiant look of expected approval on her face. Liam looked at her, and the last flicker of warmth I’d ever seen him hold for her died in his eyes. He didn’t say a word. He walked out of the room, returning minutes later dragging an empty, wheeled suitcase—Setlla’s suitcase. He opened her closet and began pulling her clothes out, dropping them into the bag one by one. His movements were swift, efficient, and devoid of emotion. Setlla just stared, completely frozen. “Dad? What are you doing?” A tremor of real panic entered her voice. 3 Liam ignored her, stuffing her books, her plush toys, her makeup, everything she owned, into the case. “You wanted to find your mother, didn’t you?” He zipped the bag shut, pushing the suitcase toward her. His eyes were cold, like a Siberian frost. “Now, you will. You think she loves you most? Go find her. This house no longer has room for you.” Setlla was utterly terrified now. She realized this wasn’t a threat; it was final. “I’m not going! This is my house! You can’t make me leave!” She lunged for the bag. “It’s my house, and Harper and I are in charge now!” Liam grabbed her arm, his grip hard enough to make her gasp in pain. “Get out. Go find the mother who loves you. I want to see if her new setup has a room for her ‘obsolete burden.’” He was practically dragging her out. “Let go of me, Liam! You’re choosing a stranger over your own daughter! You’ll regret this!” Her screams echoed through the hallway. I stood in the wreckage of my office, watching the horrifying, self-inflicted chaos. Liam opened the front door, shoved Setlla and her suitcase onto the porch, and slammed the door shut. The sudden finality of the latch cutting off her desperate screams was deafening. Setlla was outside, pounding on the door, her crying hysterical. “Open up! Liam, open the door! You’ll both pay for this!” “I’ll go to my mom! You’ll never have a daughter again!” Inside, Liam leaned against the door, his eyes red-rimmed, his body shaking with a residual, volcanic rage. The pounding continued for a long time, softening eventually into helpless, muffled sobs, and then, finally, nothing. Silence. I walked over to Liam and gently wrapped my hand around his freezing cold one. He turned his head to me, the anger replaced by a crushing weariness and guilt. “I am so sorry, Harper.” His voice was raw. “I let this happen. I let her hurt you.” I shook my head, unable to speak. Just then, my phone chimed with a new social media update. It was Setlla. The photo was a selfie taken right outside our front door. She was pulling her suitcase, tears still visible on her cheeks, but forcing a tight, mocking smile. The caption read: Finally free of that disgusting house. Off to the only person who truly loves me! Some people are just going to end up a lonely, old couple with no one to care for them! I showed the phone to Liam. He glanced at it, his face unreadable, then quietly took the device and immediately blocked and deleted both Setlla’s and Victoria’s contact details and accounts. “From now on,” he looked at me, his gaze firm and resolute, “we are done with them.”

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I was born with a ‘let it be’ lifestyle. When my younger brother and sister would fight over the last bottle of milk, I’d just sit calmly on the side. Living was fine, starving was also fine. Later, my sister jumped ahead of me to pick a fiancé, leaving me with the newly bankrupt Clark Blackwood. I nodded and agreed. “Fine.” Marrying anyone was fine, as long as it was a person. Years passed, and Clark clawed his way back, becoming the envy of the city—a tech mogul worth billions. My sister came to me, hoping to trade husbands. She wanted to be the new mogul’s wife. I was about to nod and agree when Clark stepped forward and clamped a hand over my mouth. “Absolutely not.” I muffled, “But it’s fine.” Clark insisted, “No, Alice. It’s really not.” 1 As far back as I can remember, I’ve never fought for anything. When we were kids, my brother and sister would throw down for a single slice of pizza, and I’d just watch. It wasn’t that I didn’t want it, I just felt that getting it was fine, but not getting it was also fine. It was just a slice of pizza, after all. My mother always called me an even-tempered child, and my father said my easygoing nature was almost heartbreaking. But they quickly realized my personality was actually quite convenient. Since I never argued, they could just give everything better to my siblings. Gradually, “heartbreaking” morphed into “of course.” The biggest, sunniest room went to my sister, Stacey; girls needed to be pampered. The most expensive tutoring went to my brother; boys needed to be groomed for success. As for me, I lived in the smallest, north-facing room and attended a decent but unremarkable state college. “Alice is the most sensible,” Mom would say every time. “She won’t mind.” And I truly didn’t. I rarely let any of it sink in. By the time I was twenty-three, I had graduated and landed a quiet job as an administrator in a generic company, drawing a modest salary. My life was steady, utterly unremarkable. Stacey, two years younger, had just returned from a European finishing school and was waiting at home for her grand debut. That evening, my parents called Stacey and me into the living room. Two thick dossiers were waiting on the coffee table. Dad cleared his throat. “You’re both at the marrying age. These two men are the most suitable candidates.” I picked up one file: Clark Blackwood, twenty-eight, heir to the Blackwood Group. The photo showed a man with sharp features and an undeniable, if somber, elegance. The note at the bottom was stark: Blackwood Group recently filed for Chapter 11 bankruptcy reorganization. The other file was Preston Wells, only son of the old-money Wells family. Assets: Multibillion-dollar fortune. Stable, secure. “Stacey gets to choose first,” Mom said, her tone a forgone conclusion. Stacey didn’t even glance at Clark Blackwood’s file. She snatched up Preston Wells’s. “I’ll marry into Wells Holdings.” Then she turned to me, her eyes holding a mix of triumph and casual entitlement. “Alice can take Clark Blackwood. It’s not like you’re picky, right, Sis?” I looked at Clark’s photo—a strikingly handsome face, even if his future was suddenly uncertain—and nodded. “Fine.” Mom visibly relaxed. “Alice, you are such a good girl. Clark may be down on his luck, but he’s still a Blackwood. He’s more than suitable for you.” Dad agreed. “It’s settled then.” I closed the file and didn’t comment. Marrying anyone was fine. It was just life. Besides, the man in the picture was quite nice to look at. 2 The wedding planning started immediately. Stacey’s wedding was set for three months later: fifty tables, the city’s most exclusive five-star hotel, a society event. Mom was swamped every day, picking out the custom Vera Wang gown, the sapphire family heirloom jewelry, and coordinating the décor. My wedding was scheduled for one week after Stacey’s: ten tables, in a mid-range Italian restaurant. “The Blackwoods have been gutted by the bankruptcy,” Mom explained. “A simple reception will suffice.” I nodded. “Fine.” When it came to the dowry, Stacey’s things were loaded in trucks: designer bags, bespoke jewelry, curated antique pieces, a brand-new Escalade, and $80,000 in cash and securities. “We can’t have the Wells family looking down on us,” Mom instructed the movers. “The Reed family reputation must be upheld.” For me, Mom prepared two small suitcases. One for clothes, one for toiletries, and a simple, unadorned silver jewelry set. I looked at the meager luggage but said nothing. Mom, perhaps sensing the awkwardness, quickly rationalized. “Alice, you’re marrying a man who is broke. Clark has nothing right now. The fact that you’re marrying him at all is a blessing to him. He wouldn’t dare complain about a small dowry. He should be grateful.” Dad chimed in. “Your sister is different. The Wells are old money. We can’t let them think less of us. You understand, don’t you?” “I do.” Since childhood, everything Stacey got had to be the best because she was meant for the best. What I got was irrelevant because, ultimately, I didn’t care. Even if I did, it wouldn’t matter. This logic had run our family for two decades, humming along like a perfectly calibrated, if cruel, machine. The night before my wedding, Stacey came to my tiny room and leaned against the doorframe, watching me fold clothes. “Don’t you feel cheated, Sis?” she asked. “Cheated out of what?” I folded a sweater, not looking up. “Marrying a broke man,” she laughed, a brittle sound. “I couldn’t handle it.” “You don’t have to handle it. You’re marrying Preston Wells.” “True,” she said, satisfied. “Don’t be too sad, though. I hear Clark Blackwood is decent enough. He won’t mistreat you. Anyway, with your personality, you’d be happy with anyone.” I finally looked up. “You’re right.” She seemed surprised by my easy agreement, found the conversation boring, shrugged, and walked away. I went back to packing, thinking about getting married tomorrow. Marrying a man I’d never spoken to, starting a completely unfamiliar life. It sounded… interesting. 3 It drizzled on my wedding day. Stacey’s ceremony a week earlier had been a blaze of flashbulbs and society chatter. I’d helped out, watching her in her custom gown, draped in the family sapphire, clinging to Preston Wells’s arm, a portrait of joy. For my wedding, the turnout was sparse. Clark’s side only had a few distant relatives. The Reed family claimed convenient illnesses and stayed home. Only a few sympathetic colleagues showed up. I wore the dress Mom had bought: an off-the-rack white sheath, no veil. The makeup artist, recommended by the restaurant owner, gave me a simple, minimal look. I looked in the mirror and decided I looked fine. The ceremony was brief. No officiant, no flower arrangements, no complicated ritual. Clark and I exchanged rings—simple silver bands, maybe a hundred dollars—in front of our handful of guests. This was the first time I’d seen Clark in person. He was taller than in the photo, and thinner. He wore a slightly faded, but meticulously clean, dark suit. His tie was perfectly knotted, his hair neatly combed. He looked constrained, yet was trying hard to maintain a dignified appearance. His eyes held a complex mix of apology and scrutiny as he looked at me. “I’m sorry,” he murmured as he put the ring on my finger. “I’m sorry you have to marry someone like me.” I looked at him. His eyes were kind, and even stripped of his fortune, he radiated an inherent class. “It’s fine,” I told him. “I don’t really care.” He blinked, then let out a low, slightly bitter laugh. The short ritual ended. We cut the small cake, toasted the guests, and collected the few envelopes of cash. Then Clark said, “Let’s go home.” Home. The word sounded alien. 4 Our new home was a cramped, walk-up apartment on the sixth floor of a building on the city’s industrial outskirts. Clark carried my two light suitcases, his footsteps heavy as he climbed the stairs. I followed, listening to his labored breathing. He looked back, his eyes full of apology. “I apologize for the state of things. I know this isn’t what you’re used to.” I looked around. “It’s good. It’s quiet.” He managed a small smile and opened the door. The apartment was small, maybe six hundred square feet, a one-bedroom. But it was spotless. Simple, clean furniture, neat curtains, and a freshly washed duvet drying on the balcony railing. “I spent all day yesterday cleaning,” he confessed, looking slightly vulnerable. “I hope you can manage here.” Gazing at the small space, I felt a flicker of warmth. “I’ll be fine.” He set the suitcases in the bedroom and then pulled out a wad of crumpled bills from his pocket and placed them in my hand. “This is everything I have left.” “Four hundred dollars. I start doing delivery tomorrow. I’ll earn money, and I promise, I’ll take care of you.” I took the bills. They were wrinkled but organized, and they held the residual warmth of his palm. “Keep these,” I pushed the money back. “You’ll need them for gas and expenses when you’re out there hustling. What will you do without any cash?” I met his eyes openly, without a hint of judgment or disgust. “You don’t resent me?” he asked, his gaze holding a small, almost desperate hope. “No. Surviving is the only thing that matters.” A complex emotion flashed in his eyes, dissolving into a quiet sigh. “Alice, you are truly…” He didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what he meant. He probably thought I was easily fooled. That night, we had a simple dinner. He boiled ramen and added two eggs. “My cooking is terrible,” he warned. “You’ll have to make do.” “It’s good,” I insisted. I meant it. The simple, humble meal had a genuine, homemade flavor. Afterward, he went straight to the sink to do the dishes. I sat on the sofa, watching his broad back in the tiny kitchen, and a thought occurred to me: Maybe this life wouldn’t be so bad. When it was time for bed, he very politely offered to sleep on the sofa. “Don’t worry,” I said. “The bed is big enough. We can share.” I meant sleep. Just that. He froze for a long moment, then retreated to the sofa. “Let’s wait until you’ve settled in.” I lay in bed, and through the partially open door, I could see his tall frame curled up uncomfortably on the short sofa. An unfamiliar feeling stirred inside me. This man, Clark, might be better than I expected. 5 Married life was quiet. Clark did indeed start working as a delivery driver. He left at six every morning and didn’t return until ten at night. He fought the wind and the rain, always coming home exhausted. But every single day, he brought me a small gift. The first day was a small, palm-sized slice of cheesecake. The cream was slightly melted. “I passed a bakery,” he explained. “Remembered you said you liked sweets.” I loved them. The slice probably cost five dollars, but I ate it happily. The second day was a gourmet coffee, still warm. “Thought you might be thirsty.” The third day was a bag of artisanal cookies. The fourth day was a fresh fruit salad. None of it was expensive, but it was all exactly what I liked. I finally asked, “How did you know I like all this?” “A guess,” he smiled wearily. “You just look like someone who enjoys something sweet.” He was uncannily accurate. Seeing him struggle through the day, yet still remember to bring me these small things, warmed me. Still, the heir to the Blackwood Group, reduced to delivering food to support us. It was a dizzying twist of fate. I felt I should contribute. I couldn’t just be a burden. So, before my honeymoon was over, I went back to the office. On my first day, I was handed a termination letter. I was confused; I’d been a diligent employee. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” The HR manager looked at me with complex pity. “Alice, think hard. Have you offended anyone recently?” I thought and thought, but I couldn’t pinpoint who I might have crossed. When I got home, Clark didn’t criticize me. He just brought out a pastry he’d bought and set it in front of me. “Eat,” he said gently. “Nothing is more important than eating.” What a truly good person. But I couldn’t be a leech on him; I had to prove my worth! I decided to cook him a meal. I had never stepped foot in the kitchen growing up. Although I wasn’t the favorite, my parents still had a housekeeper. I didn’t even know the basics of stirring a pot. But I figured, how hard could it be? I almost burned the building down. I was trying to sauté some spinach, but I used too much oil and misjudged the heat. A sudden burst of flames erupted from the pan. Panicked, I grabbed a glass of water and splashed it on the fire, which only made it bigger. Amidst the rolling smoke, I heard the door open. “Alice Reed!” Clark rushed in, turned off the burner, and smothered the fire with a wet towel. “What are you doing?!” “I… I wanted to make you dinner.” Tears streamed down my face from the smoke. He looked at the wreckage, then at me, and finally let out a helpless, almost hysterical sigh. “Are you hurt?” He checked my hands anxiously. “Did you burn yourself?” “No. But I promise, I’ll get it right next time.” He quickly stopped me. “No, please. Stay away from the kitchen. I’ll make sure there’s always food.” “But you’re so tired every day…” He cut me off. “I’m not tired. Just stay safe.” He cleaned the kitchen for me and then made me a bowl of ramen. It was the same simple broth, but with extra greens and two eggs. “Never do anything that dangerous again,” he instructed. I nodded. “Okay.” I was obedient. I truly never touched a pot or pan again. Perhaps because he knew I was useless, the food he started bringing home became more lavish. The convenience store sandwiches became refined takeout from actual restaurants, and the simple cakes turned into high-end patisserie specialties. Sometimes, he brought fruits, imported chocolate, or expensive deli items. My anxiety grew as I ate. Could a gig-economy driver really be making this much money? I couldn’t help but ask, “Are you pushing yourself too hard? Maybe you should take a day off.” He just smiled. “It’s no trouble. As long as you like it.” But I could see the fatigue. He was exhausted every night, sometimes with scrapes on his hands—presumably from rough handling or a bike crash. I felt terrible. He was working so hard for me, and I couldn’t help him at all. Then I remembered the jewelry. I had some things at my parents’ house—vintage pieces my grandmother had left me. If I could get them and sell them, maybe it would make his life easier.

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The challenge was trending online: “Call your husband and ask for money to buy something.” The wives at the table were dissolving in laughter. Mrs. Davies asked for a handbag; fifty grand hit her account instantly. Mrs. Rodriguez asked for a necklace; thirty grand, cleared. When it was my turn, my palms were sweating, especially since my sister-in-law, Vivienne Lane, was also present—the perpetually grieving widow of Gideon’s older brother. “Maybe I shouldn’t…” I tried to demur. Vivienne suddenly spoke up, her voice honey-soft, “If Mia feels awkward, I can go first.” Before I could react, she had already dialed my husband, Gideon Thorne. The line connected. 1. Mrs. Thorne—the group had always called me Mrs. Thorne, but somehow, I felt like the placeholder—set her phone down, her eyes sweeping over us. “You all saw the viral challenge, right? Call your husband, ask for money for a splurge, and see who’s the most enthusiastic about spending.” A low hum of laughter filled the private dining room. The other wives feigned shyness but their eyes were bright with competitive excitement. Mrs. Davies went first, cooing that she’d spotted a vintage Cartier. Fifty thousand dollars was instantly transferred. Mrs. Rodriguez followed, mentioning a rare art print. Thirty thousand dollars landed in her bank app before she hung up. When it came to Mrs. Allen, her husband was in a board meeting. He spoke in a low, muffled voice, promising a transfer later, but still sent two thousand instantly as a placeholder. “Amelia, you’re up,” Mrs. Thorne said, turning her attention to me. I gripped my phone, my palm already damp. To be honest, I didn’t want to play this game—not today, not with Vivienne Lane here. Vivienne sat in a corner booth, wearing a simple, pale linen dress, holding her five-year-old son, Callum, on her lap. Her husband, Gideon’s older brother, had died in a car accident two years ago. “Maybe I should skip it…” I tried to find an excuse. “Oh, come on, everyone’s done it!” Mrs. Thorne insisted, nudging me. Vivienne looked up abruptly, her voice soft and tender. “If Mia’s having trouble, I’ll go again.” Before I could protest, she had dialed Gideon’s number. It rang once. He picked up. 2. “Hello, Gideon?” Vivienne’s voice was the sound of a silk ribbon unwinding. “I’m having tea with Mia and the others. Callum saw a new remote-control drone he wants, but my account is a little low…” “How much? I’ll send it now.” Gideon’s voice, muffled but clearly audible through the speaker, was gentle. Alarmingly gentle. “Twelve hundred is plenty, thank you, Gideon.” “Sent.” She hung up and smiled at me. “Your turn, Mia.” The room went quiet. All eyes were on me. I took a deep breath, and pressed Gideon’s speed dial. BEEP—BEEP—BEEP— The waiting felt endless. One ring, two rings, three rings… until it went straight to voicemail. He hadn’t answered. Mrs. Thorne tried to smooth things over. “He must be busy, Mia. Try again?” I dialed a second time. It rang only twice this time before being deliberately hung up. Click. My face burned. The humiliation was a physical thing, spreading from my cheeks to my neck. I set the phone down and managed a brittle smile. “He must be in a meeting.” “If my husband hung up on me, he’d be sleeping on the uncomfortable guest room air mattress for a month,” Mrs. Davies joked, trying to lighten the mood. Vivienne softly stroked Callum’s hair, then spoke. “Tell you what, I’ll call him back. I’ll say I’m doing it for you, Mia.” She picked up her phone, dialed, and put it on speaker. This time, the phone connected instantly. 3. “What’s wrong, Vivi? Didn’t the money go through?” Gideon’s background noise was noisy, like an office floor. Vivienne shot me a quick, almost imperceptible glance of triumph. She spoke warmly, “It went through fine, Gideon. I just wanted to say thank you again. I’ll let you get back to work now.” The call ended. The dining room was silent as a tomb. I sat there, suddenly convinced the air conditioning was too cold. It felt frigid, numbing my fingertips. Mrs. Thorne cleared her throat and started talking about a recent charity gala. Vivienne leaned toward me, her light, woody perfume—the same scent Gideon’s car always carried—drifting into my space. “Mia, don’t overthink it,” she said, loud enough for everyone to hear. “Gideon just feels sorry for me and Callum, being alone. He’s just being charitable.” I nodded, unable to speak. Mrs. Thorne and the others exchanged a knowing, loaded look, then quickly smiled, praising Gideon for being so loyal and kind-hearted. 4. I got home around seven that evening. Gideon was on the living room sofa, reading files. He didn’t look up when I walked in. I kicked off my heels and stood in the doorway, just looking at him. The warm glow of the lamps outlined the familiar curve of his profile—the face I had secretly loved throughout my entire adolescence. But looking at it now, my chest felt heavy, like it was stuffed with wet cotton. “Why didn’t you answer my call today?” I heard my voice, thin and unsteady. He turned a page in his file, as if just recalling the event, his tone dismissive. “I was in a conference call.” “But you answered Vivienne’s call immediately.” He finally lifted his head, a slight frown creasing his brow. “Mia, do you have to compare yourself to her?” “I’m not comparing. I just wanted to know…” “Know what?” He put the files down, annoyance clear in his voice. “My brother is gone. Vivienne is a single mother with a young child. What is the harm in me looking out for her? Can’t you stop being so petty?” It was always this way. Any time the conversation circled back to Vivienne, the logic would twist, and somehow, I would always end up being the wrong one. 5. “I am not being petty!” I raised my voice. “I am your wife! I deserve a basic level of respect and dignity!” Gideon looked at me as if I’d told a terrible joke. He walked over, his tall frame looming, radiating an oppressive authority. “Amelia, I told you when I married you: My brother entrusted Vivienne to my care. It is my responsibility to look after her. You promised you would understand and support me, didn’t you? What, are you regretting it now?” I remembered our wedding day, when he held my hand in front of our friends and family, promising a lifetime of devotion. I also remembered the words he whispered to me right after the ceremony: “Mia, my brother’s death was sudden. We need to help his widow, okay?” Back then, I was moved. I thought he was a man of honor. Now, I felt like a pathetic fool. “Gideon,” I took a deep, shuddering breath, the tears finally starting to fall against my will. “What exactly am I to you?” He watched me cry, a flicker of irritation in his eyes before he looked away. “You are my wife. But that does not give you the right to act like a demanding child and make Vivienne’s life harder.” He paused, his voice softening slightly. “Mia, I thought you were more understanding.” Understanding him picking Callum up from school every day. Understanding him remembering all of Vivienne’s preferences. Understanding him ditching our wedding anniversary dinner to celebrate Vivienne’s birthday. Understanding it to the point that strangers commented Vivienne looked more like Gideon’s wife than I did. How much more was there to give? “I’m tired. I’m going to shower.” I turned and headed for the stairs. He spoke to my back. “Vivienne and Callum are coming for dinner tomorrow. Make sure you prepare some dishes Callum likes.” I didn’t answer. 6. In the shower, the bathroom filled with steam. I looked at my reflection in the fogged-up mirror and felt like a stranger. When had this face lost its smile? When had it become so worn and exhausted? My phone buzzed. It was a text from Vivienne: Mia, please don’t be angry about today. Gideon is just a genuinely good person. I didn’t reply. My finger slid to Gideon’s chat window. The last message was mine, from yesterday: Cramping badly. Could use my husband to rub my back. He hadn’t replied. Ten minutes ago, Vivienne had posted a photo on Instagram: a struggling succulent plant. I’m so silly, I can’t even keep a little plant alive. Gideon was the first comment. Don’t worry. I’m on my way over to check on it. I’ll buy you a new one. The best kind. I estimated I could die, and it would be a minor inconvenience. Her little plant dying was a national emergency. 7. Vivienne arrived the next afternoon with Callum, just as expected. Her eyes were red and slightly swollen. She rushed toward me and took my hand. “Mia, I came specifically to apologize. Yesterday, I honestly didn’t mean to hurt you. I just… I got used to reaching out to Gideon’s brother when I needed help, and I didn’t think about how it looked. Please, can you forgive me?” Her posture was meek, but behind her, Callum shot into my house like a tiny missile, shrieking and running wild. “Callum, that’s enough!” Vivienne called out half-heartedly, but didn’t move her feet. I watched him clamber onto my treasured display cabinet and sweep my entire high-end perfume collection onto the floor. Glass shattered. The expensive, complex scents mixed into a nauseating cloud. “What are you doing!” I rushed over, heartbroken. “Nyah, nyah! Mean lady! This is my uncle’s house! I can break whatever I want!” Callum made a face at me, then ran toward the sofa, picking up the remote control and throwing it hard at the flatscreen TV. Vivienne finally strolled over. Looking at the mess, her eyes welled up instantly. “I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry. Callum never had a father, and I spoiled him… It’s all my fault…” 8. Just as the last word left her lips, Gideon appeared, walking down the staircase. He was in loungewear, his hair slightly rumpled. “Daddy!” Callum rushed him like a small, explosive toy, and Gideon scooped him up. I froze, looking at Gideon. He avoided my eyes. “Callum, don’t call him that,” Vivienne gently corrected, but her voice lacked any real conviction. “He is my daddy! He is!” Gideon patted the boy’s back and looked at Vivienne. “What happened? You look terrible.” Vivienne didn’t speak, she just let the tears fall. “Gideon, please tell Mia not to be angry. I just… I’m alone with Callum, and sometimes I panic. I always think of you first…” “No one is blaming you,” Gideon said, his voice softening. “Don’t worry about it.” Her shoulders shook with sobs, a picture of delicate sorrow. Gideon put his arm around her. When he looked up at me again, his eyes were cold. “Amelia, what did you say to her now?” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. Vivienne’s voice was faint and trembling. “Gideon, I need to ask you something… Could you and Mia… put off having children for a while? Just until I’m more stable, until Callum is a little older and can handle it better… I know it’s a huge ask, but I’m so afraid…” 9. “This…” “I…” I started to speak. Vivienne suddenly dropped to her knees. “Vivi!” Gideon was startled. He put Callum down and rushed to help her up. “Gideon, I’m begging you…” Vivienne wept, her face tear-streaked. “Can you and Mia just… wait on having a baby?” The air froze solid. I stood there, feeling utterly paralyzed. Vivienne sobbed, continuing, “Callum already thinks of you as his father… If you have your own child, where will we stand? What will happen to us? Will there even be a place for us in this family anymore?” As she spoke, she secretly reached out and pinched Callum’s arm, hard. Callum immediately let out a painful, ear-splitting scream. The sound was hideous. Gideon picked the child up again, holding him close. Vivienne cried harder. “Callum is terrified, Gideon.” He was silent for a long time. Then, he looked up and met my gaze. “Mia,” he said. “Let’s hold off on a baby for now, okay?” The light, effortless sentence was a blunt knife, slowly twisting in my heart. I stared into his eyes, looking for a flicker of hesitation, a touch of guilt, any sign that he considered my feelings. There was nothing. Only reluctant compromise and pity for the mother and son in his arms. “Fine,” I heard myself say. “Whatever you want.” Gideon let out a deep sigh of relief, helping Vivienne stand up. “Get up, the floor is cold. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. Always.” Vivienne leaned against his shoulder, quietly sobbing. Through her tears, she looked past him at me, and the corner of her mouth lifted in the faintest, quickest curve. It was the smile of a victor.

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Our wedding day. My fiancé, Harrison Kent, was killed in a catastrophic car crash on his way to pick me up. I became a widow before I could say “I do.” The child I was carrying became the Kent heir, an orphan before birth. The shock shattered me. I descended into a darkness I couldn’t escape, grappling with a severe depression that whispered suicide into my ear countless times. Everyone, including my mother-in-law, pleaded with me to cling to life for the sake of the baby. The funeral was a blur. The only thing that pierced the fog was the arrival of his elder brother, who flew back from his work overseas. He had the exact same eyes, the same sharp jawline as Harry. Watching him, I kept slipping into a daze, confusing the living with the dead. It was during one of these moments of confused grief, standing outside my mother-in-law’s bedroom, that I heard them talking. “You faked your death and ditched your wedding for this woman? And you let Stella believe she was a widow and put her life at risk? The child she’s carrying is yours, Harrison! You staged this entire charade just so you could bring that… that forbidden obsession home?” The silence stretched, thick and suffocating. Finally, the soft, low voice of my “brother-in-law” drifted out. “Zara has maybe six months left, tops. The doctors confirmed the diagnosis. This is her only wish. Once those six months are up, Stella will have given birth, and everything will go back to normal. We’ll be a happy family of three, just as planned.” In that instant, the world stopped spinning, and the fog lifted with brutal clarity. My husband was not dead. The man I’d been seeing for the last two weeks, the man with his sympathetic eyes and shared DNA, was Harrison Kent! I fought a violent shudder, gripping the edge of the hallway table. Stumbling back to my room, I fumbled for my phone and sent a text to my own brother, Jake, who worked in high-level private security overseas. “Jake, I need you to arrange an accident. A spectacular one. If he wants to play dead, I’ll give Harrison Kent a taste of his own medicine.” 1 My hands were shaking so badly I almost dropped the phone. The conversation from the next room continued to bleed into the stillness. “Do you think this is fair to Stella? She’d have followed you to the grave already if it weren’t for that baby. She’s wasting away, Harry. It’s breaking my heart.” Harrison let out a deep, tired sigh. “But Zara only has half a year, Mom. This is her final plea. I can’t deny her this.” He paused, then his voice grew steadier, colder. “As for Stella, we have a lifetime. I will make this up to her. Don’t worry.” My chest seized up. It felt like a massive, icy hand had clamped down on my heart, the pain radiating to my limbs, stealing my breath. I stumbled into the bedroom, my legs giving out, and I crumpled onto the carpet just as Jake called back. “Stella, what’s going on? What happened? Isn’t Harrison… gone?” I wanted to speak, to scream, but only ragged, uncontrollable sobs escaped. Yes, I thought, to the world, Harrison Kent is dead. Even I couldn’t have imagined he would fake his death, and the reason was a lie about a desperate woman. I didn’t have to explain. Jake must have heard the raw grief and rage in my silence. “I hear you,” he said softly after a long moment. “I’m sending a jet. The night after tomorrow. Everything else will be handled.” When the call ended, I remained frozen in place, the phone still pressed to my ear. That was when a gentle knock came at the door. Standing there, holding a glass of warm milk, was my “brother-in-law.” Or, rather, my husband, Harrison Kent. “Stella, what are you doing on the floor? And why are you crying? Are you thinking about Harry again?” In the two weeks he’d been back, playing the role of the sympathetic, grieving brother, Harrison had been relentlessly kind, almost obsessively concerned about me. Countless times, when his gaze was too genuine, too familiar, I’d fall into a daze. My mother-in-law had always blamed it on my profound sorrow. I quickly locked my phone screen and forced a flimsy smile. “Nothing. Just a bit dizzy. My stomach felt off, and I lost my footing.” Harrison relaxed, placing the milk aside. He carefully helped me up. “This little one is already giving you trouble,” he said, his hand resting fleetingly on my stomach. “Wait until he’s born, I’ll have a word with him.” He paused, his expression softening into a practiced look of concern. “Come on, drink your milk and rest. Don’t dwell on things. Harry wouldn’t rest easy if he saw you like this.” The casual way he spoke his own name, the cold calculation of his performance, finally snapped my last thread of composure. I looked him dead in the eye and spoke the accusation I couldn’t hold back. “Are you absolutely certain,” I asked, each word a hammer blow, “that you’re not Harrison?” 2 Harrison froze, then gave a practiced, gentle chuckle, ruffling my hair like a child’s. “Don’t talk nonsense, Stells. Of course, I’m not Harry. Now, drink this and sleep. I’ll take you to the OB appointment tomorrow. Don’t ignore it; any pain is a big deal right now.” He paused, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “This is the only blood Harry left behind in the world. I have to make sure he arrives safely.” I dropped my gaze, unable to stomach the sheer volume of his manufactured concern. “Please leave. I’m exhausted. I just want to rest.” I waited until the door clicked shut. Then, the tears I’d held back all evening finally erupted. I met Harrison at a college meet-and-greet. He was immediately captivated, launching into a relentless, charming pursuit. We fell in love naturally. Two years after graduation, he gave me a spectacular proposal. I can still recall the fireworks reflecting in his eyes—his eyes, even more dazzling than the dazzling sky. During the wedding planning, I discovered I was pregnant. Harrison’s face had been a mask of pure, unadulterated joy. “The timing is perfect, Stella! He’s here to celebrate Mom and Dad getting married! I’m the luckiest man alive.” Even now, I couldn’t grasp why the man who had held me like precious glass for six years would cheat, and worse, why he would fake his own death to escape a wedding he supposedly longed for. The next morning, Harrison tapped lightly on my door. “Stella, it’s time for your check-up. Are you ready?” Just as we were about to leave, Zara’s voice, thick and sultry, echoed from the hallway. “Harry, darling? I’m not feeling well today. Can you please stay with me?” Harrison didn’t even glance at me. He bolted toward Zara. “Did you forget your meds again? You need to lie down. What if you collapse?” He turned back, his face a practiced blend of apology and irritation. “Sorry, Stella. Your sister-in-law isn’t feeling well. I can’t go with you.” He quickly added, “Don’t worry, the driver is waiting, and I’ve already called the doctor. Just head straight over.” I closed my eyes, fighting back the inevitable burn. When I opened them, I caught the fleeting, unmistakable flicker of triumph on Zara’s face. I didn’t say a word. I simply nodded, turned, and walked straight out of the house. The heavy door closed behind me with a sickening thud. I gently rubbed my abdomen, and the tears finally poured down. The driver dropped me off. Following Harrison’s pre-arranged instructions—I knew he’d suspect something if I didn’t—I went through all the necessary examinations. I sat alone on a sterile hospital bench, studying the ultrasound. The black-and-white image showed a small, peanut-sized circle. The doctor confirmed it: my baby. But I couldn’t raise my child in a world built on a foundation of betrayal and lies, a child who would always wonder why his father had chosen a lie over him. I wiped my face with a brutal swipe and called for an appointment at a different hospital. The Kent family had its own private hospital. If I did this there, Harrison would find out immediately. I called the driver, told him I was going shopping, and dismissed him. Hiding behind the main entrance, I waited until the car disappeared. Then I hailed a cab and headed for the second facility. Just before I was due to go into the operating room, my phone buzzed with a video message. It was Zara. The video, nearly thirty minutes long, showed Harrison consumed by a wild, unrestrained passion. I had never seen him like that. For six years, even in bed, Harrison had always been gentle, careful, afraid to hurt me. Now I understood. He wasn’t naturally reserved; the woman who ignited his fire simply wasn’t me. I watched the clip in a kind of self-inflicted torture, desperate to see the side of him I’d never known. Time melted away. “Ms. Stella Rhodes? Are you alright? It’s time for the procedure.” 3 I didn’t realize I was crying until the nurse spoke to me. I was trembling uncontrollably, the phone clutched so tightly my knuckles were white. And I made a horrifying discovery: I still loved Harrison Kent. He wasn’t an object I could discard when broken, or a friend I could cut off when hurt. He was a living, breathing person, the man I had loved for six years. That love had become a reflex, deep in my bones. The six years of companionship, the years when everyone—myself included—thought he adored me, couldn’t be erased in a single afternoon. I couldn’t do it. I truly couldn’t let go. Remembering the strong little heartbeat the doctor had pointed out, I wiped my tears, took a deep breath, and decided to give him, and the child, one last chance. I called Harrison. “Can you come to the hospital? I need to talk to you.” His voice was hoarse, strained, as if he were trying to suppress something. “Stella, I’m tied up right now. Let the driver bring you home, and we can talk later…” “Ugh…” A muffled groan, and the line went dead, replaced by a mechanical beep. We were adults. I didn’t need a medical degree to know exactly what was “tying him up.” I stared at the phone. Then, I lifted my eyes to the waiting nurse. “Never mind. I’m ready now. Let’s do the surgery.” It was dark by the time I got home. The moment I stepped through the door, Harrison rushed to greet me. “The driver said you went shopping. Why are you empty-handed? Didn’t you find anything you liked?” He stopped short, noticing my swollen, bloodshot eyes. “Stella, what happened? Why are your eyes so puffy? Did the appointment make you miss Harry again? It’s okay. The baby is his legacy; he’s a piece of him for you.” He paused, then added, “Oh, and you said you had something to tell me?” I studied his face: devastatingly handsome, just as before. His eyes reflected my image, exactly as they had in the video Zara sent that afternoon. I lowered my gaze, deliberately avoiding his. “It was nothing. I just wanted to ask if there was anything you or… your wife wanted me to bring home.” Harrison’s shoulders visibly slumped with relief. “Go and rest, then. You must be exhausted. I’ll tell the housekeeper to make your favorite tonight.” I nodded and walked straight to my room without another word. I must have been truly spent because I fell asleep the moment my head hit the pillow. In a hazy dream, I saw eighteen-year-old Harrison again. He stood before me, his cheeks flushed, confessing his feelings. “Stella Rhodes, I’m crazy about you. Will you be my girlfriend?” he’d asked. “I promise I’ll be good to you. Forever.” Whether it was the enchanting sunset or the genuine spark in his eyes, I don’t know. But that day, I nodded. I woke up to bright daylight. Since hearing the news of Harrison’s supposed death, this was the most peaceful sleep I’d had. I was still sitting on the bed, dazed, when the door swung open. Zara walked in, a triumphant smirk plastered on her face. “You know why I sent you that video yesterday, don’t you? You really think he’s your dead husband’s brother, and I’m your sympathetic sister-in-law?” 4 I didn’t answer her, only internally mocking my own willful blindness. When I first heard the news of Harrison’s accident, the shock and my pregnancy-induced fragility had made me pass out. When I woke up, my mother-in-law told me the body had already been cremated. They even used my fragile condition as an excuse to prevent me from attending the funeral. Every single step had been a massive red flag. But for six years, Harrison and I had been the couple everyone admired. He was always perfect. It never occurred to me that he would use this to escape a commitment. Then the mysterious older brother from overseas appeared with his international wife. I was perpetually confused, yes, but I never once considered the possibility of a fake death—not until I overheard Harrison and his mother’s conversation. Zara took my silence as confirmation. Her smile widened, predatory and knowing. “A woman always knows another woman’s tricks. When you were so eager to get out of the house for your appointment yesterday, I knew something was wrong. You figured it out.” She leaned closer, her eyes glittering. “You must be dying to know why he cheated, right? Why he faked his death just to be with me? Ha! Do you know what he says about you behind your back?” The venom in her voice was palpable. “He says you’re bland. Predictable. He said that after so long, sleeping with you was like performing a mandatory duty. But with me? It’s different. I can make him forget everything. I can make him absolutely lose control. He calls me his ‘beautiful black pearl,’ says women like me have a deeper, richer kind of fire…” My heart hammered against my ribs. A volcanic rage surged through me, threatening to erupt. I couldn’t stop myself. My hand flew out and delivered a stinging slap across her face. Zara clutched her cheek, a scream of outrage dying on her lips as Harrison’s shout sliced through the air. “Stella! What the hell are you doing?” The triumph in Zara’s eyes instantly melted into theatrical, heartbroken victimhood. “She hit me, Harry! I just came to offer her some comfort because she’s been so sad about you… I mean, her husband. I know she’s grieving, but she can’t just attack me!” Harrison stared at Zara’s red cheek, then rounded on me, his face twisted in fury. “Stella Rhodes, she is your sister-in-law!” I ignored the accusation. I looked him straight in the eyes, my voice dangerously calm. “I ask you again, Harrison. Is she really my sister-in-law?” Harrison flinched, startled by the coldness in my gaze. Before he could answer, Zara grabbed his arm, clinging to him. “Harry, come back to the room with me. I really don’t feel well.” He hesitated, his lips parted as if he wanted to say something else, but ultimately, he allowed Zara to pull him away. I stared at the closed door, numb. My reflection showed a woman who had just realized her entire adult life had been a lie. Then, Jake’s message came through. “The jet has landed.” I took a final, deep breath, got up, and placed the letter I’d already prepared into the nightstand drawer. I wanted Harrison to be the one to find the suicide note after he learned of my death. I wanted him to read my words, to see that my love for him was so profound it drove me to this end. I wanted him to live every day in agonizing guilt. I wanted him to suffer a fate worse than death. I didn’t pack anything. With only my ID and bank card, I walked out of the room, only to run right into Harrison, who was emerging from Zara’s bedroom. Seeing me, he looked conflicted, but his pretense held fast. “I’m sorry about just now, Stella. I shouldn’t have yelled. But you can’t hit your sister-in-law…” I cut him off with a raised hand. “I’m going for a walk. Just a long one. You stay home and take good care of your brother… and your wife.” I put heavy, deliberate emphasis on the titles. Harrison seemed oblivious, or maybe just relieved. “A walk is a good idea. Fresh air will help. Don’t be too late, though. I’ve asked the cook to prepare your favorite dinner.” I nodded. As I brushed past him, my eyes narrowed. Harrison Kent. You loved the theatrical flair of faking your death. Now, accept the grand gesture I’ve prepared for you.

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After five years of marriage and a coast-to-coast commuter relationship, my husband suddenly bought our ten-year-old son a pair of toddler shoes—a tiny Size 8. The problem? Our son, Finn, wears a Youth Size 5. I almost laughed, posting a picture of the miniature shoes next to Finn’s enormous sneakers on a popular mom forum. I figured it was a funny story about a distant dad. The comments, however, were not amused. @MomTruths: That’s a delivery for the second family, sweetie. You know the drill. @UnpackingIt: A size or two off, sure. But toddler vs. ten-year-old? Girl, you’re about to meet your husband’s mini-me. Grab the popcorn. @TeaAndTears: The internet is never wrong about a cheating man. Settle in. @RealityCheck: The wife always figures it out with a suspicious Amazon order. Keep us posted! 01 I read through the avalanche of comments with a knot in my stomach. I quickly edited my original post. @StellaM: Relax, everyone! My husband, Ryan, said the seller shipped the wrong size. He already messaged them. The internet was relentless. @KeyboardSleuth: Have him send the order screenshot. We need receipts. @Gotcha: Screenshots can be faked. You need to see the original order page. Good luck, sis. The pressure mounted. It’s just a screenshot, I thought. An easy way to shut down the drama and keep the chat going with Ryan. I texted him: Ryan, can you send me a screenshot of the shoe order history? Just to prove it was a shipping error. The “Read” receipt popped up instantly. Silence. Then more silence. A cold dread seeped in. Could the internet sleuths actually be right? No. Impossible. Even with the distance—him in Riverton, me in the old house—we called and FaceTimed every single day. Our relationship was routine, stable. He would never betray me. But then, the strange thing happened. Since that text this morning, he had become unreachable. Every call went straight to a busy signal. My stomach was officially churning. When I got home, my mother-in-law, Mrs. Carter, had already picked up Finn from school and was busy cooking a large, steaming dinner. At the table, I held up the two shoes like props in a tragicomedy. “Mom, look at this. Ryan bought Finn the wrong shoes.” Mrs. Carter glanced at the shoes, the tiny one next to the big one. She didn’t laugh. The easy warmth in her eyes solidified into a strained, I-know-something-you-don’t look. After a long, uncomfortable silence, she managed a strained, awkward smile. “Oh, that online shopping stuff? You young people and your apps. I don’t understand any of it.” Then, she ate with unnatural speed and grabbed a mop, starting to clean the living room floor while staring fixedly at the front door. That was the first real flag. Normally, Mrs. Carter would dash out the minute I walked in, claiming my father-in-law, Mr. Carter, needed his dinner. What was she waiting for tonight? A knock landed on the door. “Package return?” a voice called out. Mrs. Carter dropped the mop and snatched up the toddler shoes. “Yes, yes. Right here. The return.” 02 The woman who claimed to know nothing about online shopping handled the return with the efficiency of a seasoned pro. Then she grabbed her bag and coat. “Well, I need to get home and make dinner for your father. Since it’s Saturday tomorrow, I’ll pick up Finn again on Monday afternoon.” I started to reach for her, wanting to ask why she was so desperate to handle the return, when I saw it: the lens of the home security camera on the living room wall was panning back and forth. Ryan was watching. “Okay, Mom. Drive safe.” I forced a smile. She was gone without a backward glance. I sat down with Finn, telling him to eat. A few minutes later, my phone rang. I expected Ryan. Instead, my father-in-law’s enraged voice roared over the line. “How can you be so selfish, Stella? What kind of wife has a pure life of luxury like you do?” “Ryan is out there, year after year, earning money for this family while your mother-in-law runs herself ragged picking up the kid, buying groceries, cooking. She’s turned into your housekeeper.” “And you? All you do is stir up trouble. When is it going to end…” He was cut off by the sound of a door opening, followed by Mrs. Carter’s voice, high and cheerful. “Oh, darling! Call Ryan right now! Tell him the problem is perfectly solved…” “Shh! Shut up!” Mr. Carter snapped. “Why are you late? I thought you were in trouble over a pair of ridiculous shoes… Don’t say a word, I’m talking to Finn’s mother.” I could barely hear him, muffled as he tried to cover the mouthpiece. He must have thought I couldn’t. He lowered his voice back into the phone. “Look, you need to show some respect for Ryan and your mother-in-law. Don’t embarrass Ryan, and stop spending so much money! I’m hanging up now!” I froze. I was stunned by the coordinated operation of the Carter family. Everything—the panic, the cover-up, the aggressive phone call—seemed to confirm the online comments. I made a vow right there. If Ryan couldn’t give me a full, transparent explanation tonight, I was done. It wasn’t until bedtime that Ryan finally FaceTimed me. He looked completely normal. “Hey, honey. Did Dad throw another one of his fits?” “Don’t worry about him. He goes through phases. He’s just getting old and noisy. Don’t take it personally.” I gave him a cool look. “And?” Ryan quickly jumped in. “Oh, right. I was in meetings all day. Just finished up. Mom and Dad are just getting old, Stella. Don’t mind anything Dad said. It’s not worth the stress.” I wasn’t a fool. Ryan was deliberately shifting the conflict to his parents, hoping I’d drop the issue of the wrong shoes in the resulting haze. I couldn’t take the gaslighting anymore. “Ryan. What about the toddler shoes? What exactly is going on?” 03 Ryan paused, acting as if he’d forgotten the whole thing. “Oh, the shoes! Yeah, I returned them. I had Mom handle it because I knew you’d be at work.” He was still avoiding the screenshot request, still playing the idiot. “Send me the order screenshot, Ryan.” “Fine, just a sec.” He disconnected the video. Three minutes later, a screenshot arrived. The time was right—10:20 p.m. tonight. The shoe style was right. Only the size was different: Youth Size 6 (37-yard) instead of Finn’s size 5 (36-yard). A slight miscalculation, but normal. The screenshot looked perfectly legitimate. Was I just being paranoid today? But I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was wrong. Did he even know Finn’s actual shoe size? I was frustrated, unable to pinpoint the flaw. Then, I remembered my secret weapon: the all-knowing internet forum. I posted the screenshot in the comments, making it the pinned reply. The responses were instantaneous. @PhotoshopPro: Obviously photoshopped the size. @CaseClosed: Confirmed. The internet wins again! I was stumped. I asked them how they knew. Two replies stood out, racking up hundreds of likes. @FootwearExpert: Kids’ shoes are split into two lines: Toddler/Little Kid (max Size 11) and Big Kid/Youth (min Size 12). A single model rarely crosses that boundary. A light bulb went off. That’s why the image felt wrong! The style was clearly for a little kid, yet the screenshot claimed it was a big kid size. @AppSleuth: That screenshot is clearly from a sketchy third-party seller on Amazon. I went to that store. They don’t carry that shoe in Size 6, only up to Size 11 Toddler. I quickly checked the app. I found the store, but the shoe image was gone. I messaged the user. They quickly replied with a screenshot they’d taken earlier. It showed the toddler shoe, maximum Size 11. @AppSleuth: Lucky I grabbed that. They probably took it down for you. Your husband has connections. The evidence was concrete. Unfalsifiable. Who was Ryan buying shoes for? Just then, Finn wandered into the bedroom after finishing his homework. “Mom, when Grandma picked me up this afternoon, she asked me what size shoes I wore.” I swallowed, my voice tight. “What did you tell her?” Finn looked confused. “I always wear a size 5. But I told her my feet were growing, so maybe I should try a size 6.” Then he leaned in, his voice hushed. “When I was doing my homework, I heard her call Dad. She was telling him I wear a size 6.” The room spun. I braced myself on the dresser, fighting the urge to collapse. Ryan hadn’t been testing me. He had been prepping his lie. I didn’t sleep a wink. 04 The pounding on the door began just as the sun rose. Mr. Carter—my father-in-law—stood alone on the porch. “Stella, pay your mother’s monthly salary. Right now!” My mother-in-law charged me a flat $2,000 a month to pick up Finn, buy groceries, cook, and clean. I was running on zero sleep, and my face must have shown my exhaustion and rage. Mr. Carter took it as defiance and exploded. “Got an attitude, do we? You want to pick a fight over a pair of cheap shoes?” “Does Ryan not work hard enough? Does your mother-in-law not work hard enough? Just pay the money, quick and easy!” Normally, I’d take the high road. I’d rationalize that he was an old man, set in his ways, and just be glad he was healthy. But their overwhelming guilt-fueled defense had stripped away my patience. “Who’s picking a fight? Who’s acting guilty?” I said, blocking the doorway. “You can come back another day. We haven’t been paid yet.” Mr. Carter kicked the door wide open, marching in and planting himself on the sofa like a squatter. “I’m not leaving until you pay!” Finn, startled by the noise, came out of his room and greeted him politely. “Grandpa, you’re here!” Mr. Carter ignored him completely, his face a mask of deep distaste. He actually snorted. “No manners, the lot of you. Big and small.” I didn’t want to scream at 7 a.m. I told Finn to get dressed; we were leaving. Mr. Carter slammed his palm on the coffee table. “You walk out that door, you and the boy are never coming back to the Carter family!” “We don’t want trash in this house!” He was calling me trash, being utterly irrational. I grabbed Finn’s arm. As I pulled the door shut, I met his angry eyes. “This house was bought after we got married. If we divorce, I get half.” Slam. I closed the door on his continued, foul-mouthed raging inside. I was taking Finn to Riverton. On the train, Finn was distraught. “Mom, why don’t Grandma and Grandpa like me?” I was genuinely shocked. “What? They love you, sweetie. You’re their only grandson.” Tears welled in his eyes. “Every day when Grandma picks me up, she looks at me with disgust.” “She always mumbles things under her breath, calling me a curse, asking why I haven’t been hit by a car, and saying you and I are a burden on Dad.” “And Grandpa is worse. I try to talk to him, but he pretends he can’t hear me. Sometimes, the way he looks at me is… scary.” The wrong-sized shoes had been the catalyst, but I now realized the marriage had been rotten for a long time. What is the truth? 05 Ryan and I had been married for twelve years. Five years ago, his job relocated to Riverton. It was only fifty-five miles away—a manageable distance. We agreed to pool our savings and bought a small 450-square-foot loft apartment there instead of renting. He used to come home every weekend. Now, it was once a month. A year ago, he was promoted to manager, and the visits stretched to once every four to six weeks. My job was demanding, and I rarely took Finn there. I was about to find out if the distance was due to a heavy workload or a heavy conscience. Midway through the journey, I checked the forum again. @DivorceLaw: This happens all the time. Guys hide their income, run two households, and have two sets of kids. Get ready for the drama. @SleuthLife: Looking forward to the catch! Even now, I found it hard to believe Ryan was cheating. He made $8,000 a month, sent $4,000 to me, $2,000 to his parents (the childcare fee), and kept $2,000 for himself. That $2,000 had to cover his food, utilities, apartment fees, and all his travel between two cities. How could he afford to support another person? Even if he was cheating, the kid couldn’t be his. I clung to that thought. I didn’t actually expect to find anything incriminating. My father-in-law had seen me leave with luggage and would definitely call Ryan. Finn and I took the earliest train, arriving at the Riverton apartment complex at 9 a.m. The apartment was on the 16th floor. It was empty. Ryan answered his phone, claiming he was stuck at work, tied up with a backlog. I hung up and took Finn straight to Ryan’s office. The front desk was manned by a young, attractive woman named Brooke Jennings. She was overly friendly and beaming at us. “You must be the family here for the annual Appreciation Dinner! Please, wait here.” The Family Appreciation Dinner? This was the first I’d heard of it. “Whose family are you? I’ve never seen you before.” She was still smiling, but the smile vanished when I said Ryan Carter’s name. Her face went pale, as if she’d been struck by lightning. “R-Ryan… Mr. Carter? You’re Ryan’s family?” Finn, excited, piped up. “Yes! He’s my dad, Ryan Carter. He hasn’t been home in ages, so we came to visit!” Brooke looked like the soul had been sucked out of her body. Her eyes glassed over. A single tear rolled down her cheek, and she didn’t even notice. She ushered us into a reception room, her shoulders slumped, then she fled. I didn’t need any more confirmation. Though the pain was sharp, the truth was already obvious. Ryan burst through the door minutes later, looking livid. “Stella, what are you doing here? You should have waited for me at the apartment.” “Dad!” Finn rushed toward him. Ryan barely acknowledged him with a curt “Hmm.” Then he glared at me. “Do you really need to cross fifty-five miles just because of a misplaced shoe order?” I pulled Finn back, who was already retreating, his face crestfallen. If he didn’t treat my son like a treasure, I wasn’t going to treat him with respect. “Your front-desk receptionist called me,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “She said there’s a Family Appreciation Dinner at noon.” “How could you forget to tell me about such an important event?” 06 I tossed the bait out, wanting to see him squirm. Ryan actually stammered. “T-the receptionist? Brooke told you? What else did she say?” I shook my head, silently watching his pathetic performance. He recovered quickly. “Oh, that? It’s nothing, really. Just a dinner and some stupid speeches.” I countered immediately. “How can it be meaningless? I’m the one on the home front, taking care of your parents and our child. My support is the only reason you’ve been able to focus on your career in Riverton.” Ryan was distracted, darting his eyes around the office. He was clearly worried. “You don’t want me there, do you? Are you embarrassed by me?” His anxious, panicked expression was almost comical. “Listen, you both need to go back home. Wait for me there. I’ll take you out for a nice dinner tonight.” He was desperate to get rid of us. Finn was already pouting. Seeing his desperation, I refused to move. Ryan’s face darkened. “Fine! If you’re going to be so difficult, I’m not going either! This is ruined!” He grabbed my arm, attempting to drag us out. Not a chance. I pulled away and walked through the office, Finn trailing behind. Luckily, we ran into Ryan’s boss. At noon, the Family Appreciation Dinner began. Including the department head, Mr. Wallace, there were twenty or so people packed around a large table, representing eight families. Mr. Wallace raised his glass. “The company is thriving, and your incomes are growing.” “We owe the biggest thank you to the silent partners—the spouses who hold down the fort. As they say, a woman is half the sky. Your sacrifices are deeply appreciated.” He drained his glass, then looked at me. “We especially need to acknowledge Ryan’s wife, Stella Miller, this year. Five years, and you’ve finally decided to grace us with your presence!” The dinner was an annual event. And Ryan had lied about it every time. I immediately stood up, offering a sincere-looking apology. “Mr. Wallace, I’m so sorry. I’m afraid this is all Ryan’s fault—he never once mentioned the Appreciation Dinner.” “Thank you for the acknowledgement, sir. As the stay-behind spouse, I take great pride in looking after Ryan’s parents and our child.” The moment I finished, a hush fell over the table. Everyone looked at each other. Ryan shot me a murderous look, clearly not believing my sudden, blunt honesty.

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My brother, Cam, and I were halfway to Grandma Elsie’s house for New Year’s Eve when we had the fight. He’d barely said a word since we left Northport, the cold anger radiating off him like a personal blizzard. He left me at a rest stop off the I-95 and drove straight back. By the time I finally reached Grandma Elsie’s house in Blackwood, it was New Year’s Day. Seeing me alone, my grandmother’s face went slack with shock. “You walked all the way back? Where is your brother?” I froze. I realized I couldn’t remember why Cam and I had fought. Grandma Elsie’s face hardened. She took one look at my broken, blistered feet, and then took me to the town clinic. When the results came back, she collapsed into tears and called Cam. “You bastard! Don’t you know your sister has a brain tumor?” “How could you leave her on the highway? She walked for over twelve hours! Her feet are ruined!” Cam’s voice, cold and dismissive, was loud enough to hear. “You two are working together to manipulate me. I told you, Joss’s birthday is tonight. I’m not going back for any of your melodrama.” He hung up. Grandma Elsie’s eyes rolled back, and she fainted. In the ensuing chaos, I heard the doctor call my name. “Charlotte Elton, the surgery window is closed.” “Notify the family. You need to start making funeral arrangements.” My breathing stalled for a few seconds. I looked at the doctor, the words echoing in my mind. I felt a ghost of a memory, a chilling sense of déjà vu, that I had heard this exact phrase before. But the memory was slippery, gone as soon as I tried to grasp it. The doctor sighed. “The tumor is pressing on a nerve. It’s normal for your memory to be poor.” “Don’t you have a brother? You need to call him. From now on, you can’t be alone.” My heart plummeted into darkness. My body felt ice cold. Grandma Elsie stirred slightly on the examination table, as if sensing my terror. I gripped her hand and asked the doctor, “Is Grandma really okay?” The doctor patted my shoulder reassuringly. “Don’t worry. Your grandmother is just emotionally overwhelmed. She’ll wake up soon.” “Young woman, your situation is more urgent.” I nodded numbly, watching the doctor leave. I pulled my phone from my pocket. It was dead. After charging it, a torrent of notifications flooded in. Missed calls. All from Grandma Elsie. She had called me nearly a hundred times during those twelve hours I’d walked alone. Tears sprang to my eyes. I searched through the texts. I found only one from Cam. Didn’t pick up Grandma’s calls. Let me know when you get home. I called him. The phone rang for an agonizing length of time before he picked up, his voice clipped. “What do you want?” I couldn’t stop myself from shouting, “You’ve put Grandma in the hospital! Is Jocelyn more important than her? You need to get—” Beep… Beep… Beep… He hung up before I could finish. I stared at the screen in disbelief. Another text popped up instantly. I don’t have time for your drama on New Year’s. I’ll pick you up on the sixth. My heart hammered against my ribs. I called him again. It went straight to voicemail. I kept hitting redial, my rage burning. After a few minutes, the finality set in: I had been blocked. A ball of anger was lodged in my chest, making me shake. Furious, I snatched Grandma’s phone and dialed. The phone rang. He didn’t pick up. I tried a second time. Grandma’s number was now blocked, too. “Cameron Elton, you self-centered bastard!” I screamed the words, the sound tearing from my throat. I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. The hospital room door swung open. A nurse frowned. “This is a hospital, ma’am. Please be quiet.” I scrubbed at my face, tears mixing with snot, and pulled up Jocelyn Day’s Instagram. That night, she’d posted three times. Thanks to my sweet brother for coming back to celebrate with me. Everyone else is doing New Year’s, I get a birthday first! A diamond necklace Cam won for me at a high-end auction—only two in the world. I love it! Have you ever seen a ten-tier birthday cake? I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. My heart felt like it was being flayed alive. Tears hit the phone, blurring the obnoxious sparkle of the diamonds. Suddenly, Cam’s angry voice flashed into my mind: “Charlie, if you can’t be more accepting, you can walk back to Grandma’s yourself!” The intense burst of emotion jolted my memory. I finally remembered the fight. Days ago, Joss had started a dramatic plea, crying that Cam had to stay in Northport for her birthday. Joss was a long-term scholarship recipient—a family mentee Cam felt overly responsible for—and her birthday fell on New Year’s Eve, which she always lamented missing due to family events. Cam was torn. Grandma Elsie was elderly, and the holidays were the only time she saw us. I had tried to be helpful, suggesting we bring Joss along. She recoiled. “That’s your family home. I’d be in the way.” “Besides, you and Grandma don’t like me… I can tell.” As soon as the words left her mouth, Cam had glared at me, his eyes full of displeasure. That day, he announced he was staying. I pleaded with him, using every good and bad argument I had. He wouldn’t budge. It took Grandma Elsie throwing a rare fit for him to reluctantly agree to drive us. But the whole way, his face was set in stone. I saw his resentment and tried carefully to lighten the mood. He snapped. “Just stop, Charlie. I promised Grandma I’d go, and I’ll go. Stop worrying that I’ll leave.” I obediently shut up. Until Joss called, sobbing that she was sick and needed him to come home to check on her. I couldn’t take it. I snatched the phone and screamed at her, “How dare you ask him to abandon Grandma for you?” The call ended. Cam violently slapped me across the face. “What has Joss ever done to you, that you can’t stand her so much?” I was stunned, my mind blank with the shock of the hit. He didn’t even look at me. He slammed the accelerator to the floor, screeching into the nearest rest stop. His voice was cold, leaving no room for argument. “There are regional buses here. Get out.” I stood there, crying, stubbornly refusing to move. I thought he was just angry, that he wouldn’t actually leave me. But when I didn’t move, he got out, marched around to the passenger side, and yanked the door open. He pulled me out onto the cold asphalt. “Call Grandma and tell her I’m not coming back. Don’t let her worry.” He let go, got back in the car, and sped away, leaving me standing alone. I stood there for a long, long time, tears streaming down my face. Then, the memory of the fight evaporated. I wiped my face and started walking. I walked all the way home. If the stress hadn’t returned me to the clinic, I might never have recalled the fight. My brain was only holding onto the good things: Cam running all over the city just to find my favorite ice cream flavor. Cam holding me tight after our parents died, swearing he’d protect me, that I’d never be hurt. I didn’t understand how we had fallen this far apart. “Charlie…” Grandma Elsie’s frail voice pulled me back. She was awake, her cloudy eyes flickering with hope. “Is your brother here? Did he come?” I lowered my gaze. “He didn’t answer his phone, Grandma. He must be busy.” Her face grew paler. After a long silence, she asked, “When did you get sick? Why didn’t you tell me?” I squeezed her hand, forcing a gentle smile. “I forgot, too. It’s okay, Grandma. I’ll be fine.” She closed her eyes, seeming to age ten years in a second. She didn’t mention Cam or my illness again that night. The next morning, she cooked us some dumplings, then packed our bags. We were going to find Cam. I didn’t want to go back to Northport. I begged her to stay. Grandma Elsie was firm. “I have to ask Cam what he’s thinking.” “And your illness. We have to treat it in Northport. The clinic here is useless!” And so, we headed back. We pushed open the door of Cam’s upscale condo. He wasn’t there. Joss was standing in front of a mirror, admiring the diamond necklace. The moment she saw us, she crossed her arms. “What, you can’t survive a single holiday without Cam? You came all this way to track him down?” I frowned. “Joss, show my grandmother some respect!” “Respect? Why? If that old woman hadn’t insisted on him driving her back, I wouldn’t have had to fake an illness to get my brother home.” Joss smirked. “Are you here for a confrontation? Too bad.” “Cam is out buying me a new purse. You’ll have to come back later.” Her possessive, queen-of-the-castle attitude made Grandma Elsie’s temper explode. She pointed a trembling finger at Joss. “This is Cam and Charlie’s home! Get out!” “You get out, old woman!” Joss’s eyes narrowed, cold and cruel. “You chose to live in that backward town. Now you come crawling back because you can’t handle the hard life?” “Cam works so hard to make money. He sends you money every year. For what?” My pupils constricted. I clenched my fists in disbelief. Grandma Elsie’s chest was heaving; her breathing was shallow. None of us expected Joss to be so utterly shameless. Seeing Grandma Elsie’s distress, I quickly helped her sit down. Then, in three strides, I was in front of Joss. I raised my hand and slapped her, hard. Slap! Joss staggered back, stunned. “This is my home! You’re just a low-income student Cam sponsored. Did calling him ‘brother’ for years make you think you’re a Elton?” I finished with a cold roar, ready to hit her again. She wasn’t going to just stand there. She grabbed my wrist, twisting it. “You bitch! Don’t think being blood means anything. He loves me more!” Joss screamed, pulling my hair. I kicked her in the hip. She grabbed the glass vase from a side table and swung it violently at my head. CRASH! “CHARLIE!” The sound of shattering glass and Grandma Elsie’s scream came at the same moment. Dazed, a warm liquid streamed down my forehead, blurring my vision. My knees buckled and I slumped onto the floor. Glass shards dug into my palm. The strange thing was, my hand didn’t hurt at all. Only my head felt like it was being pierced with steel needles. “Let go of me, old woman!” Through my hazy vision, I saw Grandma Elsie and Joss wrestling. Joss had been slapped repeatedly by Grandma Elsie. She finally snapped, pushing Grandma Elsie with all her might. THUD! A deafening impact. Grandma Elsie’s body hit the ground hard. She twitched once, then fell still. My body was numb. I wiped the blood from my eyes with my sleeve and struggled to look. A slow, crimson pool spread beneath Grandma Elsie’s white hair. A sharp shard of glass was deeply embedded in the back of her skull. It had also cut my fingers. I was breathing in panicked gasps, lost and terrified. It took a long moment before I could let out a wretched, desperate cry: “Grandma—” The condo door opened. Cam, carrying a pile of designer shopping bags, saw the scene. His smile vanished. “Grandma!” He yelled, dropping his shopping bags and stumbling to her side. He saw the glass shard in her head. His eyes contracted in shock. He grabbed my wrist, shouting at me. “What happened here? Why didn’t you tell me you were coming back?” My vision tunneled. The familiar emptiness swept over my mind, and more blood dripped from my temple. Cam’s face went white. He blinked rapidly. “Charlie, what’s wrong with you?” He let go of my wrist and reached for my head, trying to check the wound. Joss, shedding perfect tears, started her story. “Brother, Charlie’s gone crazy! I was just trying to hand her a glass of water, and she smashed the vase on her own head and attacked me!” “Grandma tried to stop us, but she slipped on the glass and fell…” Cam’s hand froze. His expression turned dark. “Charlie, is that true?” “I don’t remember…” My voice was a choked sob. I was hyperventilating from the anxiety. I couldn’t remember. I didn’t know what happened. Why is this happening? Why? “What the hell are you doing on New Year’s Day, causing trouble!” Cam’s face was a mask of fury. He roared at me. “If anything happens to Grandma, I will never forgive you!” Without waiting for my reaction, he shoved me hard. He scooped up Grandma Elsie and ran for the hospital. Joss stood over me, looking down. “See? He believes me no matter what I say.” “Charlie, I think your grandmother is already gone.” “You killed her.” I jerked my head up. A creeping dread, an awful chill, crawled up my spine. “No! I didn’t! I would never hurt Grandma…” I mumbled the words, shaking my head robotically. Joss scoffed and walked out the door. After she left, the silence in the house was deafening. My heart was a hollow void, holding onto a single thought— I did not kill Grandma Elsie. I don’t know how long I sat there. Then, a sudden flicker of memory. I scrambled off the floor. I dragged a chair under the light fixture. Standing on it, I reached up, slowly feeling around the top of the pendant light. My breath hitched. A small pinhole camera was in my hand. I had installed it two months ago. My brain tumor had been diagnosed two months ago. The doctor warned me about the severe memory loss in the later stages and suggested a surveillance camera. I’d followed his advice and then immediately forgotten about it. It had finally served its purpose. I clutched the camera and went to the hospital. In the hallway, I found Cam hunched over, sobbing uncontrollably. Joss was beside him, speaking in a low, soothing voice. “Brother, don’t cry. Grandma is gone, but you still have me…” CRASH— My mind went blank again. The familiar, terrifying void washed over me. My legs gave out. I collapsed onto the floor. Cam heard the noise. He looked up, his eyes bloodshot, blazing with pure hatred. He rose and strode over to me in three steps. He didn’t hesitate, slamming his palm across my face. “It’s all your fault! Why did you bring Grandma back? Why did you fight with Joss?” “It was just a few days of the holiday! Why are you so immature!” “Grandma is dead! Are you happy now?” My cheek was on fire. Blood welled up in the corner of my mouth. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Why am I here? How did Grandma die? My tears started again, desperate and confused. The harder I tried to remember, the more my head ached. “You have the nerve to cry?” Cam’s voice shook with rage. He threw a velvet gift box onto my body. “I was actually thinking of you. When I bought Joss her birthday gift, I bought you one, too.” “Charlie, you truly don’t deserve my kindness.” The box hit the floor and shattered, revealing an exquisite diamond necklace. It was identical to Joss’s. As I reached for it, Cam slammed his foot down on the pendant. “You are not allowed at Grandma’s funeral!” “Charlie, from this day forward, you are no longer my sister!” I looked up, stunned, but he was already turning away. Joss gave me a cruel, chilling smile. “You deserve this.” She bent down, picked up the diamond necklace from the floor, pocketed it, and followed Cam. A sudden sharp pain shot through my palm. I looked down. A corner of the camera was crushed in my grip. The terrible truth hit me: I had forgotten my mission again. People shuffled past in the hallway, their eyes landing on me. I covered my face, weeping a desolate, hopeless cry. Why did this disease happen to me? Why did it steal my memories, leaving me without a chance to explain? A voice deep inside me whispered. You cannot wait. The funeral could wait. The truth couldn’t. To prevent another devastating memory loss, I prepared two ways. First, I pulled out my phone and emailed the surveillance footage of Joss pushing Grandma Elsie to the Northport Police Department. Then, I slowly got up and left the hospital, intending to walk to the police station. The memory lapse was faster than I expected. I didn’t go to the police station. Instead, I boarded a regional bus going back to Blackwood. I was convinced Grandma Elsie was waiting for me at the house. If I went back, I would find her. The bus rolled away from Northport. When I opened the door to the old house, it was already night. The house was empty and silent. A plate of cold dumplings sat on the dining room table. I faintly remembered Grandma Elsie saying they were for Cam. My soul felt sucked out of me. The world went black. As I fell, my phone rang—Cam’s special ringtone. The warm melody sounded frantic and sharp now. I didn’t have the power to answer.

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I was filling out the discharge papers and paying the final hospital bill for my son’s born when a trending post flashed on my phone screen. “A neighbor I’ve met twice is badgering me to babysit her newborn, but my own daughter just gave birth this week. I don’t know how to refuse. Help me, internet.” The comments section was a chaotic mix of suggestions, but the author only replied to the one that stood out as brilliant. “Simple. Tell her you and your husband are retired and planning a grand, open-ended travel adventure. Move in with your daughter so the neighbor can’t track you down. You won’t return until the baby is old enough for daycare.” My eyes widened. Genius-level emotional intelligence. I thought, simultaneously shaking my head in judgment of the shameless neighbor. How can someone, after exchanging two polite nods, have the audacity to make such an absurd demand? Thank God my mom, Eleanor, had agreed to watch my son, Theo. I’d be able to return to my high-pressure job at the firm immediately. But when I opened the front door to my apartment, the silence hit me first. The place was empty. I called my parents’ home number and cell phones. No answer. Two hours later, a text finally pinged from my mom. “Jess, your dad and I decided to take advantage of our good health and hit the road for a while. We’re planning a big trip. We don’t have a return date yet, so I’m afraid I’ll have to put off helping with the baby. You’ll have to hold down the fort for now. You’re strong, honey.” My arms, cradling the sleeping Theo, went stiff. My thumb instinctively tapped the Instagram icon and opened the profile of my cousin, Briana. Sure enough, she had posted an update. The video showed my mother’s aging figure bustling in a gleaming, modern kitchen, cradling a pink, swaddled newborn. The caption read: “A kid with a mom is a treasure! Thanks to my amazing Mama for easing the load. Love you a million times over! #GrandmaGoals #SupportSystem” My eyes burned as I stared at the screen, reading the caption over and over in disbelief. Then Theo, nestled in my arms, woke up and began to wail, a desperate, hungry cry that yanked me back to the cruel reality of my apartment. The lights were off. The faucet was dry. The power and water had been cut off before I even came home—I couldn’t even make his formula. When I called my mom, the line rang for a full ten minutes before she picked up. Her voice was rushed and preoccupied. “Hello? Jess? What is it? Why are you calling me right now? I’m right in the middle of something.” I took a shaky breath, trying to keep my voice even. “Mom, what was the meaning of that text? We agreed three days ago—I’d check out of the hospital, drop the baby off with you, and head straight back to the office. The partners are waiting for me to join the meeting. What am I supposed to do now?” A two-second pause. Then, my mom’s tone dropped, hardening into the familiar, impenetrable wall of disapproval. “Jessica Lynn, get this straight. I’m your mother, not some hired nanny.” “I spent twenty-eight years raising you. It was exhausting. I finally retired, and I deserve to enjoy my life. And yes, I agreed to help, but I’m entitled to a little time to myself, aren’t I? A break?” Tears were blurring my vision. The answer to the trending forum post suddenly became horrifyingly clear. I, her biological daughter, was the “neighbor she’d met twice.” And Briana, the cousin she was helping, was the one she truly considered a daughter. The Golden Ghost she’d chosen over me. “How long until you’re back?” I whispered. “I have no idea! I just got to the first stop on our itinerary, and you’ve already ruined my mood. Forget sightseeing today. I’m checking into the hotel to rest.” My father, Robert, took the phone just in time. “Jess, your mother’s going through The Change, don’t take it personally.” He paused, and I could hear him taking a deep breath. “But don’t blame your dad for saying this—you delay your mom’s mood one day, we slow our trip one day. It means we come home one day later.” I understood. I was a nuisance, a burden that she even hated to hear on the phone. Then, I heard Briana’s soft, concerned voice in the background. “What’s wrong? Is Jess mad that you came to see me? Maybe I should call and apologize.” My mom’s cold voice cut her off. “Don’t bother. I don’t need her permission to go wherever I please.” “Rob, hang up. Don’t say anything else. Just hearing her voice is annoying. She sounds like a debt collector. Can’t she give us two days of peace?” Before my dad could hang up, I blurted out the question that had been burning my throat. “Dad, I thought you and Mom were traveling alone. Why does it sound like Briana is there, too?” My father coughed awkwardly, clearly scrambling for an excuse. “Oh, that… Well, Briana hasn’t been doing well. A bit of postpartum depression, you know. Your mother thought it would be good to bring her along for a change of scenery, a little vacation.” “She hired a night nurse for the baby—a cheap one we found through an old connection. Since you didn’t want an outsider watching Theo, your mom didn’t mention it to you. Jess, don’t read too much into this, okay?” He hung up. I felt a bucket of ice water cascade over me, from my head down to my toes. Don’t read too much into this, he’d said, yet they had just done the one thing guaranteed to make me question everything. I knew this shift was coming the moment Briana moved in, eight years ago. Back then, I was too young to articulate the knot of fear and insecurity in my stomach, so I threw fits. I demanded the new designer backpack. I insisted on the pretty, limited-edition notebook. I needed them to agree, to show me I still mattered. I got the backpack. The notebook is still tucked away in a drawer. But after that, my parents drifted further away. They thought I was spoiled and immature. They told me I wasn’t being a “proper older sister,” always failing to proactively look out for Briana. Whenever I cried, I was met with a lecture. “You’re the older one, Briana is the little sister. You need to set an example. Look at you, sobbing like this—what will Briana think? She’ll think we’re abusing you.” “Briana’s parents died tragically. Your dad and I had to take her in. She’s your sister now. You need to grow up and watch out for her when we’re not around.” The day I cried the hardest, my mom lost her last thread of patience. “Jess, look at yourself! What a scene! You’re supposed to be her big sister, yet you can’t even hold it together as well as she can! Briana lost both her parents and she didn’t cry like this! I am so disappointed in you!” From that day on, all their attention, and all their affection, was poured into Briana. I thought if I worked harder and gave them more money, their eyes would finally fall back on me. A seven-figure transfer was made. It didn’t even buy a smile. I knew then that some things couldn’t be bought. We both went through relationship crises. I got divorced; she broke up with her boyfriend. My parents immediately rushed to comfort her. My consolation? A dismissive sigh. “You bury yourself in work every day. What did he expect from a marriage with you? It’s not a surprise he left. The family’s broken, but hey, you can get back to work now. No one’s stopping you.” Theo’s cry dragged me back to the present. I held him in one arm and fumbled for my utility payment card with the other. I put every ounce of my remaining postpartum strength into restoring the power and water. The lights flickered on. The faucet sputtered to life. I mixed his formula, and Theo quickly settled into sleep. After changing a diaper and washing the bottle, I was utterly exhausted. I grabbed my phone for a moment of peace. And there it was: Briana’s latest video. My mother was rocking Briana’s baby to sleep. Briana herself was seated on a sunny balcony, radiating a youthful glow, collagen practically spilling off the screen. My father appeared, offering a platter of washed, sliced fruit. Half the platter was imported cherries—the kind I couldn’t afford for myself. The caption: “Mom and Dad say I’ll always be eighteen in their eyes, always their little princess at home~” I checked the anonymous forum post again. There was a new update from the author: “The advice worked like a charm! We’ve moved in with my daughter, and the annoying neighbor hasn’t found us! So relieved!” I looked around my apartment—the remnants of my home-birth, the boxes of baby gear, the overall messiness of a new mother’s life. A battlefield. A wave of bitterness washed over me. I remembered the time I scored a huge deal on a box of cherries from an online market and brought them to my parents. I hadn’t even tasted one. They threw the box and me out before I could step fully inside. “What’s the point of buying such expensive junk? Just give us the cash! This is all capitalist scheming. These are just overgrown cherries we grow ourselves!” I was eight months pregnant that day. I knelt on the pavement, picking up the scattered fruit, and cried for three days until my eyes were swollen shut. Now, they were serving the exact same imported cherries to Briana. I took a deep breath and texted my mom. “Where are you guys traveling? I’m feeling really down. I’d like to join you for a change of scenery.” The phone rang instantly. “Jess, what are you talking about? We’ve been gone for days! You can’t just fly out here. There’s no direct route, and it would be a huge hassle. Mom wouldn’t want you to suffer. Stay home. I’ll come back when I can.” I gave a bitter laugh. “Is that right? How many places have you seen? You haven’t posted anything—I thought you were still in the same place.” My mother’s voice instantly became flustered. “I—I haven’t had time to edit the pictures! You know your dad’s terrible photography skills!” “Don’t you believe me? I’ll send you proof.” Three photos appeared seconds later. My heart sank further. The AI watermark from the photo-editing app was still clearly visible at the bottom of the photos. They had gone to so much trouble just to fool me. “See, Jess? I’ve been so exhausted I haven’t even checked my phone. Traveling is draining.” Before I could speak, she cut in quickly. “Gotta go, the bus is here. Your dad and I are getting on. The signal’s bad. Bye!” The moment the line went dead, a notification popped up. Briana had sent me a screenshot of a transaction. It was divided into three payments, totaling one hundred and thirty thousand dollars. The payment account was my parents’ retirement fund card—a number I’d memorized over three years of monthly transfers. “Thank you, Mom and Dad! I got it! I love you so much. When the baby is older, I’ll tell her she was raised under the love of her grandparents! ” My finger twitched, my heart skipped a beat. Before I could reply, the message was recalled. “Oops, sorry, Sis, wrong person.” “You didn’t see anything, did you?” I didn’t reply. The screenshots kept flashing behind my eyes. One hundred thousand dollars was my life savings, the money I’d worked myself to the bone for. The other thirty thousand was their combined retirement savings. They hadn’t kept a single penny for themselves or spent any on me and my son. They had given it all to Briana. In that instant, my heart felt like it was being sawed open by a blunt blade. The pain was so sharp it annihilated my reason. If they chose to discard me so carelessly, then I didn’t owe them a damn thing. I picked up my sleeping son and rushed downstairs, hailing a cab straight to Briana’s complex. It was a place I’d begged, pleaded, and pulled strings to secure after her breakup. It was a cheap rental—my parents had complained about the environment, and Briana refused to pay more for a better one. Everything I had sacrificed for this family was now a stinging slap to my face, cutting to my very core. The moment I stepped through the main gate, I ran straight into the three of them, carrying the baby out. Briana performed a half-hearted protest. “Mom, you really shouldn’t travel this far. It’s too much work. My place is so small. It’s not nearly as comfortable as the house Jess bought you. I feel so bad watching you squeeze onto the sofa every night…” My mother, who always demanded the highest living standards, quickly waved her off. “Don’t be ridiculous! I’m your mother. Who else will care for you when you’re a single mom? You’re family. Don’t be a stranger.” Briana smiled sweetly. “But I could just hire a night nurse. There are plenty of affordable ones now.” My mother pretended to be angry. “Hand my granddaughter over to a stranger? Are you trying to stop me from sleeping soundly?” The next second, their laughter died. All three pairs of eyes fixed on my face. “Sis? What are you doing here?” “Jess? Why didn’t you call?” “Jess, let Dad explain, it’s not what you think, your mother is—” Panic flashed across my parents’ faces. Only Briana’s eyes held a subtle, calculated triumph—as if she’d been expecting me all along. I cut them off, my smile cold and cynical. “I found Briana this apartment. Can’t I visit?” “You said you hired a night nurse. I was worried. I figured, raising one baby is work, raising two isn’t much more. So I came to check in. I guess… I picked a bad time?” My father’s explanation was choked in his throat. My mom rushed to speak. “No, no, it’s not what you think.” “Then what is it?” “The nurse had a family emergency and had to take leave. I didn’t want to worry you, so I thought I’d watch the baby for a couple of days before we set off on our trip. You know, so Briana could leave feeling relaxed…” “Then what about the photos you sent me?” My mother’s face flushed a deep, ugly red. This time, she was truly speechless. I looked her up and down. Everything she was wearing, except for her reading glasses, had been bought by me at a department store. I couldn’t understand what I had done to deserve this. How I had failed them so completely that they would repay me like this. My palms were clenched so tight they were shaking, but with Theo strapped to me, I couldn’t even use my hands to vent my rage. In the deadlock, Briana smiled and looped her arm through my mother’s. “Well, Sis, it’s a sign! You’re here at the perfect moment. We were just about to leave.” “Since you’re here, you might as well join us. I’ll call the Uber. Dad, go get the bags. Mom, you buy the ticket for Jess.” My parents’ eyes lit up simultaneously. “Briana, you’re so thoughtful! Yes, that’s exactly what we’ll do.” “That’s exactly what I meant! I just couldn’t put it into words. Jess, send Mom your ID number. I’ll buy your ticket.” I lowered my eyes. “I already gave it to you. The day I checked into the hospital.” My mother offered an awkward laugh. “Oh, right, I forgot. Getting old, losing my mind. You know how it is. Don’t be mad.” My dad went back inside for the luggage. My mom lowered her head to purchase the ticket. The payment screen failed three times. My mom managed a weak smile. “Jess, could you transfer me some more spending money? The car fare isn’t covered.” “You have enough for three people, but not for me?” My mom’s face immediately turned cold. “What kind of attitude is that? Our budget was set for three people. You’re the one who showed up uninvited!” “Besides, I’m your mother! It’s your duty to pay for my vacation!” I took a sharp, painful breath. My heart froze solid. “I’ve transferred money to you every month for years, over a hundred thousand dollars total. This month, I’m on maternity leave. I don’t have the high salary yet, and I don’t have the money for you. Does that mean I don’t get to join the trip?” “Where did that one hundred thousand go? Couldn’t two thousand dollars of the money I gave you be spent on me?” “Briana hasn’t worked a day since college. You pay her rent, you give her an allowance. How is it that when it comes to me, you have nothing left?” “Just because I have a job, do I deserve to be bled dry by you?!” My voice rose with each question. The answer was a sharp, stinging slap across my face. “What are you saying?! I’m your mother! Is this how you speak to your elders?!” Other tenants in the complex began to stop and stare. My mother, consumed by rage, lunged forward to hit me again. I shielded Theo with one arm and braced myself for the confrontation. Briana stepped in, forcing a clumsy, tearful apology. “Please, Sis, stop this. Mom didn’t mean it.” “You’re her daughter. Can’t you just swallow your pride? We’re all adults. Don’t make Mom angrier.” I lifted my knee to support Theo and swung my free hand, delivering a sharp slap to Briana’s face. “This is between my mother and me. Stay out of it.” The next moment, Briana’s eyes turned crimson. She dropped to her knees in front of me and began slamming her forehead against the pavement. “I’m sorry! I’m so sorry! I know I was wrong! I won’t talk to Mom and Dad anymore! I won’t let them help me! Please, don’t be angry. I’ll leave right now…” Her forehead quickly began to bleed. The baby in her arms started to wail. My mother stepped forward, placing herself squarely in front of Briana. “How dare you! How dare you speak to my daughter like that!” “I want to care for my daughter! What business is that of yours?!” Someone in the crowd recognized them and immediately pulled out a phone to start a livestream. The comment section exploded. “Wait, isn’t that the family being harassed by the shameless neighbor? What’s going on?” “The psycho is actually the neighbor! She followed them here? How can a person be so thick-skinned? Can’t she tell they don’t want her around?” “If I had a crazy person like that on my back, it would be her or me! That woman is far too kind!” My father came down with the luggage and saw the scene. His eyes instantly turned red with fury. Without asking a single question, he rushed up and delivered a hard slap to my face. “What did you say to my wife and daughter!” “Get out! Get out now! You are not welcome here! Neither is the bastard child you had!” The memory of my childhood flashed before my eyes. My father, spinning me in the air, perched on his shoulders. “Daddy, will you always be nice to Jess? What if Jess gets too big? I won’t be able to ride a plane!” My father laughed as he spun. “Then our princess’s little princess will get to play! And your daddy will try to age slowly.” The image shattered, replaced by my parents’ contorted, hate-filled faces. I held my screaming son tighter. “Fine. I’ll go.” “But when I walk out of here today, I will not be coming back.” My father bent down, snatched a stone from the pavement, and hurled it at my back. “Who needs you back! Don’t let me ever see you again!” “Briana is my daughter! You’re just an ungrateful wretch we wasted our money on!” The sharp edge of the stone tore through my blouse. Blood bloomed on my skin. Biting back a cry, I walked away, putting distance between myself and their hateful eyes. Outside the complex, I hailed a cab straight to a real estate office. I slapped the house deed onto the desk. “Sell this house. Price doesn’t matter. Just make it happen as fast as possible.” If they didn’t consider me their daughter, they certainly wouldn’t want to live in a house bought with my money. After settling the terms, I contacted an attorney. Briana was not related to me. I had a strong case to sue her to reclaim my hundred thousand dollars. Three days later, I learned from Briana’s social media that the three of them had returned from their “vacation.” They had their fill of being social media stars. But when they stepped through the door of my parents’ house, all three of them froze. Immediately, my phone, a hundred miles away, began vibrating wildly.

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My mother was convinced I’d never get married, primarily because I spent money with the reckless abandon of a trust fund kid—even though I was anything but. She blamed an $18 DoorDash delivery and a four-dollar latte. “That $18 takeout?” she’d lecture. “You could have cooked a full meal for ten dollars and had leftovers.” “A four-dollar coffee? You could just splash some cold water on your face straight from the faucet. If that doesn’t work, give yourself a good, hard slap to wake up.” She finally shut up the year I brought home a man more financially meticulous than a tax auditor: Landon Bell. 01 When I told my best friend, Jess, I was bringing Landon home for the holidays, she still couldn’t wrap her head around it. She didn’t understand how I—Vera Chen, the girl who viewed cash as disposable confetti—could possibly be with someone so ruthlessly cheap and painfully calculating. Landon insisted on splitting every joint purchase down to the very last cent. In the months we’d been dating, every single dinner, movie, or road trip was strictly split the bill. Gifts were a sterile exchange, not a romantic gesture. If I gave him a $150 designer candle, he would immediately look up the exact price and then, without fail, send me back a gift of precisely $150.00 in value. No more, no less. Jess was still staring, waiting for an explanation. I rolled my eyes, pulling my suitcase onto the bed. “A girl’s gotta love what she loves, Jess. You might not like cilantro, but I do.” I ignored her skeptical silence and focused on packing. Since graduating college and starting work, I rarely went home, usually only making the pilgrimage for a long weekend or the major winter holidays. Just a few days ago, my mother, Eleanor, had sent her usual passive-aggressive text: “Your cousin’s son is already running around. I haven’t even seen a photo of a boyfriend.” I hadn’t told her about Landon right away, afraid she’d get her hopes up for nothing. But after six solid months, I felt secure enough to present him to the family. Before we left, I gave her a quick call. “Mom, I’m on my way. And yes, I’m bringing a boyfriend this year.” As expected, she was ecstatic, cutting me off before I could finish and already shouting the news to the rest of the family—the extended clan was notoriously nosy. It wasn’t until we were almost boarding that I realized I forgot to mention one detail: “We’re taking the regional train, not the express. It’ll take a few hours longer.” The regional train was Landon’s idea. When he pulled up the ticketing site, he noted the slower, regional ticket was exactly one-third the price of the high-speed one. “The extra hours?” he’d said with a shrug. “You can watch a movie or just sleep it off. It passes quickly.” Given my mother’s lifelong crusade against my spending habits, his logic, infuriating as it was, was sound. I sent her a quick text to update her. The three dots indicating she was typing flashed on the screen for a long time. Then they disappeared. Then they came back. Finally, her reply arrived: “Just keep an eye on your luggage.” It was a small miracle. Finding out I had a boyfriend had clearly put her in an excellent mood. Usually, any self-made decision, even a minor one like swapping a shirt color she requested for one that suited her better, resulted in a verbal thrashing. Now, she was offering a rare moment of care. I couldn’t wait to get home. I had another piece of good news to tell them all. 02 When I pushed open the front door, the house was, predictably, full. Aunt Patty’s family was huddled around the dining table, shelling nuts. Uncle Gary and Aunt Brenda were dominating the living room couch, glued to the TV. Dad, Richard, was making tea, and Mom was slicing fruit. Patty, the queen of family gossip, spotted me first. Her eyes immediately scanned my hands and the floor around me. “Back from the big city, and you’re empty-handed?” Her voice, a low rumble, instantly commanded the room. “Shouldn’t you have brought a gift for every elder?” Landon, hauling my large suitcase, stepped in just behind me. When he heard Patty’s question, he paused in the doorway and asked, with genuine curiosity: “Is it a major holiday, or perhaps your birthday, ma’am?” Patty stared blankly. I clarified for her, a small, cold smile playing on my lips. “He’s asking if you expected a gratuitous, unearned handout.” Patty’s face flushed scarlet. She pushed herself up from the table just as Mom emerged from the kitchen, a bowl of cut oranges in her hand. Seeing me, Mom’s expression instantly froze, about to launch into a tirade. But her eyes landed on the tall, impeccably dressed Landon. The transformation was immediate. The thundercloud vanished, replaced by a radiant sun. “You must be Vera’s boyfriend, Landon! Come in, come in!” she chirped. In an instant, we became the focus of the entire family’s attention. We were seated on the two plastic stools by the television, facing a semicircle of judgmental relatives. Mom poured tea and pushed the fruit toward Landon. Aunt Patty, recovering from the insult, couldn’t help herself. “It’s different when you have backup, isn’t it? Having a whole family wait for you like this.” “Wait for us?” I asked, confused. “We’re staying for a week. There’s no rush. You could all have come over tomorrow if you wanted to meet him.” Patty, who had a young son from a late-in-life pregnancy, was usually putting him to bed around this hour. Before she could respond, Aunt Brenda, the most financially aggressive of the lot, jumped in, peppering Landon with questions. “What do you do? Big company? How much is your salary? I have to tell you, around here, the expectation for a down payment or a substantial ring…” “Ahem. Ahem.” Uncle Gary, Brenda’s husband, discreetly interrupted her with a loud cough and frantic eye-signals. Brenda grudgingly clamped her mouth shut. Mom, ever the mediator, tried a gentler approach. “Landon, why don’t you tell us a bit about yourself? How did you and Vera meet?” Landon straightened his back slightly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you all. Vera and I met at a networking event. We share similar interests, and it developed from there,” he said smoothly. “I’m just a salaried employee. Work at a standard firm.” Patty scoffed under her breath. “An ordinary office worker. I thought a college grad could do better than a nobody…” A sudden gust of cool evening air swept in from the open balcony, chilling the forced enthusiasm of the room. Mom tried to get the conversation back on track. “Do your parents mind that you’re spending the New Year with us?” Landon smiled brightly. “My mother has my sister to keep her company, ma’am.” He watched the family’s doubtful faces and added the crucial footnote. “My parents divorced a long time ago. My sister and I both chose to stay with Mom.” I felt the need to step in and defend him. “He calls it a ‘standard firm,’ but actually—and his parents—” Aunt Patty cut me off, her patience clearly gone. Her voice was sharp with dismissal. “You brought home this? I bet he doesn’t have a house, and you’ll have to be stuck living with his mother and sister.” She stood up abruptly. “Give me my cash gift. I have to get home to my son. This was a waste of time.” “Cash gift?” I asked. “Don’t you know proper etiquette? The first time you bring a boyfriend home, you give cash envelopes to the elders! What, did living in the city strip you of all courtesy?” The penny dropped. They hadn’t been waiting for me. They had been waiting for a payout. 03 I looked at my parents. Even their faces were tense. Mom finally spoke, defensive and flustered. “I thought you were just going to be a little late. I figured we’d go to the bank and pull some cash tomorrow.” Aunt Brenda, sensing the chaos, decided to play the conciliator. “Vera isn’t leaving right away. The money can wait until tomorrow. She can get a nice bundle ready.” Then she added, her eyes narrowing slightly: “But maybe you can settle up for tonight’s dinner now.” “Your parents were working today, so I went out, bought all the groceries, and cooked everything myself. Just pay me back. We’re ten people here—at a hundred dollars a head, that’s a thousand dollars.” Mom’s jaw dropped. “A thousand dollars? Brenda, what did you buy? We’re just having a simple family dinner, not a banquet!” Uncle Gary quickly stepped in to soothe Mom. “Elsa, your niece is home! As her uncle, I insisted on a high-quality meal! Nothing but the best!” Mom was instantly mollified. Her attitude flipped, and she started urging me to pay. “Vera, you’re an adult now! You can’t let your aunt and uncle foot the bill! Pay Gary back immediately!” If I’d had a wallet or cash on me, I think she would have snatched it right out of my hand. Aunt Patty, not to be outdone, chimed in with her own demand. “Vera didn’t get my little boy a gift when he was born. He waited up for her tonight! She owes him a gold charm.” Dad, who rarely spoke up but always favored his younger sister, added his voice to the chorus. “Your aunt is right, honey. A gold charm wouldn’t hurt your savings, would it?” Everyone knew gold was obscenely expensive. Aunt Brenda leaped to her feet, ready for a full-scale battle. “She only has so many cousins! You’re asking for too much, Patty!” “And you aren’t? A thousand dollars for a few hours of cooking? Did you use gold-plated rice?” Patty shot back. Suddenly, the living room had devolved into a full-scale fish market, relatives screaming over one another. Finally, Mom, utterly exasperated, turned her fury on me. “Vera! You’re a grown woman! Why do you always have to be so careless? Why do you constantly cause trouble and make your family look bad?” It was a ridiculous accusation. I had never realized that coming home was such a minefield of potential offense. But the most ridiculous part was that, even in their rage, they always reached an agreement. Like now. Brenda took a big gulp of tea to calm herself, then smiled at me with predatory sweetness. “Tell you what, Vera. Since it’s the holidays, and you’re family, just give each family five thousand dollars. That will cover everything.” My parents nodded in agreement, relieved. “Yes, that sounds fair.” They assumed I would once again quietly submit to their chaotic bookkeeping. But sitting beside me, Landon Bell had already pulled a laptop from his messenger bag, clicked open a spreadsheet, and started typing.

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The New Year dawned with a document I never asked for, titled: Preston and My Year-End Review. It detailed a transactional accounting of my life, written in neat, mocking bullet points: First: My KPI for sleeping with your husband this year was 150 times. Target: Exceeded. Second: Securing a villa and luxury vehicle from your husband. Target: Achieved. Third: Getting your son to call me ‘Mom’ ten times a day. Target: Exceeded. Fourth: Brave enough to stand before you and fight for my happiness. Target: Achieved. Mrs. Miles, I tend to your husband’s needs and nurture your son. Do I get a bonus, or will you gracefully step down? Attached was a photo. A nauseating counterfeit of a family portrait. Preston had his arm slung possessively around her waist, and my seven-year-old son, Frank, was standing in front of them, grinning. The woman was Dahlia Croft, Frank’s private piano instructor. Preston Miles walked in just as I was finishing the report. He saw the papers in my hand and went rigid. “Don’t go after her, Evie,” he said, his voice instantly tight with panic. “I was the one who initiated it. She’s innocent in this. Whatever you need to do to me, whatever compensation you want, I’ll give it to you.” The blood drained from my body, leaving me ice cold. I simply stared into his eyes. “I just want you to go back to who you were.” I want you to be the hungry, grateful boy who had nothing but me. The one who had no idea what it felt like to be loved. He misinterpreted my silence, letting out a visible sigh of relief. “Even with Dahlia, I would never neglect you.” He paused, then added, as if sharing a trivial scheduling conflict, “Since you know about Dahlia and me now, why don’t we just have her join us for the holidays this year?” The sheer audacity of his request made my mind go numb. Fifteen years. Was this the man I had loved for fifteen years? How could he press his advantage this far? My shock registered to him as gentle assent. He raised a hand, intending to give me the same patronizing, affectionate stroke on the head he used to. I flinched, stepping back. The corners of my eyes stung, but I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of emotion. “Do whatever you want. I have a crucial experiment scheduled for the break.” And every holiday after this one, both father and son will be absent from my life. Outwardly, I was composed, rational. Inside, my heart had been pulverized into pieces too fine to ever be reassembled. I turned and walked toward the stairs. Preston’s whine followed me up the polished marble steps, laced with a familiar, sour resentment. “It’s always the lab first, isn’t it? I’m always second to your test tubes.” Then his voice sharpened, adopting a forced, strained humor as he addressed my retreating back. “Honey, are you actually hoping I cheat on you?” I stopped, looking back at him. He was beaming, waiting for my reaction, then added, “I thought you’d lose it. I never expected you to still be thinking about your experiments at a time like this.” “If I asked you to cut her off, for good,” I asked him, my voice flat, “could you do it?” His smile vanished, replaced by an expression of grim resolve. “You want the truth, or the lie?” “The truth.” He didn’t hesitate. “I can’t. Just like you can’t give up your research.” He paused again, his expression softening into one of feigned regret. “If you hadn’t poured every ounce of yourself into the lab, neglecting my needs, we never would have needed Dahlia.” Ah. So my dedication was the real affair. My tireless nights in the lab, developing the proprietary compounds that made his pharmaceutical company the titan it is today, was my fault. My success, my labor, my mistake. He has forgotten the road we traveled. Then I will personally escort him back to the gutter he crawled out of. I immediately drafted a text to my attorney: “I need divorce papers ready immediately. Furthermore, I am revoking Preston Miles’s company’s use of all my patents and research findings. Effective immediately.” He’d become soft, complacent. Good times can blind a man. Preston’s phone rang. Even though he lowered his voice, I recognized the distinct sound of Dahlia Croft’s concerned cooing. “It’s fine, baby, she didn’t make a scene,” he was whispering. “Her head’s buried so deep in the lab she doesn’t have the energy to care about me. No, don’t send me anything like that again. Yes, you’ll spend the holidays here. Whatever you want. From the living room to the bedroom, consider it done.” Every word was a perfectly aimed dagger, yet I didn’t cry. My hands were shaking. My throat was tight, suffocating. My stomach churned with nausea, the only physical signs of the sheer, inhuman psychological torture I was enduring. My attorney texted back: “I need seven business days, Evie. Just give me a little time.” Seven days. Normally, in the white noise of the lab, seven days flashed by. Now, I felt like I was serving seven years. I looked at my hands—bleached by endless cleaning, marked by minor chemical burns—and my strained, short-sighted eyes, and the permanent half-tinnitus from years of high-frequency equipment. All my sacrifice, all my desperate labor, was now nothing but a sick joke. I remembered ten years ago, when the company was new. Preston was so frantic about not having proprietary compounds to manufacture that his hair began to grey overnight. I, a pharma research graduate, had locked myself away. Years of relentless, punishing work were what gave him the company he had today. He used to call me his Aorta. His most valuable, irreplaceable lifeline. How hilarious. Since he no longer cherished the hard-won prosperity, I would simply sever the artery. Late that night, I went to the lab and quietly dissolved all my ongoing projects. The sterile silence of the empty space was heavy with a complex, dizzying mix of emotions. Ding-dong. In the absolute quiet, the ping of my phone was deafeningly sharp. It was Dahlia. Another taunt. The picture showed her and Preston, bare-shouldered in bed, Preston fast asleep beside her. “Mrs. Miles, I took care of your husband again.” “Preston told me you support us. Can you send me a little bonus, sister?” “Serving a man is hard work. Preston acts like he’s never seen a woman before.” “You have no idea how rough he is with me.” “I’m working hard, sister. Surely you can spare a New Year’s bonus.” A violent surge of heat and nausea hit me. I switched to my secondary burner phone and discreetly video-recorded the evidence, sending it immediately to my lawyer. My silence, to Dahlia, read as total weakness. The next day, my son, Frank Miles, was admitted to the hospital with a fever. When I arrived, Dahlia was spoon-feeding him a bowl of steaming porridge. “There you go, sweet boy. You have to eat something, even if you’re not hungry. That’s how you get better fast.” Preston was standing to the side, hands shoved casually into his pockets, his gaze soft and indulgent as it drifted from Dahlia to Frank. “See? Your Mom takes such good care of you.” My heart twisted into a Gordian knot. We weren’t even divorced, and he was allowing our son to call this woman ‘Mom.’ “Yeah, Mom loves me the best!” Frank beamed with happiness. His voice was the final, fatal blow. My blood froze. Hearing my son call Dahlia ‘Mom’ brought my breathing to a dead stop. Dahlia saw me. Her eyes flickered with unconcealed victory, but her tone was sickeningly sweet and natural. “Evie’s here, big sister. Why don’t you feed Frank now?” Frank didn’t spare me a glance. He clung to Dahlia. “No, I want you to feed me, Mommy. I like it when you do it.” He glanced at me, and his tone shifted to one of childish dismissal. “That Mom just does experiments. She doesn’t know how to take care of anyone. Daddy and I both like you, Mommy.” My face hardened. I stared at Frank. “What did you call her?” Dahlia stepped in, feigning understanding to twist the knife. “Evie, please don’t be hard on him. He’s just a six-year-old boy. It’s just a word, a silly mistake. Don’t worry about it.” Preston moved between Frank and me, an oily peacemaker. “He’s sick, Evie. Don’t make him feel worse.” He reached for my back, attempting to steer me out of the room. “Go back to the lab, alright? Dahlia has him covered. Don’t worry.” A wave of pure disgust rose in my stomach. I recoiled, shoving his arm away. “Don’t touch me.” He was stunned. My reaction was unusual; the even-keeled, perpetually rational Evie rarely showed anger. Frank, startled by the tension, burst into tears. Dahlia played the martyred saint. “Evie, you’re scaring Frank. If you’re upset, take it out on me, not the child. He’s innocent, please don’t hurt him.” A single, burning thought possessed me. I looked at the sobbing Frank and asked, “Who are you calling Mom?” I braced myself. If he said he wouldn’t call Dahlia that again, I would find a way to forgive him, to keep him. Instead, Frank wailed, pointing his finger in accusation. “You’re a Mom, and Dahlia-Mommy is a Mom! I like her! She’s nice and takes care of me and teaches me piano. You don’t! You only care about your experiments! This Mommy is way better than you!” I was struck by a lightning bolt. Tears, hot and heavy, escaped without permission. Preston dragged me out into the hallway, his voice a harsh hiss. “What is wrong with you, taking your anger out on a child? He doesn’t know any better! You’re not needed here. Go do your experiments!” He turned, went back into the room, and locked the door behind him to prevent me from causing any more ‘trouble.’ That evening, my mother-in-law, Eleanor Miles, came to ‘reason’ with me. “Evie, you’re a wonderful woman and a good daughter-in-law. I’ve always said so.” She took my hand and patted it gently, her voice softening into a conspiratorial tone. “Men, dear, they’re just… wired differently. Dahlia can take care of him, and Frank, too. If you’d just let go of your jealousy, you’d realize this is actually a wonderful thing.” She smiled brightly. “You don’t have to service your husband, you don’t have to mother your son. You can devote yourself entirely to your research. What could be better?” My heart was frozen solid, immune to her toxic logic. I withdrew my hand quietly. “Mhm. I won’t interfere anymore.” Her eyes lit up with triumph. She thought she had won me over. “Wonderful! I’ll have the maid clean out the bedroom next to yours for Dahlia.” She chattered on, oblivious. “She’ll move in soon, which is great for Frank’s piano, and it helps you by taking care of those two. It’ll be nice to have someone to shop with.” Seeing my continued silence, she took it as tacit agreement. Beaming, she clapped me on the back. “I knew it! You’re a sensible girl, Evie.” She immediately called Dahlia, not bothering to lower her voice. “Dahlia, dear, you can move in tonight. The room is ready. It’s almost Christmas, and the sooner you move in, the sooner the house will feel warm and festive! And now I’ll have someone to keep me company!” When Preston brought Dahlia home, I was on my way out. Seeing my grim face, Dahlia feigned distress. “Evie, you look upset. Maybe I shouldn’t move in?” I met her eyes, my expression utterly devoid of warmth. “This is the Miles home. You can stay as long as you like. I won’t interfere.” I quickened my pace. Preston rushed after me, catching my wrist. “Are you really okay with this? If you’re not, I can get a place for Dahlia outside.” I pulled my hand free. My heart felt like cold ash, but my voice was steady. “I just have work to handle. And no, I genuinely don’t care about you and Dahlia.” He sighed, relieved, his voice suddenly affectionate. “Good. Go handle your work, but call me when you’re done. I’ll come get you.” He actually believes he’s the master of compromise. I left the Miles house and never returned. On the twenty-sixth of December, Preston’s company held its annual holiday gala. He had notified everyone but me. By chance, I was driving past the venue on my way to an appointment. I stopped. I saw Preston on the stage, holding Dahlia’s hand, with Frank holding hers, too. They looked every bit the picture-perfect family as they spoke to the employees. Preston held the microphone, his voice ringing with genuine, triumphant pride. “This year, the company and I personally have gained so much.” He beamed. “I want to thank my wife, who has given me so much support and warmth.” My eyes felt as though they were being stabbed with needles. Even though my heart was dead, the sight brought a fresh wave of pain. She was his wife? She gave him support? The words were a cascade of thick, painful slaps across my face. The microphone was handed to Frank. My son, innocent and happy, looked up at Dahlia. “The person I thank the most is also my Mom,” he said sweetly. “Thank you for giving me so much love. I love you, Mom.” He wrapped his arms around Dahlia in a hug. The room erupted in applause, the sound of people declaring them the “perfect family” washing over the room like boiling water. Only Dahlia’s eyes, scanning the crowd, found me. I turned to leave the venue. She ran after me, stopping me near the exit. “Evelyn George,” she challenged. “You have a remarkable amount of self-control. This? And you won’t even crash the party?” She sneered. “I know you won’t make a scene because you’re terrified of losing the Miles name and your privileged life. You think you can keep the title of ‘Mrs. Miles’ if you just play nice?” I let out a soft, contemptuous laugh. “We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” She was certain of her victory, scoffing at me. “We will! Your husband and your son have just announced my identity to the world! Tell me, what do you have left to fight me with?” I ignored her, walking away quickly. She will soon learn that what she fought so hard to possess is nothing but sinking mud. On Christmas Eve, the Miles house was lavishly decorated and bursting with activity. Every year, I personally cooked the Christmas feast. Preston finally remembered to call me. He called several times, but I didn’t answer. A strange, anxious tremor ran through him. Dahlia, ever the helpful understudy, comforted him. “Darling, it’s my first Christmas in our home. Let me cook the feast. Evie must be swamped in the lab. After I finish, you can try calling her again.” Preston tried to keep his composure, but his anxiety was reaching a fever pitch. When Dahlia finished the elaborate meal, he still hadn’t reached me. The housekeeper delivered a package addressed to him. “From the Madam.” Preston tore open the package. The words DIVORCE AGREEMENT hit him with the force of a thousand volts. Just then, his assistant called, voice frantic. “Mr. Miles, we have a problem. Mrs. Miles has revoked all usage rights to her patents. Without those patents, we have zero ability to operate the company.”

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