Bianca Fairmont, the pampered princess of the East Coast elite, had the ultrasound pictures on her phone this morning. By afternoon, she’d terminated the pregnancy. I gripped the laminated surgery sheet, my hands trembling violently. All around me, her friends watched, their expressions a mix of superiority and mocking pity. “Declan Sullivan,” one drawled, her voice dripping with scorn, “you actually went through with it? Gave up your kid just because Frank Donovan said the word?” “Look at the big man’s face! He’s going to lash out, isn’t he?” another one giggled. But Bianca only melted into Frank’s arms, her voice a soft, sickening purr. “I told you I’d never have a child with him. Do you believe me now?” The icy mask Frank wore finally thawed. I wanted to rush forward, to demand an answer, to scream a condemnation, but my three sisters had me tightly secured. Stacey Harrington, the formidable eldest and the CEO of the Harrington empire, frowned. “Frank only smiles for Bianca. Declan, for God’s sake, show some restraint.” Theodora, our second sister, the celebrated concert pianist, shot a look of pure disgust my way. “He didn’t have your privilege, Declan. He’s worked for everything. You, on the other hand, the Harrington name could find you any woman you wanted.” Dr. Petra Harrington, the professor and youngest sister after me, shoved her finger right into my chest, forcing me back a step. “They are the real pair, Declan. They always were. Are you really going to force a child into a life where its parents aren’t in love? Don’t be cruel.” They locked me down in the guest house, determined to prevent me from interfering with the happiness of their golden boy. That’s when the system I hadn’t heard from in years finally broke its silence. “Host, primary mission detected as complete! Do you wish to return to your world immediately?” I sat on the rooftop balcony, my eyes unfocused on the sprawling city skyline, but my heart was doing a frantic, joyous drum solo. This whole bitter, grueling tragedy was finally over. … Theo was beside herself with rage. “What an absolute coward! Are you really going to resort to jumping off a building because a woman said no? What a failure you are!” But my focus was entirely on the system. “Harrington sisters and Female Lead affection rating detected at 90%. Task of having a child with Female Lead Bianca Fairmont complete!” “Activation of host body death will initiate immediate return to your world, securing your bonus and curing your cancer!” I crushed the rising hysteria of joy inside my chest. I was going home. I looked up, meeting Theo’s eyes. She was still furious, but then she glanced at her phone—and a small, genuine smile touched her lips. It was a smile I hadn’t seen directed at me in years. It was the smile she reserved only for Frank. Sensing my stare, she quickly snapped the phone shut, her expression hardening again. “What? Are you planning to use your death to frighten Bianca? How twisted is your heart, Declan?” “Frank has sacrificed so much. Why can’t you just let him be happy? Does his happiness cause you so much pain?” I dug my nails into my palms and laughed, a dry, self-mocking sound. If suffering looked like being the golden boy, circled by three powerful women, with the entire world laid at his feet, then I’d gladly sign up for a lifetime of that ‘misery.’ Seeing my ashen face, Theo suddenly sighed. “Just apologize to Bianca, okay? Don’t be so dramatic about this.” She moved to pull me back from the railing, but I gently sidestepped her. I offered a cold, thin smile. “Apologize for what? What exactly did I do wrong?” Theo’s hand froze mid-air, her patience dissolving into sharp irritation. “Declan! Don’t push your luck!” I closed my eyes. Even for a mission, I had genuinely loved them. Their sudden coldness had wounded me more deeply than I cared to admit. But now, it was irrelevant. “Just wait until Petra is named full professor, and then you’ll come with us and apologize to Bianca.” I didn’t hold onto a shred of hope for her or anyone else. I just quietly confirmed with the system. “If this body dies, I go back. Is that correct?” “Yes.” I let out a slow, steady breath, then looked down. No one was below. If I jumped, I wouldn’t terrify any innocent bystanders. Theo immediately understood my intention. She screamed my name. “Declan! What are you doing!” I ignored her. I simply fell. The wind roared in my ears, whipping my face painfully. A sickening lurch of gravity took hold, but deep down, a strange, overwhelming sense of liberation rushed in. The next second, I felt a savage grip around my waist. I was yanked out of the air by a pair of massive hands and slammed hard onto the roof. Theo’s bodyguard, hired at astronomical expense, was clearly worth every penny. Seeing that I was safe, Theo rushed forward and began clawing furiously at my face. “You’re insane! You are completely insane! I said one sentence, and you try to kill yourself? You’ve been spoiled into oblivion!” I muffled a sound of pain, consumed only by the frustration of my failed escape. I didn’t acknowledge her. Her fury escalated. “Is this another trick just to get attention? Stop with your pathetic little games!” I ignored her and pried her hands off. We stared at each other until the bodyguard, momentarily distracted by his walkie-talkie, broke his focus. I seized the chance, twisted away, and threw myself over the edge. “I jumped! Don’t blame the guard!” I yelled the words as I plunged into the void. “Declan!” Theo’s despairing shriek was too late. She and the bodyguard were a second behind. I closed my eyes, expectant, yearning for death. My own world had cancer waiting for me, but it was better than spending one more second here. But no. Instead of the brutal impact, I landed in something soft. A dozen hands immediately grabbed and secured me. “Easy, son! Life is precious! Why would you do this?” I looked down at the massive, inflatable fire cushion beneath me and let my head drop in complete, bitter failure. The commotion must have drawn the attention of a neighbor, giving the fire department just enough time to save my life. “You’re mad! Declan, are you completely out of your mind?” Theo’s eyes were bloodshot. She pushed through the crowd and stumbled, collapsing to her knees in front of me. “Did you hit anything? Where does it hurt? Talk to me!” My gaze landed accidentally on her. The usually impeccable Theo had lost one shoe. She was limping, and the entire right knee of her designer jeans was soaked in fresh, bubbling blood. She must have hurt herself rushing from the roof to the street. Before, I would have instantly scooped her up and rushed her to the nearest ER. Now, I felt only a desolate emptiness. I looked away. “What? Do I need your permission to die now?” 2 Theo froze, disbelief etching every line on her face. I scoffed, walked past her, and gave a faint nod of thanks to the firefighters. “Sorry for the trouble. Please, keep this quiet. I don’t want to cause any more trouble for my family.” “Especially since I don’t want my older sister screaming at me for ruining the family’s reputation.” Theo’s fingernails dug into her palms, her eyes dangerously red. I tilted my head, slightly annoyed. “Don’t worry, there aren’t many witnesses. I can pay for their silence. With my own money, of course. Nothing to do with the Harringtons…” “Declan!” She cut me off, her voice thick with a strange, wounded emotion. I was stunned to see a flash of genuine hurt on her face. “You’re the only son! You’re the youngest! By our parents’ will, the entire estate belongs to you! It should all be yours!” I couldn’t help it. A small, hysterical laugh escaped my lips. “Do you actually believe that?” Her body stiffened. The reality hit her: Frank Donovan was the one living in the Harrington mansion. I was the one relegated to a cramped, rented studio apartment. I looked at Theo, my expression flat, but a deep, sorrowful chill seeped through me. We both had talent for the piano. She was a prodigy, and when she was young, she took me on tour with her to train me. She’d patiently guide my hands on the keys. Now, she only offered me a cold shoulder and strict orders to defer to Frank in everything. Theo seemed to resign herself, bowing her head. Her voice was barely a whisper. “Just… wait until Frank finishes his lab work and gets his professor status, then you can move back in. Your room was converted into his lab, and his experiment is at a critical stage. You’ve always been the understanding one, Declan. You get that, right?” “Everything before was just a misunderstanding…” I didn’t bother to respond. I just stood up, staggered slightly, and walked away. I was an orphan before I was transported here. My life was precarious, and then a coughing fit sent me to the hospital, where I was diagnosed with a deadly, aggressive cancer. I was unconscious from the pain. When I woke up, I was here, in the body of a ten-year-old child. “Achieve a bond rating of 80% with the Harrington siblings and Female Lead Bianca Fairmont, and have a child with Bianca, then you can return to your world and be cured of cancer!” The system vanished, and I assumed it was a morphine-fueled hallucination. But I was small, undeveloped, and ten years old. I quickly adjusted. I had no ties in my old world. A healthy body here was a gift. Later, Theo and I rode home in silence. She tried to ease the tension by talking about trivial, funny things that happened before Frank arrived. It was the most warmth I’d felt in years. It was the kind of warmth that once made me consider failing the mission and staying forever. But then I brought Frank, a fellow orphan, home from my boarding school, and he stole every bit of Theo’s affection. My initial confusion turned to anger, then to desperate attention-seeking, and finally, to hysterical fits. All I got in return was: “Stop it, Declan. Look at yourself. You’re pathetic.” The car stopped outside the Harrington gates. I got out without a word. Theo’s voice, small and wounded, called out. “Declan, your sister is hurt. I can’t walk. Could you…” I cut her off, my face blank. “You’re hurt. Go see a doctor. What good does telling me do?” I pushed the front door open. Frank was sitting casually on the sofa, looking perfectly at home. Stacey and Bianca were seated at either end. Stacey was glaring at Bianca. “Frank has been so worried about you, he hasn’t eaten a proper meal in days. He’s thin. What kind of manipulative game are you playing?” Frank, ever the mediator, tried to calm them. “Stacey, Petra, I’m fine, really. It was all a misunderstanding. It’s resolved now.” I stood at the entrance, watching their tender family moment. I glanced down at my clothes, which felt cold and damp. 3 I touched my face. Wet. Hot. Real. God, I was actually crying. Theo limped in beside me, about to speak, but Frank rushed past her. “Theo, what happened to your leg? You—” I didn’t let him finish. I hit him. A single, hard fist to the jaw. Frank cried out, stumbling back and falling hard to the marble floor, looking up at me with utter incomprehension. Almost instantly, a powerful force clamped down on me. The bodyguard’s grip was like iron. The sudden, sharp pain in my arm forced me to my knees. Stacey gave a nod of approval to the bodyguard, then shot up from the sofa. She pointed a furious finger at me. “Declan Sullivan! We really did spoil you rotten! Apologize to Frank right now!” I was sprawled on the ground, spitting out a mouthful of blood and bile. “Apologize? What did I do wrong? I was betrayed by my fiancée, and I can’t even hit the man who slept with her?” Stacey’s voice grew sharper, more shrill. “What nonsense are you talking about? Frank and Bianca were always meant to be. You were never married! There was no official commitment! You don’t count!” “I’m ashamed to call you my brother! How can you be so utterly shameless?!” I laughed, a harsh, humorless sound. “Shameless? Don’t forget, Bianca was the one who promised me we’d get the papers after the baby was born! She toyed with my feelings. Who is the shameless one here?” Bianca stared at me, cold and venomous. “Thank God I never signed the papers. I had foresight. My family would never accept a weak, melodramatic man like you.” Petra lunged forward and slapped me hard across the face. “Declan! Apologize!” I didn’t speak. I just slowly scanned the faces in the room. Stacey’s eyes were cold. Petra’s face was twisted with disgust. Bianca looked like she wished I would spontaneously combust. Theo frowned, her lips moving silently, but in the end, she said nothing. It was the same look they’d given me three years ago, when Frank was exposed as my second sister’s obsessed fan, showing up at every concert. Theo, feeling sorry for him, convinced Petra to admit him to her university as a teaching assistant. To make Frank’s life easier, I was exiled from my home. My own room, the best room in the house, was converted into Frank’s private lab. “You have bodyguards wherever you go. Frank is alone. He needs to live here to communicate with Petra. Can’t you be an adult about this?” That was what they’d said when I screamed and begged. Their eyes then were the same as their eyes now. Today, I had no energy for an argument. I shrugged off the bodyguard’s hold and stumbled into the living room, grabbing the nearest thing—a massive, ridiculous crystal vase—and shattered it on the marble floor. I scooped up the largest, sharpest piece. Theo cried out, trying to rush forward, but Frank held her tight. “Declan, what are you doing?!” I looked at Frank, my expression mocking. “You wanted an apology, right?” I didn’t look at their terror-stricken faces. I was surgical, quick. A clean, practiced slash across my neck. Screams erupted from all sides. I laughed and I cried, the sound mixing together into a hysterical, broken noise. “I’ll give you my life. Is that enough? Are you happy now?” Warm, thick blood poured out. The dizzying, sharp loss of blood made it impossible to stand. In the cacophony of shrieks and commands, my vision tunneled to black. I saw the stunned faces of the women before I went under. Theo rushed forward and clutched me to her chest. “Call an ambulance!” I woke up to the sharp, stinging smell of disinfectant. The uniform white walls of the room made me dizzy. Was I back? I turned my head and saw Stacey’s exhausted, worried eyes staring back at me. I closed my eyes in bitter disappointment. I was still here. I was utterly drained. Stacey bristled at my reaction. “Declan! When did you learn to pull this pathetic woman-act?” Irritated, I caught the source of a sickeningly sweet, cloying aroma. It was a small, ornate vial on the bedside table. I instantly grabbed it and threw it against the wall. I had personally crafted that essential oil blend for Petra. She was consumed by her academic work, exhausted all the time. I spent six months apprenticing with a master herbalist to get the formula. But when Frank moved in, he stole my formula and claimed it as his own. Petra had proudly showed it off to everyone. “My sweet brother made this just for me. He’s so thoughtful.” Petra walked in just in time to see the vial arc gracefully through the air before shattering. She looked up, eyes narrowing in disbelief. “Declan, you just threw away the scent?” 4 I barely frowned, my voice flat and devoid of emotion. “I’m a patient. That cloying garbage makes me sick. I threw it out. What of it?” Petra’s chest heaved, and she pointed a trembling, accusing finger at me. “Declan, you are heartless! You are a spoiled, ungrateful snake!” “It’s no wonder Bianca chose Frank over you. You—” “Petra!” Stacey’s deep voice cut her off. Petra glared at me, her eyes red, waiting for even a flicker of remorse or sadness in my expression. She found only emptiness and despair. Shaking with anger, Petra’s voice turned desperate, hysterical. “Frank made that for you! Frank worked tirelessly! How can you be so ungrateful!” I was unmoved. “I was the one who brought the formula to the house. I can easily make him another one.” My calmness utterly enraged her. She grabbed the pillow from my hospital bed and slammed it against my head. “Stop your posturing! Do you have any idea how complicated that blend is to make? Fine! You think you’re so capable? You make it!” Stacey moved to intervene, but Petra stopped her with a sharp glance. Clearly, they all agreed this was a good opportunity to break my spirit. I smiled, a cold, empty upturn of my lips. I knew exactly how complicated it was. It required two days of continuous, minute monitoring—no breaks, no sleep, not even for meals or the bathroom. The precision was staggering. They were convinced I was bluffing. Petra locked me in her home office. I began the grueling, continuous work of blending the oils. I hadn’t eaten, and soon, sweat poured down my face. I could barely hold the delicate scale. When I finally finished, the effort was too much. My head was throbbing with fever, and I collapsed onto the table. Outside, I could hear their cheerful voices. They were celebrating Frank’s successful experiment and his promotion to professor. Frank played the humble role. “Maybe we should invite Declan out. I mean, my experiment wouldn’t have been successful if he hadn’t let me use his room…” Stacey scoffed immediately. “Don’t bother! Your success is yours alone. It has nothing to do with him!” “What if he shows up and ruins your celebration? He’s capable of anything!” Petra chimed in. “Exactly! Let him focus on the blend. It will calm his restless mind. We’re doing this for his own good!” I heard their words in a confused haze. I gave a cold laugh. I picked up the small, sharp pruning scissors from the blending kit. I didn’t hesitate. I plunged them into my heart. The blood surged out, but I felt a sudden, exhilarating lightness. Then, Theo’s gentle knock came from the door. “Declan, are you finished? The time is up.” I couldn’t even find the strength to speak. Petra’s impatient voice followed. “Ignore him! He’s just looking for attention! We have to break this habit of his!” Theo sighed, her footsteps clicking away. I finally closed my eyes in triumph. My soul floated free. A second later, the door was slammed open. Stacey, her face thunderous, burst in, followed by Theo and Petra. “Declan, you are so—” Her voice died in her throat. The floor was covered in a shocking pool of scarlet.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389367”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

The day we were supposed to be married, I hiked the price. I was scrambling to cover my mother’s emergency surgery, and I knew exactly how much cash I needed, how quickly. I walked into the ballroom and changed the pre-nuptial payout from eighty-eight thousand dollars to two hundred and eighty thousand. Alma Sinclair adjusted to the sudden, mercenary shift with unsettling composure. She had her assistant draw up the new papers without a word. But as we were walking to the bridal limo, her lips brushed my ear, and she delivered two light, poisonous words: “Gold Digger.” From that moment on, she ran wild, and I became the Kept Man, the Marked Man who’d sold himself for a number. Three years later, on our anniversary, I was in a hospital emergency room, stomach lining burned raw with gastritis, and I couldn’t even cover the co-pay. I stared at the bill for one hundred and fifty-two dollars, my palms sweating. Meanwhile, a thousand miles away in Alistair Harbor, Alma was high-profile, throwing a lavish, spectacular fireworks show over the ocean for her newest fixation. I looked at the number on the bill, then back at my dead phone. I called her. “Alma, we need to get a divorce.” “What is it now, Nolan? How much money do you want this time?” 1 “Fifty thousand?” “A hundred?” “Or are we up to one-fifty now?” Her voice was an idle, dismissive scoff coming through the phone. I hadn’t even answered when a sharp, clear laugh cut in. “Alma, darling, you randomly donated half a million to a panhandler yesterday. Why are you so cheap with your husband?” “Because,” Alma paused, a cold sneer entering her voice, “some people are only worth the price I stamped on them.” Her words weren’t a slap. They were a surgical blade, precisely aimed at my heart. Ever since I’d changed the terms of the prenup, the love in her eyes had been replaced by a deep, constant scorn. I knew I was in the wrong, and I spent the first year trying desperately to earn back her respect. It was useless. I cooked her favorite dinner. She would look at the plate and mock, “How much did this meal cost? Put a price tag on it so I can decide if I can afford to eat your kindness.” Even intimacy was transactional. “How much for tonight? Tell me the number.” I tried countless times to explain. I told her the truth: My mother had suffered a sudden, catastrophic cerebral hemorrhage on our wedding day. The hospital wouldn’t move her into surgery without a payment, and the money had to be wired now. I hadn’t wanted to risk waiting another second, so I had blurted out the revised number. She never believed me. From her privileged height, she would look down and coldly sneer. “You’d use your own mother’s life as a lie just for cash? Nolan Blackwood, I didn’t realize how truly toxic you were.” Thinking of everything she’d said, I focused on the sound of the relentless, explosive fireworks crackling in the background. “I don’t want your money,” I said flatly. “I just want the divorce. When are you coming back? We’ll go to the courthouse.” She still thought it was a pathetic, attention-seeking power play. The familiar, bitter contempt flooded my ears. “Nolan, you’d give up the Sinclair wealth? You’d give up this life? Prove it. Hand back every penny of the payout. Let me see your conviction.” Then she hung up. Her words echoed in the sterile hallway. Hand back every penny. Everyone said I’d hit the lottery when I married Alma Sinclair, that I was the sparrow who flew onto the highest branch—the son-in-law to a dynasty, guaranteed a life of endless luxury. What no one knew was that since the wedding, Alma hadn’t given me a dime. My former company, fearing a conflict with the powerful Sinclairs, had found an excuse to let me go. Every company I interviewed with afterwards rejected me for the same veiled reason. For three years, every dollar I’d spent was from my savings. Those savings had been long drained, first by my mother’s long-term care and then by basic living expenses. Now, I didn’t even have a hundred dollars left. How was I supposed to come up with two hundred and eighty thousand dollars to pay her back? I stood frozen, the hospital co-pay slip clammy in my numb hand. Nearby, a group of nurses was watching the live-stream of Alma’s celebration. One sighed in awe. “Oh my God, look at the way Ms. Sinclair is looking at her boyfriend. She’s completely smitten. The female CEO straight out of a romance novel!” “I know! It’s his birthday, and he casually mentioned he wanted a big fireworks display. She just dropped a million to make it happen. So jealous.” “Wait, I heard Ms. Sinclair is married…” “Who cares? Elite families have a husband on one arm and a lover on the other. It’s normal. Besides, her husband is just a kept man. Guys like that only care about the money; they don’t care how many lovers she has.” 2 Our story had once been a true fairy tale. Alma was the eldest daughter and sole heir of the illustrious Sinclair family. I was from a humble background, with a mom who was chronically ill and dependent on me. Early on, I confessed everything to Alma. I expected her to do what everyone else did: hear about my sick mother and retreat. But she didn’t. She looked at me with tender pity, holding my hand, her voice trembling. “You’ve carried so much for so long, haven’t you? From now on, I’ll carry it with you.” She told me: Nolan, no matter where you go or what you do, never forget that you have me behind you. Back then, everyone, including me, believed I had found my life’s great fortune in Alma Sinclair. No one could have predicted that the wedding I’d looked forward to would not only brand me a gold digger but completely extinguish her love for me. I still remember, after receiving the wire transfer, I rushed to pay the surgery deposit. The chief surgeon, his urgency suddenly gone, pulled me aside. “Mr. Blackwood, your mother is fine. Everything was a test from Mrs. Sinclair to see if you were worthy of the family. She instructed me to tell you that she wasn’t entirely satisfied with your performance. You have work to do if you want to keep your title.” “Also, Mrs. Sinclair is arranging a top medical team for your mother, but on one condition: you must never tell your wife the truth.” Terrified by the Sinclairs’ power and fearing for my mother’s life, I took the secret to heart. No matter how Alma misunderstood me, no matter how cruel she became, I never told her the truth. But when I realized she was cheating, when a beautiful, bright-eyed man became a constant shadow, I finally lost it. I grabbed her shirt, sobbing uncontrollably. Again and again, I begged in a broken voice, “Alma, please, I’m begging you, stop doing this to me!” Her face was a mask of cold stone. She harshly pried my hands away. Every word was a knife. “Nolan Blackwood, the day you jacked up the price and trampled the Sinclair name into the dirt, you died to me. Now, you’re just a woman I bought. You have no right to make demands.” After that, she grew bolder. The lovers changed like the seasons. The bottle of sleeping pills in my nightstand emptied faster than I could replace it. Now, without cash for the ER prescription, I could only turn around and head home. When I reached the sprawling estate, the gates were locked and the villa was dark. Wincing as the pain flared in my gut, I pressed the intercom. “Mrs. Gable? Are you there? Could you please open the gate?” I gritted my teeth and called out. The manager’s cold, unforgiving voice came over the speaker. “Ms. Sinclair set a new curfew. No entry or exit after 10:00 PM. That includes you, Mr. Blackwood. It is 10:01. Please do not make this difficult.” 3 I felt the meager seventy dollars in my pocket and was hit by a wave of desolate grief. I slowly slid down onto the cold marble steps of the gate, clutching my stomach. I hugged myself tight, trying to find a scrap of warmth. The memory surfaced: my junior year in college. I was working a late-night shift and missed my dorm curfew. I didn’t know what to do. Alma had appeared like an angel. She brought me here, to this house, and softly told me, “Nolan, the door here will always be open to you. This is your home. This is where you belong.” Now, looking at the place I’d once called home, I felt utterly adrift. I sat on the steps all night. When Mrs. Gable, the kind housekeeper, finally woke up and opened the gates, my limbs were stiff and numb. “Mr. Blackwood, why didn’t you find a place to stay? Get inside, quick, before you catch your death.” She anxiously helped me up. When her hand touched my ice-cold skin, a spasm of sympathy crossed her face. She didn’t say another word, hurrying to the kitchen to make me ginger tea. In these three years, whenever I was scorned or insulted, Mrs. Gable was the only one who believed me. “You are not a greedy man, Mr. Blackwood,” she’d told me once. “You must have had a reason. I believe you.” Even though she’d only met me a few times before the wedding, she chose to believe me. But Alma Sinclair, the woman who swore she loved me, still refused to. How laughable. After the tea and a light breakfast, I went up to my room to wash up. Just as I was about to collapse onto the bed, I heard men’s flattering voices and a woman’s playful, complaining whine from the hallway. “It’s your fault, you were so insatiable last night, keeping me up. My back is killing me.” “My bad. Want me to rub it?” Alma’s familiar, light, and melodic voice drifted through the door. It was slightly husky but laced with amusement. Alma’s laughter. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d heard her laugh like that for me. My eyes fell on the finished divorce papers lying on my nightstand. I flipped myself up, grabbed the papers, and walked out. I walked straight into Alma and her newest lover, Devon Reid, mid-passionate kiss in the hall. His hand was resting intimately on her thigh. My throat was dry. I cleared it softly. “Excuse me. Could I interrupt for a minute?” Alma’s tender expression immediately hardened to an icy glare when it landed on me. Devon stood next to her, puffing out his chest, the delicate skin of his neck covered in fresh, unmistakable love bites. “Nolan, you’re home? I thought you missed curfew last night and had to crash somewhere else.” I ignored his snide provocation and walked towards Alma. “Here’s the divorce agreement. I will pay back the money I owe you, every last cent. I won’t short you.” “Pay it back? You don’t even have a job. What are you going to use?” Alma’s lips curved into a faint smile, but there was no warmth in her eyes. She knew. She knew I had no income, no employment for three years. I suppressed the turmoil inside me. “How I pay it back is my business. You don’t need to worry about it.” Before Alma could respond, Devon snatched the papers from my hand and glanced at them. He burst out laughing. “Oh my God, look at all the typos in this agreement. Nolan, who was your lawyer? This is so unprofessional.” 4 I hadn’t had the money to hire a lawyer. I had drafted the divorce agreement on the cold front steps last night, painstakingly copying a template I’d found online. “Nolan Blackwood, are you done with this childish drama? Do you think filing for divorce is a new way to get my attention? Stop with your pathetic little tricks.” Alma’s eyes were full of contempt and disgust. She didn’t give me a chance to speak further. She dropped the papers, took Devon’s hand, and walked into her bedroom. It was just like our wedding night, when I’d desperately begged her to stay, and she’d walked straight into the study without a backward glance. I was once again shut out. But this time, I didn’t knock. I went back to my room. The next day, I started looking for work again. This time, I didn’t send my resume to corporate offices. I chose the best-paying hotel cleaning job I could find. As a cleaner, no one ran a background check. Here, no one knew my name. No one would call me a gold digger. Two weeks later, my supervisor directed me to clean Suite 305. The moment I pushed the door open, I froze. “Well, look who it is. Isn’t this Ms. Sinclair’s husband? Do you think our CEO isn’t making enough money, so you have to work here as a janitor?” “The Sinclairs have generations of wealth. If that can’t satisfy his endless greed, imagine what he’d do to an average person.” “That’s why you marry a real man. A decent, stand-up guy like Devon is the only one worthy of the Sinclair name.” The guests in the box suite mocked me openly. Alma, who was seated at the head of the table, didn’t seem surprised to see me. She calmly played with Devon’s hand, acting as if I didn’t exist. Devon’s eyes glinted with triumph. “Nolan, I heard you were working here, but I didn’t believe it. Are you that desperate for cash? You should have just asked. I can help you out.” He grandly pulled out the secondary credit card Alma had given him. “Bro,” he said, with a playful, cruel grin. “Alma always says you shouldn’t get something for nothing. Let’s play a game. You drink a shot, and I give you ten thousand dollars. Fair?” Ten thousand dollars a shot. If I drank twenty-eight shots, I could raise the two hundred and eighty thousand dollars I needed to pay her back. Then I could leave. “Fine,” I said, agreeing without hesitation. “Deal.” Alma’s body stiffened slightly. She finally lifted her head to look at me, and her eyes were ablaze with fury. “You really are a piece of work, aren’t you, Nolan? That low for cash? Does that mean you’ll agree to anything I offer?” She scoffed, pulling a neatly folded divorce agreement from her jacket pocket. “You want the divorce? You spend one night satisfying them, and I’ll sign.” The words landed, and the eyes of the men sitting in the room turned predatory. My face went white as I looked at the greedy, lustful men. I was about to refuse, but Alma had already pulled out a pen and scrawled her signature on the paper. She threw it at me. “Nolan Blackwood, if you want this divorce, prove your commitment.” She didn’t look back. She took Devon’s hand and strode out of the suite. The sticky, hungry stares from the men behind me made my body shake uncontrollably. “Alma, you can’t do this to me…” I lunged towards the door, but a powerful arm grabbed me and violently yanked me back. The door slammed shut. The last sliver of hallway light vanished. Despair, like a surging tide, drowned me. I had no fight left. The next morning, Alma’s assistant knocked on her door early. Alma’s clear, cold face showed a hint of mockery when she saw him. “Did he call you for help last night? I knew the divorce was just a manipulation…” Just then, the living room TV cut to a breaking news alert. “Last night at 10:15 PM, at the Cloud Haven Hotel, a male victim surnamed Blackwood was assaulted and tragically killed…”

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The ninety-ninth time I bought the paparazzi video of my wife cheating on me in a car, I dug out the promise note she’d written in high school. Briar Rhodes had gotten caught holding my hand in the hallway—a scandal that had her called before the headmaster. In that note, she’d meticulously penned the words that would become my gospel: “I know they say high school love is wrong, but I believe our love can conquer everything.” “Before I turn thirty, I will give Fitch Elliott a home—with babies and a cat.” I’m twenty-nine now. No babies. No cat. But she’d given another man—her secretary, Logan Miller—and a pair of boy-girl twins, the complete family she’d promised me. I pressed a heavy, frantic line onto the yellowed paper, then drove the scissor blade into my neck: “You were wrong. You didn’t make him happy. You only drove him to die.” … The blood streamed freely from my throat, and the cold was seeping into my limbs. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would. I only felt relief. Just as my consciousness began to drift, the bathroom door slammed open. Briar charged in, her pupils dilating into pinpricks when she saw the crimson wash in the tub. She staggered, practically tackling the porcelain to grab a thick towel, which she pressed savagely against my wound. “Fitch Elliott, what the hell is wrong with you? Are you insane?” I looked at her panicked, ravaged face, and a cynical smile touched my lips. Was she afraid I was dead, or just afraid my messy, ignominious death would finally wreck her reputation? “Don’t touch me, Briar. Let go.” She tried to pull me out, but my struggles sent a spray of icy water over her. Her expensive custom dress clung to her body, leaving her looking utterly exposed and defeated. “You’re throwing a fit over that? Seriously, Fitch? When did you get so damn dramatic?” she asked, her voice tight with fury and exhaustion. I closed my eyes, too tired to argue. Years ago, when I was hysterical and demanded she get rid of the first baby, I’d threatened her with a razor. She lied to me then, claiming she’d gone abroad to a private clinic where the procedure wouldn’t hurt her or our chances for the future. It wasn’t until she reappeared, cradling a pair of infants, that I became so enraged I nearly threw myself off the balcony. After a cycle of self-harm and desperate pleas, Briar’s initial agony and guilt had curdled into a cold, dull indifference. “Fitch, you just can’t bring yourself to follow through,” she sneered. “You’re using this as a pathetic lever, a way to force my hand. Otherwise, how do you keep surviving every single time?” The car sped toward the hospital. The doctors worked quickly. Once I was settled in a private room, Briar finally lit a cigarette, the smoke curling around her agitated face. “Logan wasn’t old when he came to me. He’s worked hard for the company and with the kids for three years now,” she explained, her voice flat. “That night, I was drunk. Yes, I was wrong, but the children are innocent!” She stood over me, her expression a mix of incomprehension and weariness. “The title of ‘husband’ is permanently yours. Why can’t you just be the bigger person?” “Is it so hard to accept two children? They are mine!” I stared up at the woman I had once loved to the bone. She was demanding I be “the bigger person” and embrace the children she’d birthed with another man. The place where my heart used to be no longer ached. It was just an empty, cold, suffocating void. “Briar,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. “Let’s get the divorce papers tomorrow.” Her brow furrowed. “How long are you going to keep this act up? It was just a stupid paparazzi video!” She then added, with chilling casualness, “You won’t touch me, and I have needs. You expect me not to find relief elsewhere?” I managed a self-mocking twist of my mouth. “You once promised that if you ever messed up, you’d let me go.” Her breath hitched. She looked at me with a complicated expression. “Fitchy, childish promises don’t count in the real world.” I closed my eyes, utterly exhausted. “Let the past stay in the past, then. Your home has already been given to someone else. I don’t want it anymore.” The room fell silent for a long time. She reached out and brushed my hair back from my forehead. “Don’t say things you don’t mean.” I instinctively flinched, pulling my head away. She slammed the door in frustration. “You rest. The doctor says you’re unstable and need quiet. We’ll talk about the divorce later. Don’t do anything stupid again.” In her eyes, my hysteria and utter breakdown were nothing more than childish stupidity. My pain was simply an inconvenience, disrupting her calm, privileged life. Just then, my eye caught the old high school note in my hand. New ink was floating up on the blank space! “Who are you? Why are you writing on my promise note?!” My heart skipped a beat. I stared, transfixed, at the words appearing from nowhere. I picked up the pen the nurse had left, my hand trembling uncontrollably. “Briar Rhodes, I am your guardian angel, here to protect you. Don’t be with Fitch Elliott.” I held my breath, waiting for a response. A few seconds later, the familiar, youthful handwriting, full of teenage pique and impatience, reappeared: “That’s BS! Why would I listen to you? I love Fitchy, and I’m going to be with him! What kind of sick prank is this?!” It was her. The eighteen-year-old Briar Rhodes. The girl who still believed that love could conquer everything, the girl who had vowed to build me a home. The girl she was then and the calm, controlled woman she was now were two completely different people. When I was a teenager, my mother had an affair, and my father murdered her and her lover before being sent to prison. Everyone had scorned me as the trash of a killer and a tramp. Only eighteen-year-old Briar held me, repeating endlessly how good I was. When I once wished out loud to see snow, she secretly saved up bus fare and took me a thousand miles north. She stood proudly in front of the entire student body during her public reprimand and declared, “I haven’t done anything wrong. I love Fitch Elliott, and I will marry him someday.” We squeezed into a tiny, rundown apartment, blowing out candles over cheap, leftover slices of cake from her after-school job. Even when she became the ruthless, shrewd businesswoman she is now, her eyes were still full of me. To give me a sense of security, she even let me choose her personal assistants and secretaries. Logan Miller’s resume was mediocre, and his English still carried a heavy, rustic accent. But he reminded me of my young self—the same hunger, the same fight to prove himself. I treated Logan like a younger brother, bought him nice clothes, taught him social etiquette. I even invited him to our holiday dinners. He would grin, throw his arm around my shoulder, and joke: “Fitchy, my man, I’ll make sure to watch out for the boss and keep all those sleazy guys away from her!” Yet, he was the one who betrayed me the deepest. The door to my room opened, and Logan walked in, looking slick and expensive. No trace of the boy who grew up in the mountains. “Briar’s tied up with company stuff, so she sent me to check on you.” He sat on the edge of the bed. “Look, man, don’t hurt yourself. I know you’re angry. But her husband will always be you. We’re not trying to take your place.” I closed my eyes, refusing to watch his performance. “Don’t make me say it again. Get out.” Logan hadn’t expected the direct rejection, and his face soured. “Look, man, your sperm count is low. You couldn’t hold up your end of the deal. Briar got tired of it a long time ago.” He stood up, his voice dripping with condescension. “You’re a broken thing. Briar already got tired of you.” He left with a satisfied look. Who needs the empty title of “husband”? I wanted the girl whose eyes were only for me, the partner who promised me a home. Since Briar had personally shattered all of that, I didn’t want this relationship—drenched in betrayal and lies—anymore. With a cold, final resolve, I picked up the pen and wrote: “If you don’t listen, you will cause Fitch Elliott to attempt suicide countless times. You will destroy his will to live.” “If you truly love him, stay away. It is the only thing you can do to save him.” I leaned back, utterly drained, waiting for her reply. Time ticked by. Just as I thought the communication had stopped, new words slowly emerged on the paper. The youthful handwriting was no longer frantic, but hesitant. “You’re lying. Fitchy is so good. How could I ever hurt him? I’ll be good to him forever!” “Why should I believe you? You don’t have any proof.” My life was the bloody proof. But how could I tell the teenager from eleven years ago? Should I tell her she would get drunk after a business dinner and end up in bed with the adoring male secretary? That she would get pregnant and successfully give birth to a pair of twins? And that the boy she once held so dear would descend into depression from years of betrayal, repeatedly attempting to violently end his own life to escape the world? The truth was too cruel for the eighteen-year-old version of her. I thought for a moment, then added a line: “Just above your tailbone, near your hip, you have a small, star-shaped birthmark. Only the orphanage director and I know about it.” Briar had told me that. “Are you really my guardian angel?” I smiled faintly. The teenage girl was so easy to manipulate. “If you truly want to save Fitch Elliott, pull away from him. Treat him coldly. Let him live a life without you.” A long pause followed. Then, the words that appeared carried a tone of reluctant, pained compromise: “I’ll listen to you for now. But if I find out you’re lying, I swear I won’t let you get away with it.” The threat was fierce, yet childish. But I felt a deep sense of relief, a smile touching my lips for the first time in what felt like forever. Eighteen-year-old Briar. Please be ruthless. Be crueler. Push the boy who loves you with all his heart away—as far away as you possibly can. On the day I was discharged, Briar came to pick me up. She glanced at the dressing on my neck, her eyes darkening. “The passenger seat is a mess. You should sit in the back.” I looked at the seat, which she hadn’t bothered to clean, scattered with a few wadded-up, cheap tissues and a discarded, torn nylon stocking. My heart clenched into a cold fist. But this time, I had no sharp questions. I got in the back seat in silence. Briar stiffened, clearly surprised by my unusual calmness. The driver, understanding the tension, raised the privacy divider. She tried to make conversation, her tone laced with confusion. “Fitch, how did we end up like this?” I felt numb. “Before, your eyes were only for me. Now, I’m just the least remarkable thing in your life.” She bristled, her voice rising in automatic protest. “That’s not true! You know you’re still the most important!” I gave her a look of faint mockery. “Briar, I can’t live up to that claim.” Briar’s face hardened. “Fitch, do you have to be so relentless?” “I am trying to make amends! I haven’t even officially made them co-heirs, for God’s sake! What more do you want?” She always had a reason. Did my suffering mean nothing? I suddenly felt utterly weary, lacking the strength to even argue. “Let’s go to the courthouse tomorrow.” Briar grabbed my shoulder fiercely, forcing me to face her. “I said no. Divorce is not happening. You are my husband for life!” I looked at her beautiful face, twisted now by agitation, and felt an intense sense of unfamiliarity. “Briar, the thing that trapped me before was my love for you.” “I don’t love you anymore. You can’t keep me here.” Her pupils constricted. She slumped back into her seat, then let out a cold, strained laugh. “Your manipulation tactics have certainly improved. I underestimated you.” As soon as we walked into the house, I heard the sound of children laughing, followed by Logan’s gentle cooing. “Not so fast, you two. Mommy will be back in a minute.” Toys were scattered across the living room rug. The boy and girl were wrestling on the floor, and Logan, wearing a casual t-shirt and sweats, watched them with a fond smile. The scene was sickeningly cozy. Hearing the commotion, Logan naturally took Briar’s discarded jacket and smiled at me. “Fitchy, let me know if you need anything at all, okay?” He looked every bit the man of the house. The boy, seeing me, kicked my shin. “Jerk! Don’t you dare break up our family!” The girl pouted. “Mommy, why did you let the bad man back in our house?” Briar didn’t reprimand their insolence. Her face was full of doting affection. “Mommy loves you two the most, always.” I stood there, an outsider looking in at a happy, complete family of four. I dug my nails into my palm, using the pain to anchor myself. “I’ll take the guest room.” Briar followed me, her voice exasperated. “Are you really going to hold a grudge against the children? I was just trying to soothe them.” I suddenly smiled. “What do your children have to do with me? Why should I care about their feelings?” She choked on her words, her face turning ashen. “Fitch Elliott, I don’t even recognize you anymore!” I nodded, my tone light and hollow. “You have yourself to thank for that.” I placed the promise note gently on the nightstand. Just then, new writing began to form on the paper. “Future Me, you are a pathetic bastard!” “I see what you’re doing now. How dare you let another woman and those wild brats into my house?!” “How the hell could you let Fitchy suffer like this? I’m going to kill you!” The handwriting was frenzied and desperate. My heart hammered against my ribs. Briar, standing in the doorway, must have sensed the shift in the air. Her eyes narrowed as she focused on the paper in my hand, her voice icy. “Fitch, what the hell is that you’re holding?” She snatched the note from my grasp. “Stop your mystical nonsense, Fitch. You’re clearly having a breakdown!” I watched her, instantly alert, and hissed, “Don’t touch it!” The sheer disgust in my eyes seemed to ignite her rage. Her gaze turned vicious. “This is my house, and you are my husband! What am I not allowed to touch?” “Fitch, have I been too lenient lately? Is this a love letter from your latest mistress?” So, forcing me to accept her betrayal, her bastard children, and ignoring my agony—that was lenience? A profound, chilling despair gripped me. I shoved her hard, locked the door, and sank against the frame. All I could do now was pray that the Briar from eleven years ago would listen and change my fate. But the next few days passed, and everything stayed the same. My hope plummeted to rock bottom. Perhaps to punish me for my defiance, Briar organized a lavish ceremony to officially introduce the twins to society. Invitations went out to almost every major figure in the business community. Logan, wearing a bespoke suit, walked through the room, holding the hands of the twins, accepting the compliments and blessings of the guests. His gaze caught mine, and his eyes were full of triumphant spite. He seemed to be saying: This is only the beginning. Next time, you’ll be attending our wedding. Midway through the banquet, the massive screen lit up to show a documentary of the children’s early life. Briar was there, picnicking with Logan and the kids, taking them to water parks—a painfully idyllic life. Suddenly, the children’s smiling faces vanished. They were replaced by a vile, grainy video. The footage of my mother’s affair with her lover, the same one that had been leaked online years ago, flashed across the screen! The resemblance between my mother and me was impossible to miss. Hundreds of guests’ looks of contempt immediately skewered me. Briar screamed at them to shut it down. But the control panel was unresponsive. My mother’s desperate moans echoed through the banquet hall. My body turned to ice. My blood seemed to solidify in my veins. Logan stood there, a cruel smirk on his face, silently mouthing the words: “How do you like my gift, Cal?” I lunged forward, hitting him with every ounce of strength I had left. Logan stumbled backward, conveniently crashing into the little boy, who’d run over to watch the spectacle. The child fell hard, bursting into tears. Briar’s furious roar tore through the room: “Logan! Jayson!” Before I could react, I was kicked away like a discarded rag doll. A blinding pain exploded at the back of my skull. Warm liquid instantly gushed out. I curled up on the cold floor. The back of my head was wet, and when I hesitantly reached a trembling hand to touch it, it came back covered in bright, thick red. As my consciousness faded, a figure in a school uniform frantically ran toward me. “Fitchy, don’t be afraid. I’m here…” Her face was younger, her brows still held a childish innocence, but I knew those features. I would never be mistaken. It was eighteen-year-old Briar. Had she really come?

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The wine glasses clinked around the dinner table, a toast to my promotion to director, but I was still busy in the kitchen. Talia, my wife, held up my corporate card like a trophy. “I have some great news for everyone! Felix’s year-end bonus was huge—eighty thousand! We’re going to Turks and Caicos from New Year’s Day to the seventh! I booked the flights and the resort already!” The room erupted in cheers. Scott, my eight-year-old daughter, jumped up and down. “Mommy wins! I’m going to the beach!” I carried the final dish, a steaming stoneware pot, out of the kitchen. Listening to Scott excitedly list all the fun she’d have by the ocean, I couldn’t help but smile. A man works to see his family happy; their joy was more important than anything. “That’s fantastic. I’ll start packing right after dinner and check the forecast—” “Felix, you won’t need to pack a suit.” Talia cut me off, her tone as casual as if she were pointing out that the soup was too salty. My smile froze on my face. The heating pot felt searing in my hands. 1 “Dad, why are you just standing there? Dish me up!” Scott tugged impatiently on my apron. I placed the pot on the trivet, the steam stinging my eyes. Betty, my mother-in-law, stirred the stew with a ladle. “This soup is so oily. How many times do I have to say it? Gary’s cholesterol is high. Less oil, less salt.” I ignored her, my eyes locked on Talia. “What was that? What do you mean… I don’t have to go?” Betty answered for her daughter, the expression on her face implying the answer was obvious. “Someone has to stay home, Felix. We have to keep an eye on the house, don’t we? And my prize orchids—they’ll be dead if they don’t get watered for a week.” “The Petersons next door went to Cancun last month,” Gary, my father-in-law, chimed in, taking a sip of his wine. “Came back and found a pipe had burst. Whole main floor was flooded. We can’t afford a disaster like that.” Scott’s small face wrinkled up with irritation. “Dad would just ruin the trip anyway. He’d just hover and complain about me eating ice cream or playing too close to the waves. It’s annoying.” Talia put down her chopsticks and looked at me with an air that said, Why are you making this a problem? “Felix, you heard them. Someone has to stay. My parents are older, and Scott is still young. You’re the only one who makes sense.” “But I’m a part of this family, too.” My voice was shaking. “I haven’t had a vacation in eight years.” Eight years. Talia liked to sleep in, so I got up every morning at six to make breakfast for five, take Scott to school, race to the city for my job, come home to clean, prepare special medicinal broths for my in-laws, help Scott with homework, make dinner, do the dishes, the laundry, and mop the floors. What, exactly, did they think I was? “Vacation?” Betty scoffed. “With what money? You think that little pittance of a paycheck you bring home is enough for a luxury trip?” “Mom’s right,” Talia nodded. “Felix, your bonus money wasn’t exactly a windfall. If we bring you, how are we supposed to really enjoy ourselves? Besides, you just work all the time, or you’re doing chores. You wouldn’t know what enjoyment is anyway. Your presence is… unnecessary.” You just work all the time. My hands clenched into fists. For eight years, my corporate card and main accounts went straight to Talia. I made six figures, but I was allotted an allowance of eight hundred dollars a month. I had to watch my wife’s face just to buy a bottle of water. I cherished my wife. I cared for my family. What had it earned me? “Fine,” I heard myself say. “I’ll stay home.” “I knew it.” Talia smiled with satisfaction. “You’re the backbone of this family, honey. I knew you had the strength to take one for the team.” Backbone. That was the word I’d heard most often in eight years of marriage. Every time they needed me to sacrifice, to concede, to endure, they used that word as the wrapper. “Felix has such a good sense of responsibility.” “You’re such a stand-up guy, a real man.” I was like an ox harnessed to a plow. I’d hear the word and automatically lower my head, accepting the yoke they placed on me. But today, I was suddenly and completely exhausted. I turned and walked into my home office, opening a drawer and retrieving a long-forgotten document case from the bottom. Inside were my ID from eight years ago and a deed to a property. The deed read: Felix Lawson, Sole Owner. The apartment had been a pre-marital gift from my mother, paid in full. Talia and her parents had no idea; they assumed it was a shared marital asset. I took a photo of the deed, opened a messaging app, and sent it to a contact. “Get me in touch with a realtor. I want to sell this property. Close in three days, price is negotiable.” The reply was immediate. “Understood, Felix.” I let out a small, tired laugh. Then, I found Scott’s teacher. “Ms. Peterson, this is Felix Lawson, Scott’s father. We have a family emergency, and I won’t be able to manage Scott’s studies for a while. Moving forward, please contact her mother directly for anything concerning Scott. Thank you.” After sending those two messages, I let out a long breath. Then, I booked a flight. The destination wasn’t Turks and Caicos. It was a home I hadn’t seen in eight years. 2 It was half-past ten when Talia finished her nightly routine and got into bed, wrapping her arms around me from behind. “Don’t be mad. When I get back, I’ll bring you some amazing souvenirs from the islands, okay?” I pushed her arm away. “Get away from me.” She instantly flared up. “Felix, who are you giving that attitude to? You’re just a glorified office worker; you think you’re some big shot? Pulling this tantrum. I must have been blind to marry you. My mother always said I should have married a wealthy man, if it hadn’t been for you…” She actually brought up the past. Eight years ago, I was the rising star of the tech world. I won gold in a top algorithm competition right out of college, and every major firm was fighting over me. When I met Talia, she was a waitress. She was gentle and simple back then, nothing like the heiresses I knew or the gold-diggers who threw themselves at me. I defied my family’s wishes and insisted on being with her. We married quickly and soon had Scott. When she wanted to move her parents into our apartment, I agreed. She promised: “You focus on earning; we’ll take care of the home.” To support five people, I worked myself into the ground. But it wasn’t enough for Talia. She complained about the heavy housework, and her aging parents couldn’t handle the heavy lifting. Betty was too stingy to hire a cleaner, so I became the designated house manager. I morphed into a living, breathing ATM and a domestic robot. I thought I was building a home. It turned out I was worse than an ATM. “I’m tired, Talia.” My voice was calm. “I have to be up at five to make breakfast, wake Scott at six, and drive you all to the airport by seven. Can you just let me sleep alone?” My words were factual and impossible to refute. She huffed and retreated to the guest room. “You’re just incompetent and dramatic,” she mumbled. “A man is supposed to provide for his family. You have a wife and a daughter; what more could you possibly be dissatisfied with?” The house grew quiet. I opened my eyes in the dark. The moonlight was bright, illuminating the bookshelf. I remembered what my father said eight years ago: “Felix, are you certain about marrying that woman? She’s not your equal.” I came from a major corporate dynasty, the only son. My refusal of an arranged marriage and my choice of Talia had been a tremendous disappointment to them. I thought I could prove them wrong. The truth was, I was disastrously wrong. Fortunately, my father had been so furious he’d cut me off completely, forbidding me from taking a penny or revealing my identity. My mother, however, couldn’t bear it, and she secretly bought me this apartment. She told me: “Son, if you ever hit rock bottom, remember you always have a way out.” I thought she was being overly dramatic back then. I was such a fool. I sat up and opened my contacts, sending a message to my father’s corporate attorney. I stayed awake until dawn. At five AM, I was up. By habit, I cooked the porridge, steamed the buns, fried the eggs, and warmed the milk. At six-thirty, Scott rubbed her eyes and walked out. “Dad, where’s my blue dress?” “Scott, I’ve told you many times, you need to lay out your clothes the night before.” “But isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?” she asked, the entitlement absolute. “Mom said we leave at seven. Hurry up!” I didn’t argue. I found the dress and watched her put it on. At seven, Talia emerged with the luggage, her face radiant with excitement. “Mom, Dad, let’s go!” Betty paused at the door to remind me. “Don’t forget to change the fish tank water, and make sure my Panda Plant gets enough sun.” After they left, I stood in the middle of the apartment I had cleaned for eight years. The floors gleamed, the coffee table was dust-free, and the sofa cushions were plumped and aligned. But this wasn’t my home. It was Talia’s home, Betty and Gary’s home, Scott’s home. It was everyone’s home but mine. I pulled out my phone and called the attorney I’d messaged last night. “Mr. Miller, is the divorce agreement ready?” “It is, Young Master,” Frank Miller’s voice was steady. “Per your instructions: custody of the child goes to the mother, and you waive all claims to marital assets.” “Good,” I said. “Also, please contact a deep-cleaning service for this apartment. I want every corner, every crevice, scrubbed clean. I don’t want a single trace of me left here.” “Sir, are you really planning to…” “I’m leaving,” I said. “And I’m not coming back to this place.” 3 On the way to the airport, I opened my phone and saw Talia’s post on social media. The background was the clear blue water of Turks and Caicos. She posted a family photo—my in-laws beaming, Scott running on the beach. The caption: “Happy New Year! A family should always be complete!” She hadn’t mentioned me. I was the invisible man of the house. I tapped the ‘like’ button. Then, I posted a photo of my own. It was the clean, bright living room of the apartment. The caption: “A house I protected for eight years. Starting today, I live for myself.” I set the privacy to “Visible to Talia Reed only” and hit send. Minutes later, her phone call came through. I rejected it. She called again. I rejected it again. On the third attempt, I blocked her. I blocked and deleted her from every app: phone, social media, bank accounts. I swapped out my SIM card, snapped the old one in half, and tossed it into a trash can. Like throwing away a piece of rotten history. As the plane lifted off, I received a text from Mr. Miller. “The realtor just showed the apartment. The buyer accepted the price on the spot.” It was exactly what I expected. I powered down my phone and closed my eyes. Flashes of the last eight years: Talia’s shy face when she confessed her love. Scott’s wrinkled infant face. My in-laws’ critical eyes the first time they visited. Talia’s confident vow: “I’ll manage the money for my husband.” Then, her annoyed sigh when she handed me my allowance: “Why are you spending so much on groceries?” Her automatic assumption when I stayed up all night to care for her sick parents: “That’s what you should be doing.” Scott’s arrogance: “Don’t worry about my schoolwork, Dad. Mom says I just need to be pretty.” Scene after scene, playing back like a film. I once thought that was happiness. Now, I saw it clearly: it was a sugar coating on exploitation. I asked myself: Though I cut myself off from my wealthy family, I never made Talia endure poverty. I thought a wife was someone to cherish, and I took on all the tasks she didn’t want. In return, I was only met with escalating demands. When I arrived, my parents were in the living room. My mother saw me and burst into tears. She hugged me, crying. My father only said one thing: “It’s good that you’re home.” That night, I logged into a tech forum I hadn’t touched in eight years and posted a piece of code—an algorithm I’d worked on during the flight. The caption: “I’m back. New Year, New Start.” That night, I slept the most peacefully I had in eight years. When I woke up, my phone had 99+ notifications. The code I posted had gone viral. 4 In Turks and Caicos, Talia was frantic because she couldn’t reach me. I had spent eight years as a workhorse, and my social circle had shrunk to just her immediate family. She realized she couldn’t contact me through anyone else, nor did she know where I was from. When I married her, my parents had broken off contact and never came looking for me. We had a bare-bones marriage, no big ceremony. Talia always assumed I had a poor relationship with my family and no safety net, so she never discovered I was the son of one of the country’s wealthiest entrepreneurs. Betty noticed her daughter’s distraction. “What is it?” “Mom,” Talia spat out, frustrated. “Felix might have… run away.” “Run away?” Betty froze, then laughed. “His money is in your control, honey. Where could he possibly go? Does he have any cash? Any place to stay? He’ll be back home with his tail between his legs before we are.” Talia considered this. Felix had no friends or family here; he just worked and did housework. Where could he go? Betty added, “I’ve been married long enough to know his little games. He’s just throwing a fit because he doesn’t want us to have fun. He’s making a scene.” The more Talia thought about it, the more sense it made. “Forget him,” she waved a hand dismissively. “We’ll be back in a week anyway. Let him sulk. We’re going to enjoy the rest of our trip.” On the seventh day, they returned, laden with gifts and souvenirs. Talia was already planning how she’d chew me out. Run away? He has lost his mind! But as the taxi pulled up to the apartment, everyone froze. A large, official-looking sign was staked on the lawn: “PROPERTY SOLD. New owner moving in shortly. Please contact the closing agent immediately.” Talia’s suitcase fell to the pavement with a thud. She rushed to the door and pounded on it. No answer. She fumbled for her key, put it in the lock—and it didn’t turn. The lock had been changed. “What… what is this?” Betty panicked. “Where’s Felix? Where is he?” Talia’s hand shook as she pulled out her phone and dialed the number on the sign. “Hello? About this apartment…” “Oh, you must be the previous occupants!” The agent sounded cheerful. “The seller closed on the property. You got back just in time; the new owner takes possession tomorrow. You need to vacate immediately. If you need a rental, I have a few listings…” “Sold?” Talia interrupted. “Who sold it?” She finally remembered. The apartment was Felix’s pre-marital asset. “The owner of record, Mr. Felix Lawson,” the agent confirmed. “He provided all necessary documentation: deed, ID, legal waiver… everything was airtight.” Talia’s phone slipped from her grasp.

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Donovan Hayes had been caught cheating for the ninth time. I’d finally snapped, burying a kitchen knife in his chest. He spent three days and three nights fighting for his life in the ICU. The first thing he did when he woke up was ask for a divorce. The day I signed the papers, he didn’t dare look me in the eye. I didn’t offer a single word of protest. After the divorce was finalized, I methodically destroyed everything tied to Donovan. I didn’t even spare the long-forgotten, joint social media archive we’d created back in high school. Staring at the grainy, naïve photo of us, him with his arm slung around me, I slowly typed out a message: [Donovan, you will never deserve happiness.] My phone immediately vibrated with a reply: [Who is this? How dare you say that?] [I swear I will give Ella happiness.] The message stopped my breath. I stood there, stunned, and in the sudden silence of my apartment, I couldn’t help but remember. The seventeen-year-old Donovan, who had once stood in front of me, shielding me from the world, had sworn he would give me happiness. … 1. I stood rooted to the spot for a long time. That joint social media archive—the one seventeen-year-old Donovan had proudly made public—was now scrolling with familiar, yet alien, messages. [Who’s messing with D’s girl?] [Yeah, everyone knows D loves Scarlett to death.] Reading that line, I felt a sharp, hollow emptiness in my chest. The phone rang again, the poorly timed call cutting through the silence. It was my lawyer. “Scarlett,” her voice was clipped, professional. “They presented crucial evidence in court. They’re claiming Mr. Hayes is not solely responsible for the adultery.” “Instead…” “They’re claiming it was mutual.” I froze. The lawyer cleared her throat, her voice dropping to an uncomfortable whisper. “Mr. Hayes is arguing that you both cheated. And that your partner… was Rick Song, your former stepfather.” “He’s submitted records detailing the communication between you two over the years. And… records of your past sexual assault.” “He says you were guilty of marital infidelity, and that your relationship with him was never ‘pure’ even back then.” The world tilted. A sudden, high-pitched ringing filled my ears. Seventeen-year-old Donovan might have loved me to death. But thirty-two-year-old Donovan, because of one woman, was tearing me apart, hoping I would simply vanish. I wiped the tears from my cheeks, bit back a sob, and typed out my reply: [This man, the one you say loves Scarlett to death, will cheat on her, force her to abort her child, drag her into court, and swear to make her miserable for the rest of her life.] The contact immediately flashed with a friend-add request. [You’re lying. Who are you? I will only ever love Scarlett. I would never make her suffer!] I endured the ache in my throat, looked down at the court summons Donovan had sent, and took a short video. Whether this was a cruel prank or truly seventeen-year-old Donovan, I sent the clip anyway. [Seventeen-year-old Donovan. I am thirty-two-year-old Scarlett.] [The future you will fall madly, tragically in love with another woman.] [You will be caught cheating countless times, you will lose a child with her, and then you will force me to abort mine. When I finally stab you, you will take me to court and swear to put me in jail.] [So, if you truly want Scarlett to be happy…] […Please never love her.] The video lingered in the chat window. For a long time, no reply came. I switched off my phone and let out a long, shaky breath. My eyes fell on the court summons lying on the floor. I remembered the look in his eyes—pure contempt—as he’d held Ella, addressing me. Scarlett, even you, if you hurt Ella, I will make you pay the price. 2. This was the eighth year of Donovan’s betrayal. It was the third year of our court battle. Court summons were stacked around the house, every single one repeating the same message: “You must pay the price for hurting Ella.” But hadn’t he once held my hand and promised to protect me forever? My heart twisted in a sudden, sharp spasm. The familiar ringing in my head returned, and the old pain flooded my memory. On my seventeenth birthday, my stepfather first cornered me in the dark. I was trembling, gripping a knife, ready to trade my life for his. But that night, Donovan snatched the knife from my hand. His eyes were red-rimmed as he plunged it into the bastard. Blood stained his thin school uniform as the police led him away. Even then, he was desperately trying to reassure me: “Scarlett, don’t be scared. I’ll make that scum pay.” He went to prison for me for three years. The day he was released, he held me tight, his eyes still red. “Scarlett, if you don’t mind what I’ve done, will you marry me?” So, we had no diamond ring, no wedding. We just shared a bowl of bacon at a no-frills, old-school diner. He picked every piece of bacon out of his plate and put it in mine. We looked at each other, eyes wet. Twenty-one-year-old Donovan, just like his seventeen-year-old self, swore he would give me happiness. From then on, he buried himself in work. When he drank so much for a client he bled internally, he just squeezed my hand tighter. “Scarlett, I promise I will make you happy.” And he did make a lot of money. He gave me the wedding we missed and finally slipped the diamond ring we couldn’t afford onto my finger. I thought this man would be my forever. But he broke his promise. He fell for the perpetually smiling intern. From the first time he brought her home for dinner, to the ninth time I caught them in bed, Donovan always played it cool. “We’re just colleagues, don’t overthink it.” Don’t overthink it gradually became don’t interfere. He came home less and less. When I asked, he’d only say, “I’m too busy with work. Do you enjoy managing my life so much?” I kept lying to myself. The man who swore to give me happiness wouldn’t betray me. Until they used our own bed, right beneath our oversized wedding photo, for their latest tryst. All my self-deception shattered like glass, shards piercing my heart. I fought back the numbness and finally screamed my question: “Why? You swore you would make me happy!” Donovan didn’t answer. He just watched my hysterics, then said coldly, “I was never going to love anyone forever, Scarlett. Stop making a scene.” In that moment, I felt hollowed out. He seemed to have forgotten he was the one who had guaranteed my lifelong happiness. Later, he was caught cheating again and again. And when Ella accidentally miscarried, he cried until his eyes were raw. He looked at my growing belly, clutching my hand. Seventeen-year-old Donovan had dreamt of us having a baby. But twenty-seven-year-old Donovan, because his beloved Ella had lost her child, forced me to abort mine. “Ella lost our baby. You having yours will only make her sad.” The moment I lost my child, all the suppressed pain erupted. Finally, the ninth time I caught them, I took a knife to Donovan’s chest and then slowly slashed my own wrists. We were both rushed to the ICU. The first thing he did upon release was file for divorce. He was red-eyed when he signed the papers, afraid to look at me. But as he walked away, with Ella on his arm, he muttered something through gritted teeth. I was too numb to hear it clearly. It wasn’t until he demanded I leave with nothing and dragged me into court that his words echoed back to me. Scarlett, you must pay the price for the hurt Ella has suffered. The tears I’d been holding back spilled, splattering onto my phone screen. The screen lit up again. It was a flood of messages from seventeen-year-old Donovan: questions, anguish, and finally, a firm declaration: [I will prove it to you! I will give Scarlett happiness!] I smiled bitterly. Seventeen-year-old Donovan loved me far more than I had ever imagined. But thirty-two-year-old Donovan loved me far less than his younger self could ever conceive. 3. Looking at the blinking notification, I let out a long breath and switched off the phone. Over the next few days, our chat history became a record of his teenage romance. Knowing that we were destined to break up only made seventeen-year-old Donovan love me harder. He began documenting every small moment they shared. Today, it was the strawberry lollipop he’d smuggled into her pocket. Tomorrow, it was Scarlett concentrating on her math homework in the sunlight. And the perfectly recorded breakfast: a carton of strawberry milk and a hard-boiled egg he’d already peeled. The lens never lies when you’re in love. Just like now, Donovan was announcing his impending fatherhood with Ella to the entire world—hiring a publicist, getting custom announcements, and searching for the perfect name. In the photos, he held Ella’s stomach, looking blissfully happy. I believe in true love. But true love is momentary, and it changes. If seventeen-year-old Donovan met the present-day Ella, he would be equally smitten. She was younger, kinder, shared his career goals, and had all his interests. And I? I was left with only a broken, ugly promise. I spent the next few days working with my lawyer, collecting evidence. Meanwhile, the public outrage on social media exploded. [Seriously, how can someone fall for the person who assaulted them? That’s sick.] [I heard it was her stepfather. No wonder the husband divorced her. What kind of man could live with that?] When a reporter cornered Donovan for an interview, he gave a cold answer. Scarlett, this is what you owe Ella. Yet, the pop-up on my phone showed seventeen-year-old Donovan’s defiant commitment: [Scarlett, I swear I’ll give you happiness.] Seventeen-year-old Donovan would fight the world for me. Thirty-two-year-old Donovan gave me up for his world. That night, I lay silently in bed. The years of emotional destruction suddenly rushed back like a tidal wave. The next day, the media tracked down my home address. Facing the woman they labeled a “shameless whore” for my association with my stepfather, my house was besieged by reporters. “Slut,” “pervert,” and every other foul word imaginable rained down on me. My already ruined life just got a lot worse. Donovan gave another sweeping statement to the press: Scarlett, we are adults. We must take responsibility for our mistakes. Seventeen years ago, I went to prison for you once. Now, it’s time for you to take responsibility for your actions. But on my phone, seventeen-year-old Donovan messaged: [Scarlett, I told my girl that we’ll get married, and she didn’t believe me!] A sharp, painful jolt in my brain. Suddenly, a strange, disjointed memory filled my mind: a smug, seventeen-year-old Donovan telling me he had met my thirty-two-year-old self. I shot up in bed. I finally understood. The two timelines were connected. The past could alter the present. If I could stop seventeen-year-old Donovan from delivering that birthday gift, he might never have found out about my stepfather’s abuse. If he hadn’t found out… would Donovan and I have never gotten together in this timeline? My hands, gripping the phone, started to shake. I began to tentatively ask young Donovan to send me small, inconsequential things. Suddenly, a vase of dried-up preserved roses—objects I had meticulously destroyed—appeared in the dusty junk room. Lying in bed, I smiled, and then the tears started to flow. One week. I had one week before the court date. If I could just prevent seventeen-year-old Donovan from saving me, all this present misery could end. 4. So, for that last week, I frantically planned how to make Donovan miss my birthday. On my phone, he was happily sending pictures of the gifts he’d prepared: the preserved roses, a teddy bear, and Scarlett’s favorite strawberry lollipop. He grumbled: [Scarlett’s been acting weird lately. Does she think I forgot her birthday?] I didn’t tell him that seventeen-year-old Scarlett was suffering, soaking herself in a bathtub, letting her skin wrinkle and redden, unable to face the world. [She hates birthdays because her parents divorced on that day. Leave her alone.] He swore: [I will make sure she loves every birthday from now on.] I whispered a bitter, “Self-absorbed,” to myself. The day before my birthday, he messaged me drunk: [Thirty-two-year-old Scarlett, why did the seventeen-year-old you just try to break up with me?] I didn’t tell him that seventeen-year-old Scarlett had lost the will to live and felt she didn’t deserve a boy as good as Donovan. [You aren’t good enough for her. Stop bothering her.] He sobbed out a few replies: [You’re lying! We get married later!] [I swore I would make her happy!] My hand clenched around the phone, my body trembling with the effort to hold back my pain. He was more stubborn than I had anticipated. [Seventeen-year-old Donovan, if you want to be with Scarlett forever, go wait on the Brooklyn Bridge for a snowstorm on her birthday. She will accept your declaration, and you’ll be happily together forever.] I didn’t tell him it wasn’t going to snow that night. Messages popped up instantly: [Really?] [But you said we couldn’t be together?] Swallowing the sourness in my throat, my hands shook as I replied: [I didn’t lie. I was just testing you. You passed.] I closed the phone. The messages stopped. It turned out seventeen-year-old Donovan loved that silly girl much, much more than I thought. But there was no snow forecast for the Brooklyn Bridge. Just like there was no future for me and Donovan. I just wanted to give Donovan his life back. And to finally release myself. I felt a profound guilt for lying to the boy. That night, a sparse, chilling rain fell outside the window. I didn’t sleep. The next day, my lawyer accompanied me into the courtroom. Inside, Donovan was wearing his preferred white shirt, though it was now under a severe, dark charcoal suit. The memory of the teenage boy was entirely hidden. Three years hadn’t changed his face, but his hatred for me seemed to have been cemented. He saw me, his lips twitching rigidly, but his throat bobbed, and he didn’t say a word. My phone vibrated with a message from seventeen-year-old Donovan: [I’m at the Brooklyn Bridge. It’s not snowing yet. When are you coming?] [You promised me we would be very, very, very happy, right?] I looked at the brutal adultery evidence presented to the court, the tears pressed painfully behind my eyes, but I still managed to reply, my hands shaking. [Yes, you will be very happy.] [You will live in a beautiful house, own a cat, and have two adorable children.] But that person wouldn’t be me. I slowly closed my eyes, leaving the final words unsaid. I listened as Donovan, in painstaking detail, tore open all my old wounds for the court. “Scarlett, you must pay the price for hurting Ella.” “Now, everything has to end.” I stood paralyzed, the weight of all my past sorrows crashing down. Then, a flicker caught my eye. Outside the window, a few, fragile flakes of snow began to drift down. My phone immediately popped up with a new message: [Scarlett, tell me where you are!] [They said the police caught you. Don’t scare me, please!] In the courtroom, I felt dizzy. Blood seeped through my clothes, and I collapsed onto the floor, a pathetic, ruined heap. I saw the countless self-inflicted scars snaking up my arms, and in my peripheral vision, I saw Donovan staring tenderly at Ella. I knew it was over. Seventeen-year-old Donovan had ultimately failed to become Scarlett’s teenage hero. But looking down at my phone, the screen scrolling with frantic messages, the newest one, sent just a minute ago, read: [Thirty-two-year-old Scarlett, I finally found you.] [Why did you lie to me back then? Why did you make me miss Scarlett, so I could never see her again?] I looked up in terror, locking eyes with Donovan. His face was scarlet, hollowed out, as if his soul had been ripped away. “Scarlett,” he whispered, his eyes blazing, “Why did you lie to me back then?”

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The team bonding dinner. I followed the GPS for twenty miles. When I arrived, all I saw was a field of rebar and rubble. I called. My colleague on the other end was laughing so hard he could barely speak: “No way, Boss, you actually went? It was just a joke, ha ha ha.” In the background, the cheers and jeers of the entire table were deafening. I stood in the middle of nowhere for ten minutes, then spent another hour driving to the correct location. They were already gone when I finally arrived. The table was a wreck. The next morning, I called him into my office during the daily meeting. He gave me a lazy, easy smile: “Lighten up, Boss. Just a little office fun.” I placed a thin file in front of him, my face a mask: “Funny you should say that. I decided to make a joke, too.” 01 My name is Blair Kincaid, and I was barely two weeks into the job as the new Division Head. To fast-track a positive relationship with the team, I offered to pay for a celebratory dinner out of my own pocket—a peace offering from the new boss. The office broke into a chorus of fake, hollow cheers. No one looked at me. Only one long-time employee, Travis Shaw, volunteered, an unusual burst of helpfulness. He enthusiastically patted his chest and took over the reservation, a zeal that honestly surprised me. I was even naive enough to think he just needed an opening, a chance to show initiative, and my goodwill gesture had worked. On the evening of the dinner, an emergency file from HQ snagged my attention. I called the team and told them to start without me. Travis answered, his voice jovial: “Got it, Boss. We’ll save a seat for you.” It was past seven when I finally wrapped up. I opened the location pin Travis had sent. Navigation showed twenty miles, an hour’s drive away from the downtown core. My car drove out of the city’s electric glow. The streetlights thinned out, then vanished completely in the rearview mirror. A cold knot of unease began to twist in my stomach. But I checked myself. I told myself to trust my colleagues. I couldn’t afford to be suspicious. When the car finally stopped, the GPS announced, “You have arrived at your destination.” I cut the engine and pushed the door open. In front of me were bulldozers, twisted rebar, and the half-demolished steel skeletons of buildings. The wind kicked up a choking cloud of construction dust. This wasn’t a restaurant. It was a dead, silent demolition site. I pulled out my phone and called Travis. He picked up quickly. The background was loud, filled with the clinking of glasses and rowdy laughter. “Hello, Boss? Where are you?” His voice carried a barely suppressed edge of amusement. I tightened my grip on the phone, trying to keep my voice even: “Travis, what is this address you sent me?” The phone line exploded with unrestrained laughter. Travis was practically gasping for air. “No way, Boss, you actually went?” “Oh my God, that is rich! That is just too easy!” Then came the collective roar of my “dear” subordinates—a chorus of mocking shouts and cheering. The sound was like a thousand poisoned spikes, piercing the phone and driving hard into my ears. I hung up, standing alone in the encompassing darkness. The night wind howled over the ruins, a thin, desolate cry that chilled me to the bone. The past two weeks—the passive reports, the strange, knowing looks in meetings, the conversations that stopped the moment I walked into the breakroom—all the small details of my calculated isolation suddenly snapped into sharp focus. My attempts at warmth and my professional patience, in their eyes, were merely the hallmark of a soft, easily manipulated target. I reopened my navigation app and searched for the name of the restaurant Travis had tagged in his social media post. Another hour of driving. By the time I reached the brightly lit restaurant, it was nearly ten o’clock. The private room door was open, and the room was empty. The table was a disaster of half-eaten food, spilled wine, oily plates, and scattered napkins—all mocking my lateness and my stupidity in deafening silence. I walked to the host stand to settle the bill. The cashier looked at me with an immediate, deep sympathy. “Are you Ms. Kincaid?” “Yes.” “Your tab is already closed out. Your colleagues said you wouldn’t be making it tonight and told us not to wait.” That last sentence was like a dull, rusty knife, sawing back and forth across my chest. I sat alone in the empty private room, staring at the remnants of their feast. I thought this was team building. To them, it had just been a well-planned, elaborate public shaming. My eyes felt hot, but I bit down hard on my lip, refusing to let a single tear fall. Driving home, shame, fury, and a bone-deep sense of betrayal crashed over my rational mind in repeated waves. My hands, gripping the steering wheel, were shaking uncontrollably. Back in my empty apartment, I threw myself onto the sofa. Travis’s unbridled laugh, and the piercing shouts of the crowd in the background, played on infinite loop in my head. I stayed awake that night, staring at the ceiling until three in the morning. 02 The next day, I walked into the office with dark, bruised circles under my eyes. The office was buzzing with its usual energy, people gathered in small, tight knots. The moment I walked in, the low chatter abruptly stopped, but the barely suppressed, knowing smiles on several faces were more insulting than any noise could have been. It was time for the morning meeting. Travis and a few of the older employees sat together, whispering and exchanging glances. Their eyes would dart to me occasionally, a look of unmistakable, arrogant mischief on their faces. My phone vibrated. It was a text from my best friend, Sasha Reed. “Blair, you’re kidding me, right? Travis just posted the whole story in the company-wide chat, adding all kinds of garbage about how the new boss is a total amateur who got lost in the middle of nowhere. The entire company knows.” I swiped across the screen, opening the massive chat group. Dozens of unread messages, all about me. “Is the new boss that gullible?” “LOL, I’m dying. What’s the poor woman’s emotional damage score?” Followed by a cascade of laughing emojis. I turned off my phone, took a slow, deep breath, and shoved the churning emotions down. I walked to the front of the conference room. I started with a voice that was eerily calm: “The dinner last night was excellent. Thank you all for participating. However, starting today, we are refocusing all our energy on performance and hitting our targets.” The moment I finished, Travis interjected with an obvious, cutting sarcasm. “So, Boss, did you have a fun time last night? The scenery out there was nice, right? Fresh air and all that!” The conference room immediately erupted in boisterous laughter. It was louder, sharper, and more brazen than the laughter on the phone the night before. I raised my eyes and stared at Travis, silently, for a full five seconds. Under my gaze, his cocky smile briefly faltered. But that moment of stiffness quickly dissolved into a more aggressive bravado. “Come on, Boss, I’m just making a joke. Don’t be such a sore loser. Right, guys?” He even turned to his co-conspirators for support. I withdrew my gaze and continued to assign the week’s tasks as if nothing had happened. After the meeting, I retreated to my office. My new administrative assistant, a young woman, came in with a stack of files. She looked distressed, her face a mix of sympathy and fear. After I pressed her repeatedly, she whispered. “Ms. Kincaid… I overheard Travis and the others saying outside… that the new manager came in thinking she could establish authority by buying everyone dinner, but she got played and deserved it.” I called Sasha and recounted the morning. Sasha exploded on the other end: “That is straight-up workplace bullying! You cannot let this go! You need to go to Mr. Wallace, or you need to find a way to fire that snake!” I leaned back in my chair, feeling a profound helplessness. Report it up? I was a parachute manager. Crying to the CEO about a subordinate’s “joke” would make me look thin-skinned and incapable of managing my own team. Handle it directly? I had no roots here. Any rash move would spark a wider revolt and isolate me even more. Near the end of the day, I watched through the blinds as Travis slung his bag over his shoulder, walking out the door with a confident stride. He was bragging to a nearby colleague. “See? I told you she was easy to handle. Soft like a marshmallow. Played her, and she didn’t even squeak.” The words drifted clearly into my office. My hand, resting on the desk, slowly clenched into a fist. 03 Over the next few days, Travis’s provocations became more brazen. He either dragged his feet on tasks I assigned or deliberately botched them. A report due on Wednesday was finally dumped on my desk at 4:58 PM on Friday. When I pointed out the data errors, he just shrugged with a lazy arrogance: “Oops. You didn’t clearly spell out that requirement, Boss. That’s just how I interpreted it.” During the weekly team meeting, I presented a new, comprehensive performance strategy—one I had stayed up for several nights to prepare. The moment I finished, Travis was the first one to jump in. “This plan is completely unrealistic for our department. Too academic, too pie-in-the-sky.” Several veteran employees immediately echoed him. “Yeah, Ms. Kincaid, that model is too complex. We can’t execute it.” “Exactly. Too much theory, not enough feet-on-the-ground.” I brought out detailed data and case studies, trying to argue my position. Travis folded his arms and let out a cold laugh. “Data is dead, Ms. Kincaid. We’re the people on the front lines. You haven’t been in the trenches. You don’t know the territory.” With one sentence, he blocked all my efforts. The meeting ended in disarray, the new plan indefinitely shelved. I felt a deep, chilling sense of defeat. That afternoon, Mr. Wallace’s email arrived on schedule. “Blair, why are your department’s metrics continuing to slide for the second week in a row? I need a detailed explanation by Friday.” The cold, terse language was like a bucket of ice water dumped over my head. I immediately pulled up the department’s performance dashboard and checked the figures line by line. The problem quickly became obvious: the large accounts managed by Travis had all flagged abnormal activity. Some project workflows were suddenly stalled, and others, currently in contract renewal talks, had been hit with extremely difficult demands from the client. I bypassed Travis and called the procurement manager for one of the key accounts, gathering information discreetly. The manager didn’t mince words: “Blair, I was about to call you. Your guy, Travis, has been completely useless lately. He’s short with us and ignores our queries. We’re seriously considering taking our business elsewhere.” I hung up, shaking with rage. I finally understood. He wasn’t just undermining me; he was deliberately sabotaging the entire department’s performance to make me look incompetent and get me fired. He was going to be the executioner. That evening, I stayed late to draft the damned explanation for Mr. Wallace. Halfway through, I stopped. I realized that simply reporting the problem and painting myself as a helpless victim would be the single most foolish move. It would only confirm to Mr. Wallace that I couldn’t control my own team. My phone lit up. Sasha’s text: “Dinner. I’m giving you a professional intervention, sis.” At the restaurant, Sasha listened to my story, then poked my forehead, furious. “You’re too nice, too professional! This isn’t a charity hall, Blair. It’s a coliseum! When you need to show your teeth, you show your teeth!” Her words hit me like a hammer blow. Before we left, Sasha lowered her voice: “Don’t forget, I’m in HR. Every employee file—attendance, reviews, disciplinary history—I have access to it all. Maybe you’ll find what you need in there.” I looked at her, and a flicker of cold, hard light ignited in my eyes. 04 From that day on, I began to watch Travis, quietly. I quickly noticed that he was often missing during the workday, slipping out of the office early, around three or four in the afternoon. I asked Sasha for help, and she pulled up the key-fob records for the past three months. The records showed that Travis had been late or left early over forty times. On several days, he didn’t even swipe in until after ten AM and was gone before four PM. Yet, mysteriously, the company’s internal time-tracking system showed full attendance every day. The only explanation was that someone was covering for him, clocking him in and out. Sasha also found something new. She discretely checked Travis’s HR file. It clearly documented that Travis and the former Division Head, Spencer Graham, had an unusually close relationship. Travis had been Spencer’s go-to guy when Spencer was still an analyst. When Spencer rose through the ranks, he brought Travis up with him. Travis was his core loyalist. Spencer, who had been demoted to a non-managerial role a month ago due to poor performance and lax management, was the manager whose spot I was now filling. All the pieces clicked together. I wasn’t just facing an arrogant pawn. I was facing a deeply entrenched snake pit, led by the former manager. Spencer was pulling the strings, and Travis was the front-man, aiming to discredit me, force me out, and thereby prove to the company that he wasn’t the problem—the department was simply “ungovernable.” My enemy was far more powerful and insidious than I had imagined. I widened my investigation to include the other veteran employees closest to Travis. With Sasha’s help, I reviewed their work-related emails for the past six months. A shocking discovery surfaced. Travis was repeatedly using his personal email address to send core client data and pricing sheets to several unknown external companies. This wasn’t just insubordination; this was commercial espionage. He was likely operating a side-business, profiting off the firm’s resources. I instructed my assistant to collect every project contract and financial ledger Travis had ever managed, under the guise of “end-of-year archiving.” After two days and two nights of auditing, I found two completed projects where the contract amount and the company’s actual bank deposit differed significantly. The discrepancies added up to just over five thousand dollars. Sasha warned me that it wasn’t time to strike yet. “You have to turn every piece of evidence into an ironclad case. No room for him to wiggle out. You get one shot, so make it a kill shot.” I took her advice. On the surface, I continued to play the role of the “soft marshmallow.” I met Travis’s constant provocations and deliberate delays with the same silence and tolerance. This posture allowed his little clique to drop their guard even further. Once, I accidentally overheard Travis in the breakroom bragging to a colleague. “See? I told you she wouldn’t do anything. I played her at the dinner, and she didn’t even squeak. A soft target like that can’t manage this department.” I stood outside the door, listening to the laughter, my face utterly devoid of emotion. I simply walked back to my office, opened my computer, and with a cold, slow smile, recorded the suspicious five-thousand-dollar difference in the encrypted document I had named “Judgment.” 05 The time was ripe. I decided to make the first move and set a trap. At the Monday morning meeting, I announced that the company was launching a critical new initiative, the “Aurora Project,” which required full team cooperation. The project was, of course, entirely fictional, but the documentation, goals, and execution process were fabricated to be flawless. I specifically assigned the most critical, high-profile component of the project to Travis. And in front of everyone, I emphasized one key point. “Mr. Wallace is personally monitoring this project. Every communication, every step, must be formally documented and logged via email.” Travis clearly didn’t suspect a thing. He handled the task I assigned with his usual attitude of arrogance and delay. I, in turn, recorded every email reply, every verbal commitment, every status update, via email and voice memos. Next, I set him up to connect with a “very important” new client. In reality, the contact was a friend of mine, a seasoned executive with whom I had established the ground rules in advance. My friend followed our agreed-upon script, presenting a few slightly complicated but perfectly reasonable demands for the partnership—a stress test for Travis’s professionalism and service attitude. Predictably, Travis lost his patience after only a few exchanges. In the final phone call, he yelled at my “client” friend, his voice dripping with frustration. “We can’t deal with all these demands! Are you signing the contract or not? Because frankly, if not, I’m done with this!” That disastrous call was recorded verbatim by my friend and immediately forwarded to me. This was solid proof of him actively damaging the company’s commercial interests and brand reputation. Simultaneously, I worked with a contact in Finance to pull Travis’s expense reports for the last six months. I found several large reimbursements for cross-state travel, but the project names on the forms didn’t match any records in my files. Sasha’s information was even more damning. Under the pretext of a fire safety check, she pulled the security camera footage for our floor on those dates. The footage clearly showed that on the days Travis claimed to be on “client trips to Atlanta and Boston,” he never actually left the city. He was seen lounging around the office in casual clothes every single day. Falsified expenses, theft of company funds. The chain of evidence was complete. Attendance fraud, falsified expenses, operating a side-business, leaking commercial data, maliciously damaging client relationships, and acting against the firm’s interests… I compiled all the evidence into a dossier over fifty pages thick. That Friday evening, I sat alone in my silent office, looking at the final, complete “Judgment” on my screen. The crushing weight I’d carried for over a month finally eased. I took a deep breath and sent a single email to Mr. Wallace. The subject line read: “URGENT: Serious Violations by Market Two Employee Travis Shaw.” The moment I hit “Send,” I let out a long, quiet sigh, as if completing a sacred ceremony. 06 Mr. Wallace’s efficiency exceeded my expectations. Less than half an hour after I sent the email, his reply came: “9 AM sharp, my office, Monday.” I arrived at his office fifteen minutes early on Monday morning. The atmosphere in Mr. Wallace’s office was heavy and severe. I handed him the printed, bound materials with both hands. Mr. Wallace flipped through the pages, his expression moving from calm to severe, then to a hardened, iron-gray. A storm was gathering in his sharp eyes. He clearly hadn’t imagined that such a deep level of rot could exist in a basic division, right under his nose. He set the materials down and looked up at me, silent for a long moment. “Why didn’t you come to me sooner?” His voice was low, carrying a note of scrutiny. I met his gaze, my reply measured: “Before I had this complete and irrefutable evidence, any rushed report could have been seen as a new manager’s attempt to purge the ranks. I didn’t want to give the company that impression.” The scrutiny in his eyes slowly faded, replaced by a flash of approval. “You did the right thing. In this company, evidence always speaks louder than emotion. I will immediately bring HR and Internal Audit into this. How do you intend to handle Travis?” “By the book, sir,” I said. “He violated multiple policies. We proceed strictly according to the company’s code of conduct.” At ten AM, the department meeting proceeded as usual. I laid out the week’s work, my expression professionally neutral. At the very end of the meeting, I said, almost as an afterthought: “Travis, I need to see you in my office right after this.” Travis looked briefly surprised, then exchanged a confident wink with a colleague, his lips silently forming the word: “Here we go again.” A few minutes later, he swaggered into my office. The moment the door closed, he put on his usual smirk. “Morning, Boss. What critical directive do you have for me this time?” I remained silent, sitting quietly behind my desk, just watching him. In front of me, I had placed a single, thin piece of paper. Not the thick dossier, just a simple sheet. My silence made him visibly uncomfortable, and the smile on his face grew strained. I pushed the document toward him, without a single flicker of emotion. “Read this first.” He picked it up, confused. The moment his eyes registered the bold, black text on the page, the color drained completely from his face. It was a formal Notice of Termination of Employment, issued by the company’s Human Resources Department.

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I hadn’t asked my mother for money in three months. She must have thought I’d finally learned to be a good, obedient son, because a message arrived, dripping with condescension: “I’ve already had Richard pay the registration fee. Now be sensible. Stop trying to bleed the family dry.” “I know your father isn’t an easy man, but since you chose to live with me, you need to be on my side.” She didn’t know it yet, but I had already moved my residency. No one would believe that Noah Shawn, the supposed heir to the Shawn-Davenport Group fortune, owned nothing but the clothes his parents bought before their divorce. Three full years passed without a single new addition to my wardrobe. Every single dollar I spent in private had to be requested, debated, and approved through a ridiculous shared expense portal. Even the cost of a required school event uniform demanded an attached screenshot of the notice and a price quote. Every expenditure had to be vetted by my stepfather, Richard Hayes. My mother was perpetually convinced I was “working for the other side,” paranoid that I would sneak money to my father. A month ago, I needed a mere one hundred dollars for a prestigious regional Math Olympiad application. Richard rejected the request repeatedly. “Insufficient justification,” he wrote. “Why is this specific competition necessary?” “Wait for the end-of-month review.” By the time he finally clicked “Approved,” the registration window had closed. What my mother didn’t know was that I had endured those three years only for the residency status—the key to getting into a top-tier university in Boston. Now I had secured a full scholarship and early admission to Georgetown University. This “home” had served its purpose. I had no reason to stay. 1. I laid the photocopy of the residency transfer papers on the table in front of my mother. She was watching Brad, Richard’s son, play a video game. I recognized the designer logo tee Brad was wearing. I’d seen it in a department store window last week, the price tag pushing four figures. The faded sweatshirt I wore had frayed cuffs. “What is this supposed to mean?” My mother, Veronica, picked up the paper, her brows knitted in confusion. I said, calmly, “The residency is moved. I’ll be living on campus from now on.” Brad’s game sounds cut off. He blinked his large, innocent eyes at me. “Bro, don’t be dramatic. Mom’s just trying to look out for you.” Richard walked over, holding a fruit platter, and chimed in smoothly: “Noah, your mother works hard for her money. Brad’s sports training is expensive right now. We’re a family; we need to be considerate of one another.” It was the same tired rhetoric. For three years, every time I wanted something, I was met with this condescending “consideration.” “I’m not asking for permission,” I told my mother, meeting her eye. “I’m informing you.” Veronica laughed, a harsh, disbelieving sound. “Noah Shawn, you think your wings are fully grown? Without me, you won’t even be able to afford tuition!” “I have a full scholarship to Georgetown. Tuition is covered.” “As for living expenses? I’ll earn those myself.” “A scholarship?” She paused, then looked at Richard. “Is that true?” Richard’s smile faltered for a split second before he recovered. “Oh, Noah, why didn’t you tell us sooner? Look at the fuss this is causing… But even with a scholarship, living in D.C. is costly…” “I don’t need your money,” I cut him off. “For three years, every dollar I spent in this house required an application and approval. I had to justify why I needed a new pen.” “Meanwhile, Brad can just flash your corporate credit card and buy the whole lacrosse team smoothies.” My mother impatiently waved a hand. “Brad is younger, and he’s an athlete! He needs the right nutrition! How old are you, still whining about petty things?” “I’m not whining,” I said, slinging my backpack over my shoulder. “I’m leaving.” She clearly didn’t take me seriously. As I turned, she added, her voice cold: “Fine. Go on, then. Just don’t come back begging! Let’s see how long this rebellious streak lasts!” She expected me to fold within a few days, just like I always had. Like the time I wanted to buy a competition prep textbook and he rejected it, citing “pirated versions are online.” I swallowed my pride and rewrote a more detailed application in the portal. Like the time before that, when I needed money for a university research trip, and Richard claimed “those trips are a waste of money.” I had to ask my advisor to personally email him to prove its academic necessity. But now, none of it mattered. If that one hundred dollars for the registration fee had arrived on time a month ago, perhaps I would still be enduring this. But she hadn’t taken my call. I had written in the expense application: “Math Olympiad registration deadline today. Need $100 fee. Attached are the competition notice and the payment screen.” Richard’s reply: “Rejected. Please state the necessity and the projected benefit of attending this competition.” I resubmitted: “Winning this competition significantly boosts the odds for early admission programs. It’s critical for my applications.” He rejected it again: “Benefit not quantifiable. Please provide metrics.” The third time, I was practically pleading: “The teacher is waiting. Deadline is 5 PM. Can you approve it now? I will provide the metrics later.” Read. No reply. At 4:30 PM, he finally messaged: “Just checked with Brad. He says the Olympiad is mid-tier and suggests focusing on final exams instead. Concentrate on your schoolwork for now.” I ran to my mother’s home office. She was on the phone, waving me off, signaling for me to wait. I heard Brad’s whining voice from the receiver: “Mom, I need these new sneakers. I have a huge game next week…” “Buy them. If you like them, buy them,” my mother laughed warmly. “How much? Two thousand? It’s fine, Mom will transfer the money.” I waited by the door. When she finally hung up, I spoke, my voice hoarse. “Mom, the competition sign-up…” She glanced at her watch. “Ask Richard about those small things. I have a meeting in five minutes.” “But he…” “Noah,” she frowned. “You need to learn to be considerate. Richard manages this household, and it’s not easy. Everything he does is for your own good.” In that moment, I knew. Nothing I said would ever matter. 2. After I left the house, I didn’t go to my father. Three years ago, he cried, begging me not to leave him for my mother. I had said terrible things to him then. I was too ashamed to go back now. I settled into a sparse dormitory room at the university. My student advisor, upon hearing the situation, helped me secure a small grant and an on-campus work-study position. The library director patted my shoulder. “Noah, I heard. Don’t worry. Tell us if you need anything.” That evening, my math teacher, Ms. Peterson, called me into her office. “Noah.” She pushed up her glasses and took a piece of paper from her desk, placing it in front of me. I looked down and froze. It was the confirmation for the Math Olympiad. My personal information was filled out. The status read: “Paid.” “Ms. Peterson, this…” “I contacted the committee and pulled a few strings. I registered you myself,” Ms. Peterson said quietly, her eyes filled with a familiar, genuine concern. “I covered the fee. You don’t need to rush to pay me back.” “Thank you,” I choked out, my voice thick. “I promise, I will pay you back.” From that day on, I started a different life: Six AM wake-up call to work in the dining hall for a free breakfast; classes and study sessions; evenings working in the library shelving books; two hours of private tutoring after closing. It was busy, but it was real. No more writing those ridiculous expense requests. No more justifying why I needed a textbook, why I had to pay class fees, or why I wanted to attend a lecture. A month later, a text came from an unknown number: “Noah, it’s your mother. Richard says you blocked him? Stop being so difficult. Just come home. Your brother Brad even misses you.” I deleted the text immediately. A minute later, the phone rang. It was Veronica. I answered. “Noah, that’s enough. I had Richard put two thousand in your account. That should last you a while. Come home for dinner this weekend. There are no lasting grudges in a family.” I glanced at my laptop screen, where I’d just finished the final code for my first freelance contract—a job that paid three thousand dollars. “No, thank you. Keep the money.” I said. “I won’t be coming back.” “You!” She struggled to control her temper. “Where are you? I’ll send the driver to pick you up.” “I’m exactly where I need to be.” I hung up. Minutes later, a WeChat message from Brad: “Bro, don’t be mad at Mom. She really cares about you. Rich is just worried you’ll develop bad spending habits. Just come back. I got a bunch of new sneakers; I can split a pair with you.” Attached was a photo: his shoe closet, overflowing, brightly lit, a veritable shrine to materialism. I saved the screenshot. My reply: “Keep them. After all, your dad said athletes need equipment, they need the gear.” “I, however, have been used to wearing hand-me-downs for years.” Brad immediately replied with a string of crying emojis: “Bro, why would you say that? Mom will be so upset if she sees this…” Predictably, Veronica called again. This time, her voice was laced with fury: “Noah Shawn, what kind of talk is that to your brother? Brad was being kind, and that’s the attitude you give him?” “Was he really being kind?” I asked. “Mom, do you know my Math Olympiad registration was delayed until the deadline passed?” She paused. “What competition? Richard said it wasn’t a good use of your time…” “Do you know that for three years, I had to write an application in a portal just to buy a pair of socks?” “That… that was to teach you financial responsibility!” Her voice rose. “Are you blaming me now? I housed you, clothed you, and paid for your school! I did all that only to be proven wrong?” It was always this. Always. I was exhausted. “It doesn’t matter,” I said. “You will always think you were right.” Silence hung on the line for a few seconds. Then, her tone softened. “Noah, your mother is trying to make things right. Okay? I’ll have the finance department transfer your allowance directly every month, no more portal. Does that work?” “And you have your scholarship—what do you want as a reward? A new phone? A computer? I’ll buy it.” “Brad’s birthday party is next month. Come home. We’re family…” I closed my eyes. She still didn’t understand. She thought I was throwing a tantrum, demanding more attention, more material goods. “Mom,” I interrupted her. “I don’t need a new phone, and I won’t be at the birthday party.” “I just need you to understand this: Leaving this house was not a sudden impulse. It was premeditated.” “Three years ago, when my father begged me not to leave, and I chose you for the Boston residency, I knew it was a transaction.” “The deal is over.” 3. The next time I saw my mother was at a Georgetown University admissions and recruiting fair. I was there as a student volunteer, helping direct traffic, dressed in a simple white T-shirt and jeans—clothes I had bought with my own money. She arrived with Brad and Richard. Brad was applying for the D1 athlete program. When she saw me, my mother clearly froze. Brad spoke first, his voice sickly sweet. “Bro? What are you doing here? Working a side job?” Richard eyed my volunteer T-shirt, a flicker of something close to contempt in his expression, though his tone was genial. “Noah, long time no see. Helping out? Hope you’re not letting this interfere with your studies.” I ignored Richard and Brad, addressing my mother. “Can I help you?” Veronica’s expression was a complicated mess of surprise, annoyance, and perhaps… a touch of shame? She was silent for a few seconds before speaking in a low voice: “Brad wants to apply for the sports program here. We came to check out the details.” She paused, then looked up at me, her voice laced with a strange realization. “You… you really did get the scholarship.” It wasn’t a question, but a painful, late confirmation. Perhaps she’d known all along, but she’d never truly allowed herself to believe it. Richard’s smile was strained. “Noah is so accomplished. We would have thrown you a proper party if we’d known for sure.” But my mother suddenly remembered something, and her face clouded over. “That Math Olympiad you mentioned… Would winning have helped with the scholarship?” I said nothing. Brad panicked, tugging her arm. “Mom, let’s go to the advising table. We’re running out of time…” Richard quickly intervened. “It’s in the past, Brad. Noah’s doing great now. Let’s focus on your application.” But my mother stood her ground. She looked me in the eyes, her voice dry. “That competition… you missed it because the fee wasn’t paid on time?” Brad interjected quickly. “Mom, that competition was useless, seriously! None of my friends won anything…” “Did I ask you?” My mother’s tone with him was sharper than I had ever heard. Brad’s eyes immediately welled up. Richard stepped in front of his son. “Veronica, why are you yelling at Brad? He was just trying to support his brother!” I watched the unfolding drama, feeling only an immense sense of absurdity. “Does it matter?” I asked my mother. “I got the scholarship anyway.” She opened her mouth, trying to speak, but finally just sighed. “Noah, I didn’t know the competition was so important… Richard probably just didn’t understand…” “He didn’t understand?” I smiled. “Brad participated in the National Youth Track Meet last year. The registration and equipment cost five thousand dollars. You transferred the money that same day. Was that competition really more important than mine?” My mother was stunned. Richard’s face went pale. “Noah, how can you compare the two? Brad is a D1 athlete; that meet was vital for his future!” “And my competition wasn’t vital for mine?” I shot back. “Or is it that in your eyes, only Brad’s future is a future, and mine could be casually derailed?” People in the hall began to look over. My mother, mortified, hissed, “Take this home, Noah! Don’t make a scene here!” “Home?” I shook my head. “That’s not my home.” I turned to walk away, but my mother grabbed my arm. “Noah, I’ll make it up to you.” “What do you want? Study abroad? I’ll finance your entire graduate school!” “No need.” I pulled my arm free. “What I wanted was never any of those things.” 4. After the fair, my mother began to contact me frequently. Sometimes it was a text: “Noah, I passed that gourmet wing place you used to love. I bought your favorite flavor. Want to come pick it up?” Sometimes it was a call: “Do you need anything for your dorm? I can drop it off.” Once, she came directly to campus to see me, carrying several shopping bags. “This is the newest phone, and I bought you the highest-spec laptop,” she pressed the bags into my hands. “And these clothes—Brad says these are the brands young men like now…” I looked at the logos, feeling a profound irony. “Mom, do you know my clothing size?” She froze. “Do you know my favorite color?” “Do you know I don’t care about electronics as long as I can write code on them?” The expression on her face slowly morphed from hopeful anticipation to blank confusion, and finally, sheer embarrassment. “I… I could ask…” “Don’t bother.” I pushed the bags back to her. “Keep these. Give them to Brad.” She grew desperate. “Noah, I genuinely want to be a good mother! I ignored you before; I’ll change. I promise.” “How will you change?” I looked at her. “Will you split the love you give Brad in half? Or have you just suddenly realized that you have another son who needs to be cared for?” “Mom, I am not a child anymore. I don’t need your belated compensation.” She stood there, looking like a chastised child, though she was fifty years old. “What do you want me to do?” Her voice was hoarse. “Noah, tell me. What must I do for you to forgive me?” I stayed silent for a long time. “Mom, do you remember what my father told me the day I chose to move in with you?” She shook her head. “He said: ‘Noah, you chose her, so don’t regret it. But always remember, in another man’s house, you will always be an outsider.’” “I didn’t believe him then. I thought, She’s my biological mother. How can she be an ‘outsider’ to me?’” “But for three years, I lived in your house, spent every penny only after your husband’s approval, and had to write a justification for a fifty-dollar textbook.” Brad could use your card for anything, and I had to deliberate over the wording to buy socks.” “That’s when I understood my father was right. In the unit you, Richard, and Brad formed, I was definitely an outsider.” My mother’s eyes were red. “That’s not true, Noah. You’re my son. How could you be an outsider…” “Then why was Brad’s shoe closet bigger than my wardrobe?” “Why did his private sports coaching cost six hundred dollars an hour while my request for a fifty-dollar study guide was rejected?” “Why did he get to treat his entire class to a birthday dinner while I couldn’t get one hundred dollars for a critical competition?” Each question was a thrust of a knife. My mother could not answer a single one. “Mom, I don’t hate you,” I said. “You gave me the residency status I needed for Boston. That was the transaction. You kept your end of the bargain, and I paid the price with three years of forbearance.” “Now, the deal is over. We’re even.”

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The short I posted of my son went viral on the TikTok. But the attention wasn’t on me. It was all on him. The internet instantly recognized the little boy as the miniature version of Isabelle Maxwell, the CEO of the Veridian Group and a notorious heiress in old-money circles. The netizens dug deeper, and soon, they found the old footage of our breakup, concluding that I was a single dad, abandoned after a messy split. I sighed. They had it all wrong. Izzy and I were married before. 1. I never expected the short to blow up. I’d only wanted to record some mundane moments during what I knew would be our last stretch of time together. But it went viral. In the clip, my son, bundled in three layers of pants he kept trying to pull off, gave me the same ice-cold stare he reserves for his pediatrician. He carried a stillness that was far too adult for his age. The comments were relentless: “This kid is me when my alarm goes off.” “That little face is giving ‘I’m too rich to be here.’” Then, a particularly sharp comment cut through the noise. “Wait, why does the little guy look exactly like my boss, Isabelle Maxwell?” “Like the CEO of the Veridian Group, Izzy Maxwell?” “No way. I saw this guy at the rundown clinic near my place last week. If he knows your CEO, why is he there?” “The person above me is right. I see him alone at the local urgent care all the time. He doesn’t look like he has money.” “I’m not lying—check the side-by-side!” A comparison photo followed, showing my son’s cold side-profile, identical to Izzy’s. Panicked, I tried to take the short down, but it was too late. That single comment had launched me onto every trending list. People dug harder and confirmed I was her ex. They reposted our breakup short. I watched it. It was real. It was the first time I saw, from a third-person perspective, that Izzy had turned and looked back at me. She lingered, a fragile silhouette in the falling snow, long enough for a thin layer of white to dust her dark coat. But I, intent on cutting the cord and escaping what I saw as a life sentence, had walked away without a second glance. I’d thrown every toxic, painful word I could think of, swearing I’d never be tied to her again. Five years passed. Yet here I was, irrevocably linked to her. Everyone demanded a statement. I didn’t give one. I simply deleted the account. I was terrified Izzy would show up and try to take Eli. 2. Izzy still ended up on the trend list, all because of my son. The Veridian Group, usually quick with its PR, issued no statement. They seemed to be under a strict instruction to stay silent. Eventually, the silence was broken by the Ellington Group. Grant Ellington, a polished society figure, posted a photo with Izzy, claiming her as his fiancée. He stated, with sickening magnanimity: “We’re all adults here; I don’t care about exes. But the child is pure fabrication. Mr. Harrison, I have to ask, is that child really Ms. Maxwell’s?” Izzy and I split five years ago. My son is three. The math didn’t add up. The narrative flipped. Suddenly, I was the “deadbeat,” abandoning my ex only to have a child with someone else. Some commenters went so far as to call Eli a bastard. I muttered a curse under my breath. If I could choose, I’d wish he wasn’t hers. I never wanted to be tied to her again. I turned to see Eli standing in the doorway, a mug of warm milk clutched in his small hands. His fair face was expressionless, but his eyes—dark and sharp—clearly disapproved of my language. “Dad—” He spoke with that serious, little-man tone of his. I knew a lecture was coming, so I quickly grabbed the milk and chased a handful of my pills down with it. “Good boy. Thank you.” “Goodnight, Dad’s tired.” I dove under the covers and faked sleep. Eli watched me for two seconds, his lips pressed into a thin line. He’s small, and he can’t hide his thoughts for long. After a moment, he spoke again. “Dad.” “Hmm?” “Was that lady online my mom?” He’d seen the comparison photo. They have the same exact profile, the same cold-eyed intensity. I sat up and ruffled his soft hair, putting on my most reassuring, paternal voice. “Eli Harrison.” “You’re a brave little man, right?” “Then you have to be tough because Dad has to tell you some sad news, okay?” He nodded, his eyes wide and serious. “That’s not your mom,” I whispered. “Your mom… she turned into a cat and went traveling.” I watched his eyes widen further with visible astonishment. “Now, good boy, go digest that for a bit.” “It’s late, and Dad has to work tomorrow.” He climbed onto the bed, wrapping his small, warm arms tightly around my neck. “Don’t be sad, Dad.” “I’ll stay with you. I won’t run away.” “Goodnight, Dad.” He kissed my cheek. That warm, little boy. I often marveled at my own courage for raising him alone, despite everyone’s opposition. Watching him stumble and grow, I’d never once regretted it. 3. The next morning, I dropped Eli off at preschool on my rickety old moped, then headed to the hospital. I came out hours later, pressing a wad of sterile cotton to my inner elbow. It was one advantage of winter: thick layers hid the needle marks and bruises. It kept Eli from chasing me around asking, “Dad, what happened to you?” I put on my helmet. Looking down, I saw a new blue thermos and a pair of black knit gloves tucked into the little basket. They were brand new. The thermos held warm water. I finally understood why Eli had been coming home with empty cans and cardboard boxes all week. My poor, silly boy. I pulled on the gloves. They were the simplest style, but they made my hands warm. I couldn’t stop looking at them. The cold wind hit, and my eyes felt raw. What happens to him when I’m gone? I thought constantly. Does he have to grow up alone? I couldn’t bear it. I could go to Izzy, beg her for money. Maybe it would be enough to treat this. But she probably still hated me. She’s too guarded, too controlling; she wouldn’t give me a dime. Lost in thought, I wasn’t paying attention. At a red light, I clipped the side of a sleek black Porsche. The moment the window rolled down, I froze, the fresh scrape on my hand forgotten. The woman stepped out. She gave the scratch on the car a detached glance, then looked up at me. Her familiar eyes—I knew every curve and shadow of them. My fingers curled unconsciously in my pockets. My throat felt stuffed with cotton, sore and swollen. I almost cried right there. “Mr. Harrison. Long time.” Her voice was cool. Her eyes swept over the scrape on my hand, then back to the car. She said nothing about it. After a few moments of quiet assessment, she looked up. “Mr. Harrison, how do you intend to compensate me for the damage?” Her tone was utterly impersonal, like she was addressing a stranger. Just like she promised five years ago: if I left, she would never forgive me, and we would be strangers. I was silent. I genuinely didn’t have the money. Her phone rang. She answered without moving away from me. “I’m out. You eat first.” “I’ll be back tonight to see you.” “The new gallery opening? Yes, Grant. I’ll meet you there.” She finished the conversation with patient care, then looked back at me, the mask of cold assessment instantly back in place. “Mr. Harrison, the compensation?” she repeated. She pulled out her phone and opened her payment app. I looked at it, but didn’t scan the code. Instead, I reached for the simple gold signet ring on my finger, the only thing of any real value I owned. I placed it in my palm. My voice was barely a whisper. “Take this as collateral. I can’t produce anything more.” 4. Isabelle Maxwell frowned, making no move to take the ring. Her tone hardened. “Noah Harrison. Are you seriously this broke? You took a significant settlement when we divorced. Did you blow it all in five years?” She had no idea. The money was never enough. Far from it. I nodded. “My ex-wife developed a severe gambling problem. I spent a fortune paying off her debts.” Izzy looked at me, a deep frown carving a line between her brows. I paused, lowering my voice further. “And Eli was a preemie. His heart… he’s always had complications. It’s drained everything.” “I’ve had a rough time, Izzy.” The first part was a lie. The second was the crushing truth. I never remarried. But Eli was a preemie, and he spent over six weeks in the NICU. I remember the long tube running through his nose, reaching down toward his tiny, fragile heart. I stood there alone, my body still weak from my own private battle, watching him in the incubator. He was so small, so skeletal. His tiny body struggled to breathe even with the oxygen mask. During that time, the doctors gave me countless terrifying updates. Each time, I signed the consent forms. The month I spent gambling with death felt like a lifetime of torment. Because of the early birth, Eli spent his entire first year in and out of the hospital. Fevers and feeding issues were routine. But the worst was his heart condition. When he was five months old, he had his first surgery. When they wheeled him out, his tiny body was a knot of tubes—down his nose, from his mouth, wrapped around his chest, taped to his limbs. I wanted to hold him, but I was afraid I’d hurt him. I could only carefully grip his icy-cold little hand, whispering over and over that he needed to be strong. Thinking back to those early years, my eyes stung. Izzy watched me, her fingers clenched at her side. I saw a ripple of pain in her eyes, but it vanished the moment I looked up. “You probably wouldn’t know how expensive raising a child is, not having one of your own.” I squeezed my fingers, fighting back tears. Izzy’s eyes—dark and pooling with unreadable emotion—met mine. Her voice was suddenly hoarse. “How do you know I don’t?” Oh. She had a child. I’d seen a photo once on her old phone. She was holding a newborn, gently kissing its wrinkled little face, her expression utterly soft. Their child must have had a perfect start. The best hospital. The softest crib. The warmest clothes. My son had none of that. I bit my lip. I couldn’t stand this game anymore. I turned to walk away. “Noah Harrison. I’ll make you a deal.” “Five thousand dollars. Apologize to me. And I’ll give you your ring back.” Her voice was the same as it was five years ago: calm, and cruelly detached. She couldn’t grasp how desperately poor someone could be. So poor they’d trade their pride for cash. I felt like a wounded animal. My entire body flared with rage. “Keep it! I wouldn’t take it back for any price.” Blood rushed to my head. I snatched up the thermos from the moped basket and spun away. Izzy grabbed my arm, her fingers clamping down tight. “Noah, stop. Think clearly. You put that short up to get my attention, didn’t you? You want money.” Me? Who the hell wants to be tied to her? I struggled to contain the boiling anger, but it overflowed. “Better that than you having a bastard with someone else while we were married!” The moment the words left my mouth, the air solidified. 5. Izzy lifted her chin, her eyes dark and deep. She gritted her teeth, holding my gaze with a look of pure threat. “Noah Harrison, I am telling you for the last time. He. Is. Not.” She loved their child so much she couldn’t even bring herself to use that disgusting, venomous word. I wrenched my arm free, my eyes blazing with hatred. “What else do you call a child born to another man while you’re still married?” Izzy’s jaw was tight. She didn’t speak for a long time, visibly fighting for control. “Noah Harrison,” she finally whispered, her voice waterlogged and heavy, suffocating me. “Our issues have nothing to do with the child. You can hate me, but you cannot hate him.” Why not? Why couldn’t I hate their child? What gave them the right? The questions choked in my throat. I clenched my fists, but the tears still sprang forth. I forced myself to turn away, desperate not to let her see me break down. The tension was a physical force. I sucked in the cold air to quell the aching in my chest. As I looked up, I saw him. Eli. He was standing across the street, holding a huge, ketchup-stained hot dog bigger than his face. He was perfectly still. His small cheeks were red from the cold. He must have been waiting for ages. Izzy saw him, too. She called out, just as I was escaping, her voice hoarse. “Noah Harrison. What do you have to say about the boy?” What was there to say? Did she offer me an explanation when she had another man’s child? I glared at her, my eyes streaming, and spat out every word distinctly. “Isabelle Maxwell. He is my child. He has nothing to do with you.” “Don’t disrupt our life.” “You deserve to be alone.” 6. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and fled the moment the light turned green. I didn’t want Izzy to see me crying, and I was terrified she’d follow me to try and take Eli. I took his small hand and pulled him forward, never looking back until we turned the corner into a quiet alley. There, I couldn’t hold it in any longer. My chest felt hollow, and all the strength left my body. I collapsed, pulling him into a tight embrace. All the grief, all the hatred, all the love I’d buried burst forth, suffocating me. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t describe the depth of the sorrow. “Don’t cry, Dad.” “I’m right here. I won’t go anywhere.” He used his small hands to gently wipe the tears from my cheeks. I finally managed to stop sobbing. I stroked his hair. “Let Dad have a bite of that, okay?” Eli obediently held out the hot dog, which was covered in a heavy dusting of chili powder. He’d wrapped the plastic bag carefully in layers of paper towels. He unwrapped it and put it near my mouth. My lips trembled as I took a bite, fighting down the burning heat that scorched my stomach. The tears came again, scalding hot. I couldn’t let my son see me cry. I stood up, taking his hand to walk home. “Are you hungry?” “What do you want for dinner? Dad will make it.” Eli looked up at me, his small hand squeezing my finger. The warmth was comforting. “Dad, today is your birthday.” I made it another year. It’s a miracle. I sniffed, wiping my nose. Then I laughed—a ragged, choked sound. To hell with the diagnosis. To hell with not having long to live. I made it another year. “Come on! Dad’s going to make you the best birthday dinner ever!” 7. That night, Eli and I bought a tiny cake. I asked him to make a wish with me. In the glow of the warm candlelight, I looked at him closely for a long time. He’s three and a half. It’ll be forever until he’s grown. I won’t get to see it. So, I made a long, long wish to stay with him. I wished that every year, he would be safe, healthy, and happy. We blew out the candles. The ceiling light came on. He produced a single flower from behind his back. It was slightly wilted. Its color was dull. I knew he must have spent every cent of his small allowance to buy the cheapest, least perfect flower he could find. For every holiday, he always bought me a single stem from the flower shop near his school. He’d wrap it in cartoon paper and carefully present it to me. It took him weeks to save enough money. Sometimes, when he couldn’t save the full amount, he would bring me one like this—one that wasn’t quite right. Some children are just born knowing how to love. My eyes burned. His face was flushed as he handed it to me, his eyes bright. His voice was soft. “Happy birthday, Dad.” “Next year I’ll get you the prettiest one, okay, Dad?” He was making a promise. An appointment for the future. I took the flower, unable to speak, only nodding repeatedly. Fine. I’ll just take more painkillers. I’ll hold on for another year. It won’t be that hard. 8. The next day, I drove Eli to preschool. Snowflakes drifted down from the sky. Eli loves winter. He loves playing in the snow. But mostly, he plays alone. Because of his early birth, he’s smaller and frailer than the other kids, and they often pick on him. Whenever I offered to confront their parents, he would grab my hand and say he preferred to play at home so he could keep Dad company. So, he never cried or complained. He just built snowballs in our small yard, quiet and content. My heart ached. I constantly felt I had failed him. Before he got out of the car, I promised him we’d build a snowman after school. Eli was thrilled. He ran into the building with his small backpack bouncing. I stood watching his retreating back for a long time. Another winter. He’s a little bigger, but still frail compared to his peers. I often thought: if he went back to the Maxwell family, he could grow up healthy and safe, free from bullying. He wouldn’t worry about money or have to be so fiercely good, saving up cans to buy me a cheap birthday gift. I looked at the black knit gloves on my hands, suddenly furious with my own selfishness. I’d trapped him here with me, year after year. He’s suffered too much, following me. I stood there until the street was empty. The cold air in my nose made my head explode with pain. A sharp, stinging ache erupted in my bones. A warm, wet sensation dripped from my nose. I wiped it quickly. Another nosebleed. They’ve been happening for a week, off and on. The doctor said it was inflammation. Medicine, IV drips, chemotherapy… A week of treatment and nothing was working. Finally, he recommended a newly developed foreign drug. Thirty thousand dollars a shot. I didn’t have it. I just took painkillers. Sometimes, when I looked up and saw Eli’s tear-filled eyes, I would cup my hand over my bleeding nose, trying desperately to hide the blood from him. My brain was throbbing. My vision was blurring. I crouched down, trying to steady myself. But the dizziness got worse. I forced myself to get up, trying to walk further away. I couldn’t let my son see me like this. As I turned, I saw Izzy’s Porsche. She was parked on the side of the road, on the phone. Her voice was low and calm. “Dad, I have to skip tonight. I’m busy… The engagement? If you want to marry off a Maxwell to a society man, you do it.” My ears were roaring. I couldn’t hear the rest. My vision was swimming. I tried to walk around her, but my body failed. I was swaying, unable to hold myself up. Blood was now oozing between my fingers, splattering onto the pristine snow. The next second, she dropped her phone. She was rushing toward me, grabbing my shoulders with a look of pure panic. She started yelling my name.

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The implosion of my seven-year marriage to Jake Ryder wasn’t a slow drift; it was a head-on collision. I was twenty-nine. We were already on the way to the lawyer’s office. I was weeping, the kind of ragged, hysterical crying that shreds your throat. “I gave you my whole damn life since I was seventeen, and you cheat? Are you completely sick, Jake?” He didn’t flinch. He just offered a cold, humorless laugh. “You’re not sick? Sleeping with a man at seventeen.” My body started to shake, a seizure of pure adrenaline and shock. In that terrifying next moment, a massive semi-truck roared through the intersection and bore down on us. The next time I woke up, I was back in the cramped apartment building. The one where I’d dropped out of high school to live with Jake. 1 Dust motes danced in the lone shaft of sunlight cutting through the window. The air was close, smelling faintly of mold and cheap cleaning supplies. On the twin bed—a mattress crammed against one wall—was a faded, threadbare duvet cover patterned with generic cartoon bears, probably salvaged from a thrift store. I lay still for a long moment, then slowly reached up and touched my face in the scratched mirror across the room. Seventeen. I was actually seventeen again. It was strange. Back then, I honestly didn’t think this life was hard. Seeing it now, though—the sheer, bare-bones squalor—I wondered how I’d ever managed to convince myself that this was better than a life of stability. Jake had a rough childhood. His parents died young, and he grew up with his grandmother. When she passed, he raised himself, wild and fast, like an untamed thing. He was tough, fearless, and quickly earned a reputation as the biggest troublemaker in our part of the city. My life was the opposite. My parents were both college professors. We weren’t rich, but we were secure, comfortable, and privileged. They’d planned a meticulously stable life for me: Northwood High, an Ivy League acceptance, maybe a sensible job in finance. By all rights, Jake and I should never have crossed paths. Until the day I was walking home and saw him fighting a group of guys. I can still picture him: lying on the slushy, half-frozen pavement, breathing hard, his face pinched in pain. He was only wearing a thin, black hoodie, and a dark stain was already spreading underneath him. My instinct screamed at me to leave, to pretend I hadn’t seen anything. But then I noticed the logo on his torn jacket—our school colors. We were classmates. My heart softened. I called 911, hesitated for a beat, and then knelt beside him, pulling off the expensive white down jacket my father had bought me and draping it over him. “Hey… are you okay?” The pale, handsome boy opened his eyes and looked up at me. His eyes were the shape of a hawk’s—sharp, beautiful, and assessing. “You’re not running?” he asked, his voice low and ragged. I whispered, “I’m from Northwood, too. We’re classmates.” I took a breath, trying to be brave. “Fighting is wrong. You should stop.” He offered a cynical, half-smile. He shifted his fingers, and I braced myself, expecting him to throw my jacket away. Instead, he just closed his eyes, silent and still. I stayed there, shielding him from the light snow, until the EMTs arrived. I even paid the ambulance fee out of my emergency twenty-dollar bill. I forgot about it quickly. It felt like a bizarre moment that didn’t belong to my world. But just as I’d almost wiped the memory clean, Jake Ryder walked into my honors English class. The whole room fell silent. Ignoring the flustered teacher and the gasps of the students, he strode right up to my desk, slammed a crumpled thirty dollars down on my textbook, and raised an eyebrow. “For the ambulance,” he said. He paused, scanning my face, then added, “And… thanks.” He left as abruptly as he came. Immediately, my friends swarmed me. “Ellie, how do you know Jake Ryder?” one asked, looking horrified. “He runs with the motorcycle gangs! My brother says he’s been in real trouble—you need to be careful.” Another girl, breathless with excitement, nudged me. “He is so hot. Can you introduce us? He’s seriously a total rebel.” I was still reeling when I started walking home. My stomach flipped as a loud, black motorcycle suddenly cut me off. The black helmet came off, revealing Jake’s sharp, handsome features. He flashed a devastating, careless grin. “Hey, good girl,” he said. “Get on. I’m taking you out.” A few of his friends were behind him, laughing, throwing out suggestive comments. “Ryder, this one’s too sweet, man. No fun.” “Yeah, the vocational school chicks are way better! They know how to move.” I was terrified. I just shook my head, avoiding eye contact, and scurried around the bike, almost running down the sidewalk. I heard the chorus of laughter fade behind me. … I hated him back then. I thought he was trash—a path to ruin, completely incompatible with my life. But he was relentless. He started showing up every day after school, demanding to walk or drive me home. Then came the night I stayed late for detention. Walking down a dark alley that cut between two blocks, I was cornered by a sloppy, drunk guy who started getting handsy. Suddenly, Jake appeared out of nowhere. A single, sickening crack as his fist met the man’s jaw. “Get lost,” Jake commanded, his voice ice. He took off his hoodie and wrapped it around me, pulling me tight against his side. “Don’t be scared, Ellie. I’m here.” He walked me all the way to my front door. As I climbed the stairs to my second-floor window, I looked back. He was still there, standing motionless under the flickering streetlamp, just watching. 2 The romance of youth is faster and hotter than a summer thunderstorm. Jake and I fell into each other. We were discovered. My parents were furious—especially my father. They made me kneel, begged me to break up with him, and locked me in the house. But I loved Jake. For the first seventeen years of my life, my parents’ control had been absolute. I remembered the one time I brought home a 98 on an algebra test. I was beaming. But instead of praise, I got a stern interrogation: Where did the two points go? Followed by a silent hour kneeling on the floor. I was the perfect daughter, walking the path they laid out for me, year after year. Jake was the explosion in my meticulously ordered world. He smashed the shell around my life, dragged me out, and showed me a kaleidoscope of chaos and excitement I’d never known. He took me skipping class. He taught me how to mix drinks at a late-night dive bar, laughed when I choked on the liquor, and then brought me hot chocolate. I don’t know if I loved him, or if I loved the world he showed me. All I know is that to stay with him, I climbed out of my second-floor window and ran. We met at the bus station. I remember his fierce, crushing hug. His heart hammered like a drum against my chest. “Ellie, you scared?” he asked. I yelled back, full of reckless, blinding love, “No! I’m not!” “Good,” he promised. “Then let’s go. I promise I will take care of you. I will always be good to you.” … And he was. For a long time, he was. We had nothing. We were in the cheapest rental we could find. In the dead of a freezing winter, even the field mice were shivering. Jake would always give me the single egg from his instant ramen, and he would stick my icy feet under his shirt to warm them on his stomach. We were young, fueled by desperation and delusion. Love was the only meal we needed. A few years passed. Jake was smart and driven. He partnered with someone, made his first big payout, and we started our own small company. He was a machine, working eighteen-hour days. I wanted to help him. I pushed myself, learning everything about the business, moving from a terrified novice to a smooth, confident negotiator. Our efforts paid off. Within a few years, the company was a monster. We moved from the shack to an apartment, then from a luxury condo to a sprawling villa in the hills. When he proposed, the spectacle was enormous. He set off so many fireworks the entire city saw them. In the years of our success, his friends rotated through a parade of girlfriends and affairs. But Jake stayed grounded. He let me check his phone, video-called me from every trip, and insisted on coming home every night. I honestly thought we would be the one couple that made it to the end. Until I turned twenty-eight and found out he was sleeping with Sierra Davis, a fresh college intern at his company. The fighting started. The screaming. We’d smash things, replace them, and smash them again. My tears turned to fury, then to a hollow kind of numbness. The lovers who once would have died for each other were now trading the cruelest barbs, wishing each other into the ground. I closed my dry, exhausted eyes, then opened them again. On the nightstand, a faded photo: eighteen-year-old Jake, his arm around seventeen-year-old Ellie, both of us beaming. 3 While I sat there, lost in shock, the door opened. Eighteen-year-old Jake looked at me. His eyes were wide, but I saw something there that only years of sleeping next to someone could reveal: the soul of a thirty-year-old man, raw and recognizing. We both knew. We were both back. In the tiny room that used to be crammed with reckless love, we sat, two bitter strangers, thick with resentment. “Look,” Jake broke the silence. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have said that stuff in the car… I was just pissed.” I looked at him and felt a sudden, profound urge to laugh. I remembered sitting in this very room at seventeen, freezing, wrapped in his arms. His eyes were red with dedication when he gently warmed my feet on his stomach. “I’m the failure here, baby,” he’d whispered. “I’m putting you through this hell. But I promise, I will never let you down. I’ll love you forever.” I believed him then. I just never imagined ‘forever’ would be so short. Thirteen years. That was the lifespan of his promise before he looked me in the eye and spat, “You’re not sick? Sleeping with a man at seventeen.” We sat in silence, inhabiting our separate corners of the small room. “You—” Jake started, but a rapid, frantic knocking on the door cut him off. I opened it and gasped. My mother stood on the threshold, distraught. Her meticulously styled, expensive haircut was frazzled and flat. The daily makeup ritual was gone, leaving her skin looking sallow and her eyes red-rimmed. She grabbed my arm. “Come on. You’re coming home with me. Now.” My memory surged back like a tidal wave. This was it. The exact moment. In the previous life, she’d somehow tracked us down and driven across the state to bring me back. I’d stood my ground. I loved Jake. I was staying. She’d slapped me—the first and last time she ever hit me—and cried, “I raised you for seventeen years, and you’re throwing it all away for a boy? You’d rather lose your parents than leave him?” What did I say? I couldn’t recall the words. I only remembered her final look of utter, crushing disappointment. She choked out the words: “Then I’ll pretend you’re dead. You don’t have a mother, and I don’t have a daughter.” After that, we never spoke again. Years later, when Jake made his fortune, we tried to reconcile. My parents threw our expensive gifts into the street. The relationship I had personally severed became the source of an eternal, aching regret. My mother’s voice was hoarse. “You come back now, and we’ll pretend this never happened. We’ll be a family. Otherwise, I swear, you have no mother, and I have no daughter—” She was still speaking, but I couldn’t hear the rest. I just looked at her face, familiar yet agonizingly alien, and my eyes blurred. How long had it been since I’d seen my mother look like this—vulnerable, heartbroken, stripped bare? She was waiting for my defiant refusal. I reached out and gently took her hand. “Okay, Mom,” I said, quietly. “I’m coming home.” “You don’t come back and I’ll pretend you’re dead—what?” My mother froze, her eyes widening in disbelief. “I said I’m coming home.” My original departure was so dramatic and definitive that my immediate compliance stunned her. Jake, still seated, whipped his head around. My mother saw him, and her face hardened, though she maintained a sliver of polite decorum. “Jake,” she said, her voice tight. “Don’t think I’m trying to split you two up just to be cruel. But look around. Look at this building. What can you give my daughter?” She drew herself up. “Ellie wasn’t spoiled, but her father and I always provided. She should never have to suffer like this. She’ll break eventually, and you’ll break up. Better to end it now and not waste any more time.” She sounded relieved, pulling me toward the door, not even waiting for me to grab my coat. I forced a faint smile. My mother wasn’t wrong. If it weren’t for Jake, I would never have had to suffer this way. But she was also wrong. In the last life, I didn’t break. The one who broke, the one who walked away, was Jake. In my periphery, I saw Jake’s face drain of color, turning stark white. I didn’t know if it was my mother’s words or the reality of me leaving. All those years, no matter how cold or broke we were, I never considered leaving him. Even the divorce was his demand. He never thought I had the power to walk away first. I wanted to say something, a final word. But I stopped. What was the point? We had said everything, the good, the bad, and the hateful, in the life we just lived. I closed the door and left. 4 My father was just as shocked to see me walk back through the door so compliant. He intended to yell, maybe even hit me. He raised his hand, but his eyes went red, and he let out a long, shuddering sigh, lowering his arm. “Just come home, Ellie. Just come home safe.” “Your mother and I… we won’t pressure you anymore.” That evening, my mother cooked a feast. She wanted to talk, to lecture, to question. But in the end, she just kept piling food onto my plate. “You’ve been through a rough time, haven’t you? Eat up. You need to gain your strength back.” … That night, in the deep hours, I slipped into a half-dream state. I was back in the office. I opened the door to see Sierra sitting on Jake’s lap. The room spun. I was frozen, beyond anger. The worst part was that when the girl looked up in surprise, she had the same wide, innocent eyes I once had—the complete picture of youthful naivete. That innocence had been the first thing to burn off me during my years of fighting to build a company with Jake. Jake tried to apologize, guilt-ridden, promising to make it up to me. But betrayal isn’t a single event you forgive; it’s a wound you must forgive every time you remember it. And my patience ran dry. His guilt evaporated, replaced by frustration and anger, leading to endless arguments. I fired Sierra; he hired her back as his personal assistant. He bought her a luxury apartment and started spending entire nights away from home. Thirteen years of love, devotion, and shared struggle were devoured by the long nights staring at the ceiling and the vicious, hurtful words we hurled at each other. The star-crossed young lovers ended up wishing each other dead. I woke up while it was still dark. The alarm clock on the nightstand glowed a faint blue: 2:53 AM. I got out of bed and walked to the window—the same one I’d jumped out of to run away with Jake. Moonlight poured in, illuminating the room. The whole thing surfaced again. Was I really in love with Jake back then? Or did I love the freedom he represented, using his affections as a weapon to escape my parents’ control? It didn’t matter now. In the previous life, my rebellion had cost me everything. But the universe, mercifully, had given me a second chance. The whole relationship with Jake had been a terrible, glorious detour. This time, I wouldn’t let my life derail. 5 I went back to school. My academic record was strong, and though I was behind after dropping out, the damage wasn’t irreversible. I slipped back into my old classes. My parents told everyone I’d been home recovering from an illness. The gossip faded quickly, and I returned to my quiet, structured life. Jake also disappeared. I vaguely recalled that around this time in the first life, he’d gotten seriously sick. He looked strong, all muscle and confidence, but his health was poor. Growing up orphaned and feeding himself on scraps, he was constantly malnourished. He had a bad case of the flu that turned into a nasty infection. It was serious; he was coughing up blood. I stayed at his side, nursing him until he recovered. After that, I took over his diet, forcing him to eat properly and taking care of his health until he was fully recovered years later. Without me now, would he pull through? I felt a sudden, familiar twist of pain, but I quickly suppressed it. The memory of his cruel insult—sleeping with a man at seventeen—hardened me. I had given him my best, only to be branded “sick.” Why would I chase after that? I owed him nothing. We were done. I fully expected our paths to diverge forever. But a month later, Jake reappeared. Walking home after school, my friend gasped. “Look at that guy—he’s gorgeous! Wait, isn’t that Jake Ryder? I heard he dropped out. Why is he back?” She nudged me playfully. “I heard you two were a thing. Is he here for you?” I kept my face perfectly neutral. “We were never a thing. Stop the rumors.” She scoffed. “Seriously? I thought you snagged a total knockout. Girls from the rival school are lining up to date him!” “I don’t care,” I said, walking ahead, refusing to look. I couldn’t imagine Jake was looking for me. Just as my feelings for him had been annihilated, his feelings for me must be just as toxic. I had cursed him, hated him, and finally agreed to the divorce only after I’d drained him of all affection. We were, quite possibly, the last two people on earth who ever wanted to see each other again. But then, Jake started walking straight toward me. As he got closer, I could see he was much thinner. His face had the waxy, pale look of someone who had recently been very ill. He addressed my friend. “Excuse us. I need to speak to Ellie.” My friend winked at me and scurried off. “Got it! I’ll see you tomorrow!” I frowned. “What do you want?” Was he here to try and lay claim to the company projects from our previous life? If so, I wouldn’t yield. I was already planning to launch my own venture after graduation. With a decade of experience, I was ready. To my surprise, he didn’t mention business. He looked down at me, pausing. “…I’m sorry.” I kept my voice flat and distant. “I don’t accept your apology. Is there anything else? If not, I’m leaving.” A simple apology couldn’t erase years of pain. I didn’t have the capacity to forgive the man who had hurt the old Ellie. “Ellie, let’s talk,” he insisted, running a hand through his hair, looking agitated. “I swear, Sierra was nothing. It wasn’t what you think—” “Not what I think?” I laughed, a bitter, sharp sound. “Were you just covering up with the comforter and having deep discussions about market strategy?” “Don’t be like this. It was a stupid mistake, a moment of weakness. It was just a fling. I never wanted to lose you. I knew our marriage was the most important thing, and the divorce was only because I was angry and you kept pushing me—” “It doesn’t matter anymore,” I cut him off. “Jake, we are separate people now. Our paths split. Don’t look for me again.” His face darkened. After a moment, a reckless, familiar smirk spread across his lips. “Fine, Ellie. It’s just a breakup. Don’t act like I’m going to chase you.” He reverted to his old, careless persona. “We’ll be civilized. I wish you the best.” “I’ll have it,” I retorted. “Because this time, I won’t be with you.”

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The person Damon Blackwell wanted. That’s who I became after we got back together. A perfectly docile woman. The perfect opposite of the woman I was. No more late-night suspicion, no more furtive phone-checking, and zero hostility toward the parade of women who had always orbited him. When I found a ripped, practically empty foil packet of ultra-thin 0.01s wedged in the center console of his G-Wagon, I didn’t scream. I didn’t even flinch. I just neatly tucked it back into his jacket pocket, not only withholding a single accusation but gently reminding him to monitor the shelf life. Damon’s hand shot out, clamping around my wrist. His eyes, usually cool and guarded, were edged with red. He dragged the question out of me, raw and accusing: “You’re telling me you aren’t angry? Not even a little?” 1 Damon restarted the engine. His jaw was set, a muscle ticking near his face. The existence of that flimsy foil packet hovered in the humid air of his luxury SUV like an unspoken judgment. “That wasn’t mine, Ains.” He offered the explanation after what felt like an hour of silence. If this were a year ago, hearing him offer an explanation—any explanation—I would have burst into tears, flung myself into his arms, and apologized for my doubts. I trust you, I trust you completely. But now, I was just looking down at the work email on my phone. I didn’t even lift my head. “Mhm. I know.” My lukewarm indifference completely derailed him. He irritably yanked at the knot of his designer tie, his voice rising in volume. “You know? You know what?” “It was Tatum. That damn kid. She was out at some warehouse party in Brooklyn, acting a fool with a bunch of trust-fund delinquents. I had to go fish her out and confiscated her disgusting purse. This must have fallen out of her clutch when she tossed it on the seat.” He seemed to recall the chaos of the night, a look of fastidious disgust creasing his brow. “Nineteen years old, and she’s running with that crowd. If I don’t keep an eye on her, who will?” I looked up at the barely concealed frustration in his face and felt a sudden, sharp pang of irony. Damon was a near-pathological germaphobe who detested any kind of noise or mess. In the past, if I’d dared to eat a protein bar in this car and dropped a single crumb, he would scowl, then send the whole vehicle out for a deep interior detailing. “Ainsley, are you a pig? Can’t you even manage to eat a snack without making a mess? It’s repulsive.” He would then punish me with three days of icy silence. Yet tonight, for Tatum Van Doren—the spoiled, unruly daughter of his father’s oldest partner—he had endured the smell of stale cigarettes and cheap liquor to retrieve her from a dive bar. He’d even tolerated her “disgusting” bag being thrown onto the pristine leather seats of his ridiculously priced G-Wagon. His verbal disgust was just another form of breaking his own rules. Another exception made only for her. “Tatum is young, Damon. It’s normal for her to be rebellious. You’re her big brother figure; it’s good you look out for her.” I kept my tone calm, even adding a note of approval. “Though those places are risky. Maybe next time, just drive her home safely instead of taking her things.” Damon stared at me as if I’d just started speaking Farsi. “Ainsley, are you even listening to me?” He slammed the shifter into park. His hands wrenched my shoulder, forcing me to meet his furious gaze. “The man finds something like that in his car—open—and this is your reaction? You used to give me three days of silent treatment for a stray hair on my collar! Are you trying to act the bigger person? Are you punishing me with this passive-aggressive cold shoulder?” His grip was painfully tight. Beneath the anger, I detected a flicker of something far more fragile: panic. I almost laughed. I used to fight, and he’d call me a shrew. Now I was calm, and he thought I didn’t care enough. People, I realized, are just gluttons for punishment. I carefully peeled his fingers off my arm. I reached up and smoothed the lapel of his blazer, which his rough movements had skewed. I offered him a soft, compliant smile. “Damon, I’m tired. I’m too tired to fight. You said we needed mutual trust to make this work. I’ve changed, just like you asked. Isn’t this better?” He stared at my smile, his eyes searching, desperate to find the crack in my composure. After a long moment, he dropped his hands, slumped against the seat, and pulled a cigarette out of his pocket. In the rising haze of smoke, his expression was utterly unreadable. “Fine, Ainsley. You’re unbelievable.” 2 Damon Blackwell was a man born to be worshipped. He was Manhattan’s golden boy, the heir to a dynasty—good-looking, blue-blooded, and frighteningly capable. I spent five years orbiting Damon like a manic, desperate satellite. Everyone in our social circle knew: Ainsley Hayes was Damon’s self-made liability. I was his pet. If Damon snapped his fingers, I’d cancel meetings and drive across three boroughs just to drop off a vintage lighter he might toss in the trash ten minutes later. If another woman came within his orbit, I’d turn into a territorial lioness, screaming and clawing to mark my turf. Damon hated it. His brow was constantly furrowed with impatience and disgust. “Ainsley, can’t you be reasonable?” “I can’t stand this suffocating feeling of being managed all the time. Can’t you have some dignity?” “If you throw one more childish fit, we’re done.” Six months ago, we were finally done. The immediate trigger, of course, was Tatum. The daughter of a family friend, the unofficial little sister, the name that always came up when we fought. Damon insisted he was only looking out for her, big brother style, and I shouldn’t worry. But that night, Damon left me—burning up with a fever, shivering on the shoulder of the I-95—to bail Tatum out of the precinct after she’d been caught street racing. I walked for two miles in the freezing rain to flag down a cab. When I eventually found him and hysterically confronted him, Tatum was hiding behind Damon, shivering dramatically. She sniffled, playing the good kid: “Damon, please don’t be mad at Ainsley. It’s my fault for calling you when you were on a date. I’m sorry. Don’t fight over me.” Damon immediately pulled her into a protective embrace. Over his shoulder, Tatum smirked at me. She mouthed a single, silent word: Jerk. My sanity crumbled. I lunged at her. Damon didn’t even hesitate. He raised his hand and slapped me, hard, right across the face, in front of the entire police station lobby. “Ainsley, how could you be so vicious? She’s nineteen, she’s a kid! I have to look out for her. Can’t you stop acting like a fishwife who only knows how to pick fights?” It was the first time he’d ever laid a hand on me. My cheek was on fire, but the pain in my chest was blinding. That slap was the cold shock that finally woke me up. I wiped the blood from the corner of my mouth, looking at the man I had loved for five years, suddenly a stranger. There were no more hysterics. I touched my stinging cheek, looked him in the eye, and said, with a terrifying calm, “Damon, we’re finished.” He looked surprised for a split second, then sneered, his expression filled with disdain and absolute certainty that I’d crawl back. “Fine, Ainsley. You’ve got nerve. Walk out, but don’t come crawling back in two days begging. I won’t be so easy to forgive this time.” He turned his back on me instantly to comfort the “traumatized” Tatum, leaving me with nothing but a definitive, unforgiving exit. 3 The six months that followed were a grueling, savage withdrawal. I couldn’t sleep. When I closed my eyes, all I saw was the fading red of his taillights on the interstate and the searing, bright pain of that slap. That night’s high fever, compounded by the time I spent in the cold, had taken its toll. My right ear’s nerve was permanently damaged. The doctor’s words were a blur of regret. I had permanent hearing loss and constant, high-pitched tinnitus. It was Damon’s most profound souvenir. The world to my right was now silent, filled only with the ceaseless screaming in my ear, a permanent reminder of the despair of that night. During my weakest moments, I became a pathetic voyeur, creating a fake account to stalk Tatum Van Doren’s social media. Damon had blocked me, so I used her feed to hunt for glimpses of him. She posted pictures of the Michelin-starred meals he took her to, the limited-edition bags he bought her, and even a picture of her wearing his oversized cashmere sweater, bare-legged, curled up in his library chair playing XBox. Her captions were always the same, a veiled boast disguised as a complaint: “Ugh, big brother made me come here. So annoying.” Then there was the post celebrating our breakup: “Universal celebration! Big brother finally dumped the psycho ex who wouldn’t quit. Some people have zero self-awareness. What does five years matter? The seat you occupied was never meant for you, and it’s finally been cleared for the main character.” “Go look in the mirror, sweetie. You never stood a chance.” The ultimate insult: Damon Blackwell had liked the post. The stinging words burned my eyes. I was crying before I realized it. The precious, careful affection I had begged for over five years was now her casual, everyday boast. On countless sleepless nights, with the tinnitus roaring in my head, I would curl up on the bathroom floor, deleting and rewriting text messages to him through my tears. Damon, I’m in so much pain. Damon, I can’t hear. Please come back. Before, if I so much as grimaced, he would be instantly alarmed. He’d pause his video conferences, rub his hands together until they were scalding, and burrow under the covers to warm my perpetually cold stomach. He’d scowl and call me fragile, but he wouldn’t sleep all night, pausing every few minutes to kiss my forehead and ask if I was okay. I genuinely believed, then, that he loved me more than anyone. But I always chickened out. When the sky lightened, I’d feel silly and weak, deleting every plea. I lived in a six-month state of zombie-like fog. I’d confuse day and night, robotically waking up, going to the office, and going back to bed. I’d squeeze face wash onto my toothbrush, wear two mismatched slippers to take out the trash, and stare at a stain on the ceiling for hours. I rotted in that chaos for half a year, and the Ainsley who loved him was finally, truly dead. Then, a month ago, Damon came back. Drunk, he smashed open my front door, clung to me, and repeated my name over and over. He buried his head in my neck, his lips right against my right ear, whispering a torrent of apologies and admissions. I heard nothing. The irony was crushing: he thought he was making a profound, romantic declaration, but I was a silent spectator watching him perform. When he finished, he pulled his head back and saw my blank expression. He raised his voice, and the sound—that familiar, imperious, take-charge tone—finally pierced my left ear. “Ainsley, have you had enough? I’m here. I’m giving you the out. I’ve extended the olive branch. Come home, be good, and I’ll pretend the last six months never happened.” We got back together. He unilaterally announced that our relationship could resume. I didn’t object. This time, I was the dream girl he’d always wanted: the docile, reasonable, dignified girlfriend. Whatever he said, as long as his head was turned towards my right ear, I would simply nod and agree. I didn’t want him to know I was permanently damaged. 4 Life after the reconciliation was surprisingly peaceful. But it was different. Damon started coming home. Before, he used to use work and business dinners as an excuse to disappear for weeks. Now, he was at the apartment every night he didn’t have an absolutely unavoidable engagement. He even started proactively reporting his schedule. “Dinner with the Board, not the CEO, at The Waverly.” “Tatum is threatening to run away again. I have to check on her. I’ll be back soon.” “That actress was just a formality our partner sent over to say hi. I didn’t touch her.” My only response to every message was a single, noncommittal word: “Okay.” I stopped calling him every five minutes. I stopped questioning him about his late nights. I stopped having a breakdown every time I smelled another woman’s perfume on his jacket. I simply went to work, cooked, cleaned, and took care of him. I was a flawless, emotionless domestic robot. But I could sense his mounting anxiety. He started getting rougher during sex, forcing me to shout his name, forcing me to say, “I love you.” Afterward, he would clutch me so tightly it felt like he was afraid I would vanish. This pathetic dance of codependency used to be my specialty. Now it was his. How the tables had turned. Friday evening, Damon said he wanted to take me to a charity auction. “There’s a pink diamond necklace I want to bid on. It would look incredible on you.” He draped an arm around my waist, his voice laced with uncharacteristic eagerness. I didn’t say no. The ballroom was a sea of glittering gowns and high-level socialites. Damon kept his hand firmly on my back, ensuring everyone knew I was his woman. Until Tatum arrived. The girl was an absolute mess of rebellious chic, dressed in a punk leather mini-skirt and a sheer black top. She stood out jarringly among the evening wear. She saw Damon, her eyes immediately welling up, and she ran across the room and flung herself into his arms. “Damon! My dad is trying to ship me off to boarding school! You have to save me!” In front of everyone, Damon instinctively released my hand to catch the staggering girl. Wearing four-inch stilettos, I lost my balance. I stumbled backward, right into a towering glass champagne flute display. Crash! The shattering glass was deafening. Shards sliced through my ankle. My white silk dress instantly began to wick up the blood, leaving a horrifying, deep red stain. I was completely ruined. The onlookers were having a field day, watching the drama unfold: the Blackwell heir caught between the loyal fiancée and the chaotic little sister. The old Ainsley would have been shrieking, demanding to know why he let go of me, rushing to tear Tatum’s hair out. But the new me simply bent down calmly, pressed a cocktail napkin to the gushing wound, and told the terrified waiter, “It’s fine. It wasn’t your fault.” I was slick with cold sweat, my face pale. I was holding onto the edge of the table, using every ounce of willpower not to collapse. Damon turned, saw the blood, and a flash of genuine panic crossed his eyes. He started toward me. But before he could take a step, Tatum locked her arms around his waist. “Damon, I’m scared! There’s so much blood! I’m going to faint! My stomach hurts!” she shrieked, dry-heaving dramatically, looking far more distressed than the one who was actually bleeding. Damon froze. His gaze flickered between my bleeding ankle and the hysterical girl in his arms. It was the classic choice. He chose Tatum when we broke up. He chose Tatum now that we were back together. It was never, ever me. “Ains, that’s just a scratch. You need to call an Uber to the nearest emergency room. Tatum’s anxiety is turning into an ulcer attack. It could be serious. I have to take her first.” His words came out fast, a rush of decision, and he couldn’t meet my eyes. I just stared at him, then nodded quietly. “Okay. Go on. Don’t worry about me.” No tears. No fights. No questions. Damon looked utterly bewildered, clearly thrown by how easily I’d let him off the hook. But he didn’t have time to process it. He tossed out a clipped: “Text me when you’ve been stitched up,” and carried Tatum out the door, never looking back. I was left alone, bleeding, standing in a pile of broken glass, a joke under the weight of the socialites’ stares. The wound was agonizing, but a strange, liberating rush of clarity swept through me. It felt like a heavy stone had finally been lifted from my chest. I wasn’t just relieved; I wanted to laugh. I pulled out my phone and dialed a number. “Hello. I’ve made up my mind.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389358”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel