The day Liam was diagnosed with a condition that left him unable to feel love, he asked the doctor if he would ever be capable of it. The doctor gave a noncommittal answer. I squeezed Liam’s hand. He pulled it away. “Sorry,” he said. He proposed a platonic marriage, explaining that intimate contact made him uncomfortable. I agreed, assuming it was just part of his condition. We slept in separate rooms for seven years. Until yesterday, when I found a folded sonogram report tucked inside a book he often read. Gestational Age: 20 weeks. Name: Isla Vance. Date: Three months ago. On the back, in his handwriting: “Prenatal appointment: City General Maternity, Wednesday afternoon.” So it wasn’t that he didn’t want a child. He just didn’t want one with me. Liam, that’s ten lies. I told you. After the last one, I would walk out of your life and never look back. 1 I put the sonogram report back where I found it and acted as if nothing had happened. We were at the breakfast table. He sat down, drank his coffee, and read the financial news. His coffee was black today. That was careless. He was never careless. “Liam,” I said, cutting into my fried egg. “It’s Wednesday.” “Mm,” he answered, not looking up. “Do you have plans this afternoon?” “A meeting.” A nervous swallow. An unconscious touch of his nose. He was lying again. The eleventh time. I nodded and kept eating. The egg was hard. It had just come off the pan, but it felt cold. Today was our seventh wedding anniversary. He had promised me last night that he would spend it with me. But now, he had either completely forgotten, or he had never cared in the first place. “I bought a new potted ivy yesterday. It’s on the windowsill.” “Fine.” He turned a page in the magazine. Still so cold. He didn’t even glance my way. The ivy was already dead. I’d discovered it last week while watering it, the roots rotted through. But I didn’t throw it out. I just let it wither on the sill. He had probably never even noticed it. His phone screen lit up. I caught a glimpse of the notification: “City General Maternity reminder: Prenatal appointment today at 3:00 PM. Please be on time.” He quickly blanked the screen. “The soup’s getting cold,” I said, pushing the bowl closer to him. He took a spoonful, then paused. “Did you put ginger in this?” “To warm you up,” I said, looking at him. “You’ve been coming home so late recently. I was worried you’d catch a chill.” He didn’t say anything else, just finished the soup. His mind was elsewhere, his gaze shifting away from mine. His Adam’s apple bobbed, his jawline tight. For over two thousand days and nights, every time I needed him to see me, he was always looking somewhere else. I acted as if nothing was wrong. I threw away the ivy he had given me. It was completely rotten. There was no reason to keep it. People are the same. At two in the afternoon, I said I was going to the library. Instead, I turned right out the door and went into the coffee shop across from the maternity hospital. At ten past three, he appeared at the hospital entrance. He was wearing a dark gray overcoat and carrying a file folder. A young woman with long hair, dressed in a cream-colored knit dress, walked toward him. That was Isla. I’d seen her picture in our high school yearbook. The dimples that appeared when she smiled were identical to the ones on the girl in the graduation photo tucked away in Liam’s wallet. They came out just as I was finishing my third Americano. He helped her down the steps, his hand cupping her elbow, a light, protective gesture he never released. When Liam’s car pulled away, I hailed a taxi. “Follow that black Mercedes,” I told the driver. The driver glanced at me in the rearview mirror but didn’t ask any questions. He had driven back to the maternity hospital. He walked into the lobby carrying a paper bag, his steps quicker than usual. I didn’t get out of the cab. Through the window, I watched as Liam leaned down and kissed Isla’s forehead. Like a devoted husband. He and I had never been so intimate in public. Every time I tried to take his hand, he would gently pull away. Isla took the bag, looked inside, and her eyes curved into crescents as she smiled. He reached out and very lightly touched her stomach. A gesture so natural it looked like he’d practiced it a hundred times. It was the middle of winter, but the air in the car felt thick, suffocating. I rolled down the window, and the cold wind that rushed in finally cleared my head. There was a time when I wanted a child with him, too. But that was a long time ago. Disappointment after disappointment had worn me down. Liam, I don’t think I love you that much anymore. 2 My phone vibrated. A message from him: “Won’t be home for dinner tonight.” I typed back: “Okay. Happy anniversary.” Three minutes later, a question mark appeared. But he deleted it almost immediately. “You too.” Two words. He couldn’t even be bothered to ask what anniversary it was. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to fight with him. It was just that the disappointment had piled up so high that I was too tired to dig through the past. I told the driver to take me to the waterfront. The wind was strong, whipping my hair across my face. A couple was taking wedding photos by the shore. The bride’s white veil billowed in the wind, and the groom laughed as he held down the hem of her dress. We never had wedding photos. He said he didn’t like being in front of a camera. Looking back now, I realize he just didn’t like being in front of a camera with me. As dusk fell, I went to the restaurant we used to frequent. The table for two I had booked was half empty. Steak, red wine, candlelight. And a small cake with “Happy 7th Anniversary” written on it. I finished my portion, then cut up his steak and slowly ate that, too. I tried a bite of the cake. It was too sweet. So sweet it was bitter. When I paid the bill, the manager recognized me. “Mrs. White, Mr. White isn’t with you tonight?” “He’s busy,” I said with a smile. As I walked out of the restaurant, I got a text from my bank. A large sum of money had been transferred to my account. The memo read: “Gift.” He always used money to solve everything. Wedding anniversaries, birthdays, even last year when I was hospitalized with a fever. He transferred money with a note: “Hire a nurse.” That was just him. He would throw money at a problem rather than offer a single word of comfort. It wasn’t until today that I realized he did know how to take care of someone. That someone just wasn’t me. And he would never, ever see me. We met on a blind date. He said I was a good fit for him. We dated like a normal couple, except I never once saw a spark of light in his eyes. He would prepare for our anniversaries. Nine hundred and ninety-nine roses, every grand gesture I could have wanted. But he was always so detached. I thought he just had trouble expressing himself. It turns out his heart already belonged to someone else. Later, when we got married, we didn’t have a wedding. Our friends all thought Liam was just painfully shy. The truth was, I was afraid to stand on that stage and see no recognition in his eyes as he placed the ring on my finger. I was afraid that when the officiant asked, “Do you take this man?” my “I do” would be louder than his. It was nearly midnight when I got home. He still wasn’t back. The door to his study was slightly ajar. I pushed it open and saw a gift box sitting on his desk, already opened. Inside was a tiny baby onesie, pale blue, with little airplanes embroidered on the cuffs. I picked it up, imagining how carefully he must have chosen it. I saw the open journal next to it. His parents wouldn’t let him be with Isla. And I was the most suitable marriage partner. He had met twenty other women that day. None of them were right. Until he saw me. He stopped searching. Because I looked so much like Isla. Our marriage certificate was a lie. He had never seen me as his wife, only as an obligation. This whole marriage was a mistake from the very beginning. So, Liam. Let’s just call it quits. 3 I heard footsteps on the stairs. I folded the onesie exactly as it had been and placed it back in the box. As I walked out of the study, I passed him in the hallway. “You’re home,” I said. “Mm.” He smelled faintly of lilies. I hate lilies. “I went to that steakhouse today,” I said, leaning against the wall. “It tasted the same.” He paused in the middle of loosening his tie. “Alone?” “Who else?” I smiled. He looked at me, and for the first time, I saw a flicker of scrutiny in his eyes. But it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Get some rest,” he said, then went into the study. The door clicked softly shut. Then I heard the lock turn. That night, I lay in bed and heard the faint sound of music coming from the study. It was a piano piece he used to listen to often. I had once downloaded the same album, and he had frowned. “It’s noise,” he’d said. Now I understood. Isla liked to play the piano. It must be difficult for her now, with her belly so large. So he was playing for her. My phone screen glowed in the dark. I opened the airline app and confirmed my flight details. Departure: Tomorrow, 3:40 PM. My bags were already packed and stored in the closet. One small suitcase, just enough to hold everything I owned from this marriage. At four in the morning, I got up for a glass of water. As I passed the study, I saw through the crack in the door that he had fallen asleep at his desk. The lamp was still on, illuminating the open notebook beside his hand. At the top of the page, it said: Liam & Isla. Below was a list: 1. Crib 2. Child car seat 3. Inquire about school districts 4. … The handwriting was neat, the list organized. He had always been meticulous. I gently closed the door and went back to my room. Seven years. Even an iceberg should have melted by now. But Liam White had not. That night, I walked into his room. He was still awake, reading. I sat on the edge of his bed. His body tensed almost imperceptibly, but he didn’t move away. “It’s been seven years,” I said. “Have you ever tried to feel something for me? Anything at all.” He was silent. “Not even a little?” “You are my wife,” he said, avoiding the question. “So it’s just a responsibility?” “Yes.” “I’m sorry,” he said suddenly. When he apologized, he sounded as if he were commenting on the weather. “Liam, I want to have a child with you.” “We can adopt.” I laughed, and tears started to fall. He pulled a tissue from the box and handed it to me, careful not to touch my hand. “Liam,” I said, wiping my eyes. “You’re lying again.” His brow furrowed slightly. “I have never lied to you. I told you I couldn’t love you.” He was right. He had told me. He told me the day he was diagnosed. I was the one who had been lying to myself for seven years. Thinking his condition was the only obstacle. Thinking there was no one else. Thinking time could change things. But I was wrong. I fell apart that night. I cried, I screamed, but he remained unmoved. His calmness made me feel like a hysterical, unreasonable child. He pushed me away, saying my emotions were unstable, that I wasn’t acting like an adult. But he used to say something else. He used to say that since he had no emotions of his own, he was happy to be my emotional dumping ground. It turns out you were just looking through me, at someone else. Dawn was breaking, light seeping through the curtains. I should buy myself some flowers, I thought. Any kind of flower. Just for me. 4 One last time, I lay in this bed. One last time, I listened to the silence of this house. One last time, I was Liam White’s wife. At nine in the morning, before he left, he said to me: “I have a work dinner tonight. Don’t wait up.” “Okay.” I stood in the entryway, adjusting his tie. His body stiffened, but he didn’t pull away. “Liam,” I said, letting go. “Your tie is crooked.” He glanced down. “Thank you.” “Drive safe.” He nodded and turned to leave. Just before the elevator doors closed, I saw him raise his wrist to check his watch. His memo from yesterday had noted it. Today was Isla’s birthday. After the door shut, I called the housekeeper. “You don’t need to come in today.” Then I began the final cleanup. My toothbrush, my towel, my slippers. The few clothes in my closet. The half-read book on my nightstand. I erased every trace of myself, as if I had never been there at all. Finally, I placed the sonogram report in his room. At noon, as I was pulling my suitcase through the living room, I found him there. He was watering the ivy. He had bought a new one. He turned around, the small watering can still in his hand. “Where are you going?” he asked. My voice was cold. “A business trip.” He picked up his coat. “I’ll drive you.” He already had his car keys in his hand. I wanted to refuse, but in the end, I just nodded. Fine. One last time. And the first time in seven years he had ever offered to take me anywhere. He opened the trunk and put my suitcase inside. The car was clean, with a faint scent of lemon. The good luck charm hanging from the rearview mirror was one I had gotten from a temple three years ago. He started the car, and warm air blew from the vents. Then, he did a series of things that caught me completely off guard. He turned down the volume of the radio. He switched to the podcast I always listened to. He handed me a cup of coffee. An oat milk latte. My usual. “Picked it up on the way,” he said. I took it. The cup sleeve was my favorite shade of light blue. No sugar, extra milk, the temperature just right. He knew all my preferences. He had just pretended not to see them. I think he must have seen the sonogram report on the table. He didn’t even ask how I found it. Maybe he didn’t think it was important. We had a silent agreement not to mention it, but we both knew. As we drove out of the neighborhood, I stared at the logo on the coffee cup. This coffee shop was near my office. It wasn’t on his route. It was a twenty-minute detour. “Send me your flight number,” he said, his eyes on the road. “I’ll pick you up when you get back.” I didn’t say anything. “There’s a new movie out.” He tapped his fingers on the steering wheel while waiting at a red light. “The one you said you wanted to see.” I looked down and sipped my coffee. “Liam,” I said, watching the city streak past the window. “Do you remember what my least favorite flower is?” He was silent for two seconds. “Lilies.” The air in the car turned to ice. The podcast host was laughing, saying, “In Iceland, saying goodbye is such a light, simple thing.” She was right. Goodbye is light. So very light. I didn’t bring up Isla. It was the last bit of dignity I was affording him. I was tired. I had no interest in dissecting his feelings. I just wanted to live my own life. I pushed the car door open, and a blast of cold air rushed in. “Liam.” “Do you know what day it is today?” His lips moved, but no sound came out. He touched his nose again. Nervous, blushing, unable to meet my eyes. The trunk popped open automatically. I got my suitcase and pulled up the handle. “It doesn’t matter anymore. I’m leaving.” Before I left, I said one last thing, without turning back. “Liam. You said you could never learn to love anyone.” “But you learned how to lie.” Goodbye, Liam.

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1 For the New Year’s holiday, the company announced a seven-day trip to the Bahamas. When Miranda, our director, announced it, everyone was thrilled. Everyone except me. And just as I expected, her tone shifted. “We’ll need someone to hold down the fort. Ryan, that’ll be you.” She added, with a dismissive wave of her hand, “After all, you’re not managing any key projects. You’ve got the time.” I had to laugh. I held the grand-sounding title of General Coordinator, but it came with zero actual authority. Yet, I was the beast of burden, the one who did the grunt work for every single project, running myself ragged day in and day out. I was the one who put in the most hours, the one who solved the most problems. But when it came time for glory and bonuses, I was always invisible. I had swallowed this bitterness for seven years. Today, I was done. I pushed my chair back and stood up, my voice steady. “No problem, Miranda. I can stay.” “But this will be the last time.” “I quit.” The conference room fell into a stunned, awkward silence. Then, the whispers started, slithering through the air like snakes. “Seriously? What’s the big deal? Is he really quitting over a vacation?” Jessica, from across the table, was the first to speak, her voice sharp and nasal. “He’s always so quiet and sullen. I never realized he was so petty.” Mark, sitting next to her, let out a snort of derision and leaned back, kicking one leg over the other. “I think Ryan feels like his seven years of ‘hard labor’ haven’t been recognized. He’s still sore about never getting that ‘Employee of the Year’ award and this is his little protest.” He looked around the room. “Does he even know his own worth?” From the back row, Walter, our lead tech, slowly pushed his glasses up his nose. “Ah, the fire of youth,” he said in a greasy, know-it-all tone. “Just a tantrum to scare the boss. I’ve seen this show a hundred times. He’ll come crawling back.” “You think it’s easy to find a job out there? If he really walks, he won’t even have tears left to cry.” “Exactly,” chimed in Kevin, who sat in the corner. He was the one who most frequently asked me to “help out” with his PowerPoints, and his voice was now the loudest, his words the most venomous. “Miranda, don’t you dare go soft on him. We’ve all seen what he’s really done these past seven years. What is it? Printing, copying, fetching packages, ordering coffee? Has he ever actually touched a real project? If it weren’t for this company throwing him a bone, could he even survive in Port Sterling? And now he has the nerve to act all high and mighty? If you ask me, he’s just trying to blackmail you because he knows we’re swamped with projects right now!” Every word was a poisoned dart. I looked at Kevin. Just last week, he was scrambling to present a proposal to a major client. It was a chaotic mess of jumbled logic and incomplete data. I was the one who stayed up until 3 AM, untangling his mess, restructuring the entire thing, verifying the data, and creating clean, compelling visualizations. He’d taken that polished presentation, wowed the client, and returned to the office beaming. He bought the entire project team celebratory drinks. Everyone but me. Miranda raised a hand, silencing the rising tide of accusations. Her brow was furrowed, and the look she gave me was cold, devoid of warmth, filled only with annoyance and a deep, familiar contempt. It was the same contempt I’d seen seven years ago, when I first stepped into this office. Back then, she held my resume, her manicured nail tapping on the line that listed my degree from a state college. “Ryan, is it? Your university isn’t exactly top-tier… but the major is relevant.” “Tell you what,” she’d continued, “the project workload here is intense, and we require a high degree of independent skill. Given your background, let’s start you off with the basics. You won’t be assigned to a specific project. Instead, you can assist the other team members with support tasks. Get a feel for the environment. Consider it a learning experience.” At first, I really was just the office gofer. Running errands, delivering documents, organizing mountains of old files, even descaling the office coffee machine. But I refused to accept that as my fate. When others left for the day, I stayed, digging through the company server, studying every successful project file I could find. I memorized workflows, analytical methods, even the specific phrasing in final reports. Whenever I saw an opening, I’d swallow my pride and approach a busy colleague. “Hey Mark, how did you export this data set?” “Jessica, what’s the standard procedure for handling this kind of client feedback?” The response was usually a dismissive wave, their eyes never leaving their screen. “You don’t need to worry about that.” “It’s complicated. You wouldn’t get it.” “I’m busy. Don’t bother me.” Still, like an ant gnawing on a bone, I slowly, painstakingly pieced it all together. Once, Jessica was rushing to finish a market analysis summary and accidentally swapped the data for two key competitors. I found the error while organizing files and, after hesitating, pointed it out to her. Her face soured. She snatched the document from my hand. “I know! Stop being a busybody!” she snapped. Later, the corrected report was approved. At the weekly meeting, Miranda praised her publicly. Jessica smiled like a blooming rose and never mentioned my name. 2 After that, things began to change, the lines blurring in a way that worked for everyone but me. “Helping out” was no longer a favor; it became my job. When Mark was on a deadline for a proposal, full of grand ideas but empty of substance, he’d dump a chaotic pile of half-formed thoughts and research links on my desk. “Ryan, you’re decent with words. Flesh this out for me, get a first draft going.” I’d spend my nights immersing myself in background materials, weaving his digital scraps into a coherent proposal, filling in the missing market analysis and outlining concrete steps for implementation. After I handed it over, he’d make a few cosmetic tweaks and submit it as his “masterpiece,” earning praise from the client for his blend of creativity and practicality. When Walter hit a technical snag, he wouldn’t even ask. He’d just walk over, drop his laptop on my desk, and say, “Kid, this code’s busted. Take a look for me, will you? I’ve got a meeting.” I wasn’t a programmer, but I’d taught myself enough to get by, relying on patience and endless online searches. I’d spend hours debugging his mess. When I finally fixed it, he’d just pat me on the shoulder. “Not bad, kid. Guess you’re good for something after all.” And Kevin’s presentations were a constant disaster zone I was expected to salvage. “Ryan, this PowerPoint is hideous. You’ve got a good eye, make it pretty.” “Ryan, the boss says this report is confusing. Make it idiot-proof. I need it by tomorrow.” “Ryan, this data is a mess. I need charts. Make them look good, make them convincing.” His requests were always urgent, difficult, and vague. And somehow, I always delivered. Thanks to the polished, crystal-clear reports I created for him, he cultivated a reputation with management as a “strategic thinker with outstanding communication skills.” The cruelest irony was that when these projects succeeded, when the bonuses were handed out and the celebration dinners were planned, I was always on the outside looking in. They’d congratulate each other, laughing about where to go for drinks. Occasionally, someone might glance my way and offer a perfunctory, “Ryan worked hard, too.” And that was it. My name never appeared on a bonus list. My hard work was worth nothing more than a cheap, throwaway compliment. Miranda wasn’t blind. A few times, leaving late, she’d see the light still on at my desk, saw the scattered documents from three different projects I was juggling. She’d just offer a bland platitude. “It’s good for young people to work hard.” As for promotions or raises, those were distant dreams that had nothing to do with me. The best they did was give me that empty “General Coordinator” title as a pacifier. A fancy name for the office mule. “Ryan!” Miranda’s sharp, impatient voice yanked me from my thoughts. “If you have a problem, you can raise it through the proper channels. There’s no need to resort to threats of resignation. You should ask yourself, honestly, has this company ever been unfair to you in these seven years? We didn’t look down on your degree. We gave you a platform, a chance to learn. And now you’re throwing a tantrum over a vacation? Isn’t that incredibly immature? And irresponsible?” “Miranda’s right!” Jessica, ever the sycophant, chimed in immediately. “Ryan, the company invested seven years in you! Don’t you have any gratitude? Staying behind is also part of the job. Or should the whole company just shut down so everyone can go on vacation? You’re being incredibly selfish!” Kevin added with a sneer, “I think he just can’t handle the pressure and is looking for an excuse to run away. If you actually gave him a real project to lead, he’d screw it up for sure. Don’t fall for his bluff, Miranda. He knows he’s been coasting for seven years and can’t keep it up anymore, so he’s going scorched earth.” Mark joined the chorus. “Come on, Ryan, don’t be like that. We’re a team. We help each other out. That’s how it works. Take some advice, man. Don’t be impulsive. Apologize to Miranda, do your part, and focus on your work from now on.” They went on, one after another. The projects that had been built on my sweat and sleepless nights were now credited to the “platform the company provided.” My countless nights of overtime were twisted into evidence of me “coasting.” My patience and sacrifice had become the foundation for their condescending “advice.” Looking at their familiar, deceitful faces, at Miranda’s impatient scowl, the fire that had been smoldering in my chest for seven years finally burned out, leaving only cold ash. I stood up again, my spine ramrod straight. “Miranda, everyone, thank you for your kind words and guidance.” My voice was calm, almost conversational. “In these seven years, let’s see… I’ve printed countless documents, fetched endless packages, ordered gallons of coffee, salvaged dozens of proposals, debugged lines of code I didn’t write, polished hundreds of terrible PowerPoints, and turned mountains of incoherent data into reports that a child could understand…” “But you’re right. None of that really counts. It was all just my duty. I was just ‘coasting.’” “And I’m certainly not worthy of a trip to the Bahamas.” “So, I don’t need any more ‘learning experiences.’ I don’t need any more ‘training.’” “My resignation isn’t a threat. It’s a notice.” “I will stay for the one-month transition period, as required. As for what I’ll be transitioning…” I paused, my gaze sweeping across their faces. “I’m sorry, but I’ll only be handing over the duties officially listed in my job description.” “As for all those files on your computers… the ones I created but that happen to have your names on them… the data, the proposals, the code, the PowerPoints…” “Good luck. I truly hope they continue to serve you well without me.” “And finally,” I looked directly at Miranda, a faint, humorless smile on my lips, “thank you for the seven years of ‘blessings’ you’ve given me.” “Unfortunately, I’m not blessed enough to receive them.” 3 With that, I pulled open the conference room door and walked out. That afternoon, I submitted my resignation letter to HR and sent a company-wide email. “Effective immediately, I will only be performing duties as outlined in my job description. Please refrain from contacting me regarding other matters. Thank you.” Less than a minute after the email went out, the office began to buzz like a disturbed hornet’s nest. From my desk, I could hear Jessica’s strained whisper, “Wow. He really thinks he’s hot stuff now.” Mark let out a loud scoff, the sound of his typing suddenly more aggressive. “Let him have his little drama. See how long it lasts.” “His grand title of ‘General Coordinator’ really just means he’s in charge of getting us coffee and printing our documents,” he added. “The second he walks out that door, he’s nothing.” Kevin leaned over to a colleague, his voice just loud enough to carry. “All ego, no talent. Just wait. He’ll be begging Miranda for his job back in a couple of days.” I put on my headphones, cranked up the music, and blocked them out. Then, I opened a folder on my computer named “Support Files.” Inside, meticulously organized, was every single thing I had created for every person and every project over the last seven years. I selected the entire folder, hit Shift+Delete, and confirmed. Then I emptied the recycling bin. The whole process took less than ten seconds, but it felt like a seven-year weight had been lifted from my chest. At five o’clock, the end-of-day bell chimed. Under the surprised gazes of my colleagues, I shut down my computer, grabbed my bag, and became the first person to walk out of the office. It was the first time in seven years I hadn’t worked late. Stepping outside, the evening air was cool, carrying a strange, sweet scent of freedom. Around 9 PM, my phone rang. It was Jessica. The moment I answered, she launched in. “Ryan, what’s the status of the proposal for the new project? Miranda wants to see it first thing tomorrow. The client is pushing hard, so send it to me now!” Her tone was completely matter-of-fact, laced with an impatient urgency, as if my email from that afternoon had never existed. “Jessica,” I replied calmly, “that proposal is your responsibility. I don’t have the authority or the knowledge to work on it. I’m just a gofer, remember? This has nothing to do with me.” She was clearly thrown off. After a two-second pause, her voice shot up an octave. “Ryan, what the hell is that supposed to mean?! You’ve always handled this stuff before! Are you playing dumb with me now? Just send the file and stop wasting my time!” “Helping you before was a favor. Sticking to my duties now is my job.” My voice was flat. “I’m busy. I have a show to watch. Goodbye.” “Ryan, don’t you dare hang up on me! You—” Her furious shouts were cut off by the dial tone. I put my phone down and switched it to silent. The next day, things got interesting. First, Kevin came by, holding a messy Excel spreadsheet. He dropped it on the corner of my desk out of habit. “Ryan, I need data charts for this. The meeting is this afternoon. You know the drill, make them look sharp.” I didn’t even glance at the spreadsheet. I simply pushed it back toward him. “Kevin, data analysis is a part of your report. It’s your responsibility, not mine. I can’t do it.” His face tightened, and for a second, I thought he was going to explode. But with others watching, he forced a grotesque smile. “Come on, man, help me out. We go way back. I’m just totally swamped.” “Sorry,” I said, looking back at my own work. “So am I.” He stood there for a moment, fuming, before snatching the spreadsheet back. As he turned away, I heard him mutter, “Asshole.” Next up was Walter. He lumbered over with his laptop, pointing at an error message. “Kid, this script is crashing again. Take a look for me? It’s similar to that last problem.” I shook my head. “Sorry, Walter, I can’t solve technical issues. I’m not tech support.” He pushed his glasses up, his tone carrying its usual weight of command. “Just a quick look. It won’t take you five minutes. I have to get to a meeting.” “I really can’t help you,” I insisted, meeting his gaze evenly. He opened his mouth, then closed it. Without another word, he turned and walked away, grumbling, “What’s wrong with kids these days? No sense of teamwork at all.” 4 The morning’s relative peace was shattered just before lunch. A major client, one of Mark’s, suddenly demanded to see a preliminary draft of a proposal that wasn’t due until the following week. They wanted it by the end of the day. He was clearly unprepared. I watched him frantically rifle through files at his desk, his face growing paler by the second. Finally, he stormed over to my desk and slammed his fist down on the surface. The impact made my pen holder jump. “Ryan! What the hell is your problem?!” he roared, loud enough for the entire office to hear. “All the notes and background materials for that proposal are with you! Get it done now! Do you have any idea what will happen if we lose this client? Can you handle that responsibility?!” Every eye in the office turned to us, a mix of morbid curiosity and undisguised glee. I slowly lifted my head. “Mark,” I said, my voice quiet but clear. “That proposal is your project. You’ve been the lead from planning to client communication. I don’t have any of the relevant files.” “As for responsibility…” I paused for effect. “The person in charge of the project bears the consequences. Isn’t that how it works?” “That’s bullshit!” he snarled, his finger jabbing toward my face. “Every other time, I came up with the idea and you fleshed it out! And now you’re playing games with me? I’m telling you, if that proposal doesn’t get done today, you’re going down with me!” “I was helping,” I corrected him. “That was never my job. And now, please stop distracting me from mine.” I turned back to my computer screen, dismissing him completely. Mark stood there, breathing heavily, his eyes boring into the back of my head. After a long moment, he spun around and stormed out, heading straight for the director’s office. Less than ten minutes later, my desk phone rang. It was Miranda’s assistant, her voice like ice. “Ryan, Miranda wants to see you in her office. Now.” So, it had come to this. I smoothed my shirt collar and, under the scrutiny of dozens of pairs of eyes, walked toward the corner office at the end of the hall. When I entered, Miranda was sitting behind her massive desk, her face a mask of thunder. Mark stood beside her, arms crossed, a smug, “you’re-so-screwed” look on his face. “Ryan! What is the meaning of this?!” Miranda slammed her palm on the desk, her voice sharp with fury. “Why aren’t you assisting Mark? Don’t you know how urgent the client’s request is? This account is worth millions! If we lose it because of your refusal to cooperate, can you bear that responsibility?!” The questions came like machine-gun fire, each one aimed to paint me as the source of all this chaos. I waited quietly until she was finished. Then, I smiled. It was a small smile, but in the tense silence of the room, it was impossible to miss. “Miranda,” I began, my tone deceptively calm. “Yesterday, in that meeting, you said yourself that I don’t manage any key projects and that I usually have plenty of free time.” “How is it that today, the responsibility for a multi-million-dollar account has suddenly landed on the shoulders of the ‘idlest person’ in the company?” “That’s a heavy burden, Miranda. I’m afraid I’m not qualified to carry it.” Miranda’s expression froze, as if she’d been slapped. Her mouth opened, then closed. For a split second, she was at a complete loss for words. I had used her own logic, her own dismissive words, and turned them into an unbreakable shield. Mark, standing beside her, grew frantic. “See, Miranda? Look at his attitude! He’s just sabotaging us!” “He’s the General Coordinator of the department!” I chuckled. “My job as General Coordinator has always been to make coffee, order takeout, and print documents for you. Weren’t those your own words?” Miranda’s face flushed from pale to crimson, a sure sign that embarrassment was giving way to pure rage. She had probably never been contradicted like this, especially not by someone she considered a disposable nobody. After a moment of stunned silence, her fury erupted. “Ryan!” she shrieked. “How dare you! This company has employed you for seven years, and this is how you speak to your superiors?! If you don’t want to work, then get out!” “Get out of my company right now! And you can forget about your final paycheck and any bonuses!” “Don’t think for a second that we can’t survive without you!” I nodded, even managing a small, placid smile at her incandescent rage. “Thank you, Miranda.”

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When Sebastian and I ended things, it was ugly. He ground the lit end of his cigarette into the hollow of my chest, right over my heart. “You lied to me,” he hissed. “How dare you?” Because of that one sentence, I lost my respectable job and my face was scarred. Everyone said I’d been his canary in a gilded cage for five years, and that this was the ending I deserved. The day I left Aurelia City, he was celebrating his engagement to a girl from a suitable family. I was clutching my own burgeoning belly, scurrying away like a sewer rat, vanishing from his world completely. We met again four years later. He pointed at the little girl in my arms, his eyes certain. “She’s my child, isn’t she?” 1 The next time I saw Sebastian Blackwood, it was late at night, in a hospital. My daughter, Daisy, was nestled in my lap. She was used to the needles and IV drips by now, sitting perfectly still the entire time. She was quiet when she saw him, too, just tugging on my sleeve to wake me from my doze. I opened my eyes and found myself staring directly into his cold, almond-shaped ones. The past came rushing back in a suffocating wave, and for a second, my heart forgot how to beat. I scrambled to my feet, ready to bolt, only then remembering the IV line still attached to my daughter. My hand had just touched the bag when Sebastian’s gripped my wrist, hard. “It’s been a while, Ava.” His gaze dropped to the small girl beside me. “Is this your daughter?” The words were spoken softly, but my legs began to tremble uncontrollably. Daisy tilted her head and asked who he was. A cold smirk played on his lips. He enunciated each word with chilling precision. “An old acquaintance of your mother’s.” More than an acquaintance. Five years. Eighteen hundred and twenty-five days and nights of tangled limbs and feverish passion. But those numbers, so heavy with meaning for me, were nothing more than trash to be discarded for a man like Sebastian Blackwood. I lowered my head, my face pale. The silence was broken by one of Sebastian’s friends approaching. He hadn’t gotten a clear look at me yet and gestured toward Daisy with a grin. “Seb, look at you! Get a little stomach bug on a business trip and your wife and daughter rush all the way here to see you. You’re a lucky man!” Not long after I’d left Aurelia City, I saw the news online that Victoria was pregnant. I never imagined she’d also have a daughter. As the man got closer, his eyes finally focused on my face. “Holy shit,” he breathed. “You’re Ava, right? You’re still alive?” The shock and sarcasm in his voice were like a knife twisting in a barely healed wound. I instinctively covered Daisy’s ears, trying to shield her from the ugliness to come. “After you faked a pregnancy and gave Mr. Blackwood’s grandfather a fatal heart attack, how do you have the nerve to show your face around Seb again?” “What, did you run out of money? I guess that makes sense. For a woman like you who makes a living on her back, the only way to get cash is from a man, right?” He peered at my daughter. “Is this scrawny thing yours? Don’t tell me you’re going to try and say she’s Seb’s!” I was numb to most insults by now, but that last one made my head snap up. “No,” I said, my voice sharp. “She has no connection to Mr. Blackwood whatsoever!” The formal, distant address made both men pause. After a moment, Sebastian pushed his friend aside and stepped closer, his presence as oppressive as ever. “How old is the child?” “She’s three!” The answer tumbled out of me. He took another step, cornering me. “Let me see your ID.” I backed away, managing a weak smile. “I must have left it at home.” He opened his mouth to argue, but I cut him off. “It’s late, Mr. Blackwood. You should get home before your wife starts to worry.” At the mention of Victoria, he actually seemed to hesitate. A bitter laugh bubbled in my chest. Four years ago, I had groveled at his feet, begging him to tell me why he wouldn’t believe me, why he had to marry her. He’d wrapped his hand around my throat, his eyes filled with a cold, disgusted loathing. “She’s not like you,” he’d snarled. “She’s pure. She doesn’t lie.” “And I love her.” I was with him for five years, and he never once said he loved me. I’d convinced myself that a man as proud and unattainable as Sebastian Blackwood was simply incapable of love. Until he said he loved Victoria. That he wanted to give her a family. I thought that kind of love would be fleeting. How naive I was. Seizing his moment of distraction, I grabbed the IV bag, scooped up my daughter, and ran without looking back. I thought I heard him say something behind me, but the words were lost to the wind. I didn’t hear them, and I didn’t care. 2 I didn’t stop running until I was clear of the hospital, my heart hammering against my ribs. Daisy reached up and touched my pale cheek. “Mommy, why did you lie to that man?” she asked, her voice small. I kissed her soft, round face. “To protect you, sweetie.” So he can’t take you away from me. But Sebastian had a wife and daughter of his own now. Why would he want to take mine? Still, the fear was real. From then on, I only took Daisy to a small, private clinic for her treatments. It was two in the morning by the time we got home. Sleep was impossible. I opened my phone and scrolled through Victoria’s social media. Her feed was a curated gallery of her lavish life, filled with pictures of her perfect, princess-like daughter. The comments were a sycophantic chorus, praising her grace and beauty. It was hard to believe that this was the same woman who had personally taken a blade to my face. Even now, on the hottest days, I never dared to push back my heavy bangs, terrified of exposing the ugly scar on my forehead. I’d only taken a half-day off for Daisy’s appointment. That afternoon, I was riding my electric scooter to take her to preschool. On my way home, a luxury car was parked brazenly in the middle of the narrow road, blocking my path. The window rolled down, and a beautifully preserved woman leaned out. “Ava!” I froze, my eyes locking with Melinda’s. My mother. She looked younger than she had years ago. If we stood side by side, people would probably mistake us for sisters. I abandoned my scooter and hurried away, but she threw her car door open, her expensive leather heels clicking on the pavement as she chased after me. “Ava! Please, just turn around and look at me!” Her voice was choked with something that sounded like a sob, probably from running. I couldn’t understand why she was chasing me. She was the one who had thrown me away for a life of wealth and comfort. She was the one who had stood in front of everyone and denied I was her daughter. And she was the one who, in a desperate bid to win over her stepdaughter, Victoria, had fabricated my fake pregnancy report. I could still feel her long, red nails digging into my cheeks, leaving angry marks. “You’re lucky I let you live this long, so what right do you have to judge me? If I had known you’d grow up to stand in the way of my fortune, I would have smothered you in your crib!” The memory was cut short as her driver, on her signal, swerved the car, blocking my path and startling me so badly I fell. Melinda rushed to help me up. “Ava, I just wanted to see you.” I wrenched my arm away from her, a cynical laugh escaping my lips. “See what? To check if I’m dead? Or to make sure I’m not still trying to steal Victoria’s husband?” “You can relax, Mrs. Thorne,” I spat out her married name. “I’ve learned my lesson. I won’t disturb Sebastian and Victoria’s happy life. I’ll stay far, far away from them, and from your precious high-society world!” My words seemed to wound her. Her eyes grew red. “Ava, that’s not what I meant.” Her gaze fell on my custom phone case—a photo of me and Daisy. Her tone shifted instantly. “That child you were carrying back then…” My bravado evaporated. “What child?” I said, my voice shaking. “Didn’t you get rid of that child with your own hands?” I frantically tried to hide my phone behind my back. The cold pavement beneath me brought back the chilling memory of the operating table in that private clinic four years ago. I remembered Melinda’s venomous gaze on my stomach. “This thing has to go! Don’t think I don’t know what you’re planning. I will not allow you to give birth to this bastard and threaten Victoria’s marriage!” To teach me a lesson, she’d told them not to use any anesthesia. The room had been filled with my agonized screams. In the end, it was the doctor, taking pity on me, who helped me escape. Now, Daisy was my entire world. I couldn’t bear the thought of almost losing her again. I had to convince my mother. “That baby is dead! It’s gone! Ask the doctor if you don’t believe me! You saw the blood and tissue yourself, didn’t you?” My voice grew frantic. “I swear, I don’t love Sebastian anymore! I won’t try to seduce him again!” To make her believe me, I lifted the hem of my shirt, desperate, exposing the long, faded scar across my lower abdomen. “Look! The scar is still here! The baby is long gone! You can touch it if you don’t believe me, it’s real!” I grabbed her hand and forced it against the scarred skin. The next second, she pulled me into a hug. “Ava, please, don’t do this…” I froze for a moment before struggling wildly, pushing her so hard she stumbled and fell. I scrambled around the car and ran. I didn’t get far before I tripped and fell hard, scraping my knees on the asphalt. Ignoring the stinging pain, I pushed myself up and kept running. Back in my tiny apartment, I immediately started packing. My important documents, the cash I had saved—it all went into a bag. Seeing Sebastian last night and Melinda today couldn’t be a coincidence. I called the company where I’d worked for two years and quit. I called my landlord to terminate my lease. After buying a bus ticket, I realized it was almost time to pick up Daisy. I got back on my scooter and headed to the preschool to get her and handle her withdrawal. I would take her away from this city and never come back. But when I arrived at the school gate, Daisy’s teacher looked at me with surprise. “Daisy? Her father already picked her up. I’m so sorry, Mrs. Miller, but the man looked so much like her…” 3 For the first time in four years, I unblocked Sebastian’s number. The call connected, and a soft chuckle came from the other end. “I was starting to think you’d really go your whole life without ever contacting me again.” I stood in the cold wind, my knuckles white as I gripped the phone. “Where is my daughter?” In response, I heard Daisy’s innocent laughter in the background. Sebastian’s voice was like a serpent’s whisper. “Tell me, Ava. Is she my child or not?” I didn’t hesitate. “No. Sebastian, give me back my daughter.” He scoffed. “You don’t have to admit it. I can get a test done. And you remember what happens when you lie to me.” The burn mark he’d left over my heart still ached on cold days, a phantom pain reminding me of the man I never should have loved. The thought made me dizzy. I squatted on the pavement, pressing my palms against my throbbing temples. Sebastian hung up. After a moment, I forced myself to stand and head for Aurelia City. Four years later, stepping back onto the grounds of the Blackwood estate, I was flooded with memories. I remembered when I first moved in, swinging on Sebastian’s arm and asking him what would happen if someone ever tried to kick me out. He’d smiled, a rare, gentle thing, and his voice had been absolute. “You’re my woman. Who would dare?” Later, he was the one who gave the order. He had his men strip me of everything he’d ever bought me and throw me out of the mansion. It was snowing heavily. I stumbled through the blizzard, my skin turning purple, the tears freezing on my cheeks. He stood on the second-floor balcony, watching me with cold indifference as I fought my way, step by painful step, out the main gate. Even now, pictures of me, naked and exposed in the snow, still circulated online. The comments were either vicious declarations that I got what I deserved, or assumptions that I was already dead, paying for my sins in the afterlife. I kept my head down as I walked the familiar path to the house, the old humiliation welling up inside me. I didn’t notice that the rose bushes I had once loved were still blooming, a riot of defiant color in the courtyard. Sebastian was waiting in the living room. Dressed in a sharp black suit, he looked like a wolf that had been patiently stalking its prey. I stopped far away from him, reining in my fury. “Where is she?” “She played herself out. She’s sleeping upstairs.” Hearing that, I made a dash for the stairs, but he was faster. He caught my arm and pulled me into his arms. The familiar, woody scent of his cologne filled my senses, making my skin crawl. “What’s the rush? We haven’t settled our accounts yet.” I assumed he was talking about the time I was accused of stealing Victoria’s design drafts. She had stolen them from me, but no one believed it. In the end, I was fired, and my entire portfolio of work was blacklisted and vilified. But years of hardship had worn away my pride. I pushed away from him and dropped to my knees with a thud. “Mr. Blackwood, I know I was wrong about what happened back then, and I’ve paid the price. If it’s still not enough, I’m willing to kneel and apologize to your wife. Just please, give me back my daughter.” My humility earned me no pity. His brow furrowed, his voice turning to ice. “Get up.” I didn’t move. “Mr. Blackwood, you can humiliate me however you want. I’ll do anything. Just give me my child back.” A humorless laugh escaped him. He crouched down to my level. “Your child? Yours and whose?” I froze, then answered quickly. “My ex-husband’s.” Afraid he wouldn’t believe me, I pulled a folded marriage certificate from my bag. “Sebastian, I’m not lying. I really was married. Daisy is my ex-husband’s daughter!” It was true, I had been married. It was a marriage of convenience, to get Daisy a legal surname on her birth certificate and to have a cover story, just in case. But Sebastian merely glanced at the photo on the certificate before snatching it, ripping it to shreds, and hauling me to my feet. “Ava, are you blind? Can’t you see how much she looks like me?” I couldn’t meet his eyes. I struggled, trying to get past him to the stairs. He wrapped an arm around my waist, lifted me off my feet, and threw me onto the sofa. Before I could move, he pinned me down, twisting my hands behind my back. His eyes were dark and menacing.

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On the day before New Year’s Eve, a letter arrived. It was from Noah. From the Noah who was seventeen years old. His words were a torrent of pure, undiluted love. He swore he would find me. He told me, begged me, to never forgive the man he had become, the man who was hurting me now. I believed him. And I terminated the pregnancy. On New Year’s Day, I put on the white dress he—the seventeen-year-old Noah—had always loved. And I waited. When the knock finally came, I threw open the door. And froze. Cassie, Noah’s best friend, was doubled over, clutching her stomach, howling with laughter. “I told you she was an idiot, but you wouldn’t believe me! It was just a stupid prank, and she actually fell for it. She even got rid of your baby!” Cassie draped herself over Noah’s arm. “What are we going to do, honey? Looks like your wife won’t be able to give you an heir. Maybe I should have one for you instead.” My hand trembled with rage. I snatched a glass vase from a nearby table and hurled it at her. Noah, who had been standing silently behind me, moved in a blur. His face hardened as he pulled Cassie into a protective embrace, shielding her completely. The vase shattered against the wall behind them. “Summer, are you insane?!” In his fury, he had me committed to a psychiatric hospital. “Even if the seventeen-year-old me did show up,” he’d sneered, his voice dripping with contempt, “he wouldn’t choose a psycho.” But he didn’t know. I really had seen the seventeen-year-old Noah. He was standing right behind the man who was destroying me. A shimmering, translucent outline of a boy. He reached out as if to hug me, then vanished like smoke. All that was left was the present-day Noah, his face a thundercloud, roaring at me. “Cassie was just joking around! Were you trying to kill her?” “Ask anyone here! Who in their right mind would believe a letter from someone ten years in the past? You were stupid enough to get an abortion, and now you’re trying to blame her for it?” His friends, who had gathered behind him, stared at me, their whispers like a swarm of insects. “Poor Noah, having to deal with a crazy wife every day.” “Summer, you should be more considerate. He works so hard, and then he has to come home to your drama.” I looked at the man before me, the man I had loved, and tears welled in my eyes. It was Cassie’s cruel prank. Yet somehow, I was the one in the wrong. The accusations pressed in on me from all sides, a suffocating tide. My vision blurred as I looked at the only person who mattered. “So—” my voice cracked. “Everything you promised me when you were seventeen… that’s all gone now, isn’t it?” Noah flinched. When he was seventeen, he had sworn to me that no matter what I did, right or wrong, he would always be on my side. His world, he’d said, was small. It only had room for me. That was only seven years ago. Now, his world was vast, filled with so many people. And it felt like I was the only one who no longer had a place in it. Maybe it was guilt, or maybe just impatience, but he turned away, revealing the crowd of their friends behind him. I realized then that Cassie had brought them all here, deliberately, to watch me be humiliated. And Noah had known. He had stood by and watched it all happen, watched them laugh at my pain. Just then, the transport from the hospital arrived. A medic performed a brief evaluation and then looked at Noah, concerned. “Mr. Blackwood, your wife is showing no signs of clinical psychosis. The environment in these facilities can be… difficult. Forcing her to go could cause genuine psychological harm.” Noah hesitated, a flicker of doubt in his eyes. But Cassie slung an arm around his neck, her voice a poisonous whisper in his ear. “Honey, you’re not getting soft on me, are you? It’s my birthday tomorrow. You promised I could have my party here, in your house. What if she has another one of her episodes?” At her words, the last of the light in Noah’s eyes died. His voice was cold and final. “Take her.” “Consider it a lesson for what she did to Cassie today.” Behind him, the ghostly boy screamed, his voice silent, his eyes burning with anguish. “What are you doing? That’s Summer! That’s the girl you love!” I gave a bitter, broken laugh. I hadn’t been the person Noah loved for a very long time. The seventeen-year-old Noah would have walked through fire for me. He once charged into a trafficker’s den, alone, to save me. My father, drowning in gambling debt, had sold me to a local ring for five thousand dollars. I was locked in a dark, filthy room, certain my life was over. Then the door splintered open, and there was Noah, covered in blood. There wasn’t an inch of him that wasn’t bruised or bleeding. But he still managed a weak smile and held his arms out, a gesture of comfort. “Summer, don’t be scared. I’m here to get you out.” He carried me out on his back that day. Men with knives slashed at him, but he never let me go. I sobbed, my tears mixing with the blood on his shoulders as I touched his wounds. He just looked back at me and grinned. “What are you crying for? Noah Blackwood never breaks a promise to Summer Day. I told you I’d always protect you. I’d die before I let anyone hurt you.” I never once doubted his sincerity then. But sincerity is a fragile, fleeting thing. Now, all he felt for me was disgust. A loud clang jolted me back to the present. As my head cleared, I heard two nurses talking outside my room. “Mr. Blackwood said to keep her for a couple of days, just to make sure she doesn’t cause any trouble. It’s so sad.” “I know, right? Locking up your own wife just so his little friend can have her birthday party in peace. What a piece of work.” “That’s not all. I heard he’s even transferring the deed of her mother’s house to the friend.” My world stopped. I shot up in bed, my mind reeling. That house was the only thing my mother had left me. The only thing. How could he? How dare he give it to another woman? “Give me my phone,” I demanded, my voice raw. “I need to call Noah.” The nurses were startled by my sudden outburst. One of them reached for a sedative, but the other stopped her. She looked at me with pity in her eyes and handed me my phone. “Do what you need to do, miss.” I snatched the phone and quickly dialed Noah’s number. But it was Cassie who answered. “Well, hello, wifey. Looking for my man? So sorry, he just wore himself out and fell asleep right next to me. Should I wake him for you?” Her voice was smug, dripping with triumph. “Oh, I know what this is about,” she purred. “The house. The transfer went through this morning. To be honest, I don’t really like it. I think I’ll let my dog live there.” Something inside me snapped. Tears streamed down my face, hot and silent. Before I could say a word, I heard Noah’s sleepy, raspy voice in the background. “Who are you talking to so late?” Cassie put the phone on speaker, making sure I could hear everything. “Just a quick question, honey. If it was seventeen years ago, and both me and Summer were standing in front of you, who would you choose?” Noah answered without a moment’s hesitation, his voice thick with disdain. “Why would you even compare yourself to a psycho? She’s not in your league.” “I must have been blind back then.” His words were like steel needles plunging into my heart. I was shaking so violently I thought I would break apart. The pain in my chest was so intense, I thought it was going to stop beating. Suddenly, I felt a strange pressure around me, like a pair of arms wrapping me in a hug. The ghostly boy from before was there, his hands covering my ears. “Summer. Let him go,” his voice whispered in my mind. “He doesn’t deserve you.” I was in that place for three days. On the morning of the fourth, Noah came to pick me up himself. I got into the car, numb. The dark bruise on my forehead, from where I’d repeatedly hit my head against the wall, was stark against the reflection in the car window. Noah’s expression changed instantly. He spun around and roared at the staff. “What the hell happened? I told you to just keep her here, to take care of her! Where did that bruise come from?!” A young nurse shrank back. “Sir, she… she did it to herself. We couldn’t stop her.” Noah’s face grew even darker. He was about to say more, but I spoke from the car, my voice a weak plea. “Noah. Can we just go to the hospital? My head really hurts.” The headaches had started that night. A deep, relentless throbbing that only seemed to ease when I inflicted another pain on myself. But today, it was worse than ever. He stiffened, and for once, he didn’t lash out at me. “Fine. I’ll take you to the hospital.” The car hadn’t even started moving when his phone rang. It was Cassie, her voice a frantic sob. “Oh my god, honey, it was terrifying! Some creep just catcalled me on the street. Can you please come be with me? I’m so scared.” Noah slammed on the brakes. My head flew forward, cracking against the windshield with a sickening thud. Pain exploded behind my eyes. Blood, warm and sticky, began to trickle down my forehead from the new cut. “Please,” I whispered, “just take me to the hospital. You can drop me off. I can check myself in.” He turned to me, his brow furrowed in irritation. “Summer, are you serious? You’re pulling this kind of crap now? Is this some scheme to make something happen to Cassie?” “You did that to yourself,” he said, his voice cold. “Stop being so dramatic.” My head was spinning. The physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I couldn’t even speak. A doctor who had seen the incident rushed over. “Mr. Blackwood, you should really get your wife to the ER. That’s a serious laceration.” Noah just shoved me out of the car. “I can’t leave Cassie alone right now. You can either get yourself to the hospital or wait here until I can come back for you tomorrow.” I stumbled and fell hard onto the pavement. He drove off without a second glance. Half an hour later, I saw Cassie’s new post. It was an ultrasound photo. The caption read: It’s true what they say. The one who really loves you will drop everything to be there, no matter what. So I’m giving my man a little reward. Looks like he’s going to be a daddy. A mutual friend commented: Is it Noah’s? Cassie replied to the comment with a single, blushing emoji. I tasted blood in the back of my throat. Is this what you meant, Noah? When you said your world only had room for me? What am I going to do? I don’t think I want to love you anymore. I don’t know when I passed out, or for how long. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Noah stormed into the room, his face a mask of fury. The veins on his hands stood out, tight with rage. “Summer, who was he? Who was the man that brought you here?” He was practically snarling. “Cassie told me she saw some seventeen-year-old kid carrying you into the hospital, and I didn’t believe her. But I saw the security footage. You’re not even trying to hide your affairs anymore, are you? What am I to you? A walking wallet to fund your cradle-robbing?” “You make me sick.” I didn’t bother to explain. There was no point. I just looked at him, my voice flat. “Even if I told you, would you believe me?” “Noah, let’s get a divorce.”

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“Miss, I think you might have the wrong suitcase.” “How could I be wrong about my own suitcase?” “Because this one,” he said, “is mine.” “Yours? Does it have your name on it? Who saw you with it?” At the airport’s baggage claim, a fragile, tearful voice clung to a sakura-pink suitcase, refusing to let go. Beside her, a man stood like a bodyguard, shielding her as he shot a dismissive glare at the suitcase’s true owner. A sharp throb pulsed in Sophia’s temples. This business trip was turning into a complete nightmare. The carousel whirred, a monotonous drone in the chaotic, bustling arrivals hall. She had spotted her suitcase instantly. The sakura-pink one. She’d had a designer friend in Italy custom-make it; it was the only one of its kind in the world. The shell was a special material, the color a unique shade of pink perfected after a dozen different dye tests. She strode over, reaching to lift it off the belt. But another hand, pale and slender, was faster. A girl in a white dress, her makeup flawless, snatched the suitcase first. She looked to be in her early twenties, with long hair cascading over her shoulders and a face of pure innocence. Sophia paused. “Excuse me, miss,” she said politely. “I’m sorry, but that’s my suitcase.” The girl looked up, her large eyes blinking in feigned confusion. “Yours? That’s impossible. I just bought this.” Her voice was syrupy sweet, laced with a hint of grievance, as if Sophia were the one making an unreasonable scene. Sophia took a deep breath, fighting to keep her patience. She pointed to the side of the case. “This suitcase is a custom piece. It has my initials, S.R., engraved on it.” Hearing this, the girl immediately hugged the suitcase tighter, turning it away. “Where? I don’t see anything. Are you trying to pull a fast one?” Just then, a tall figure stepped between them. The man was decked out in designer streetwear, his hair slicked back with gel. He looked down at Sophia with condescending eyes. “What do you think you’re doing? Trying to rob someone in broad daylight?” His name was Aiden, and he was the girl’s, Lily’s, boyfriend. Lily immediately ducked behind him, peering out with reddened eyes. “Aiden, she’s so aggressive. She keeps insisting my suitcase is hers.” Aiden wrapped a protective arm around his girlfriend, his glare at Sophia turning hostile. “Ma’am, you look presentable enough. Why would you stoop to something like this? I bought this suitcase for my girlfriend. You must be mistaken.” Sophia almost laughed out loud. Since when were thieves so brazen? Her patience was wearing thin. The contents of that suitcase were a thousand times more valuable than the case itself. If anything happened to them, it was a loss she couldn’t afford. “I’ll say this one more time,” Sophia enunciated each word, her voice turning cold. “That suitcase is mine. I don’t have time to waste with you.” Aiden scoffed. “Oh, putting on a show now? You just saw my girlfriend’s suitcase is a limited edition and you want it for yourself, don’t you?” He looked her up and down. “I’ve seen your type before. Not a single designer label on you, but you’re desperate to latch onto a rich guy. Too bad you picked the wrong target.” From behind him, Lily chimed in softly, “That’s right, Aiden. You had to pull so many strings to get this for me. I absolutely adore it.” Their performance was seamless. The commotion had started to draw a crowd of other travelers, who stopped to watch. The murmurs were quiet but clear enough. “That young girl doesn’t look like a liar. Maybe the other woman really is mistaken?” “You never know. There are so many gold diggers these days. She probably saw the guy was rich and tried to make a move.” Sophia’s expression darkened completely. She hadn’t wanted to make a scene, but it was clear that a simple request wasn’t going to work. These two had mistaken her for a pushover. “Fine. You say it’s yours, right?” Sophia suddenly became calm, a faint smile even touching her lips. Aiden and Lily exchanged a smug glance, assuming she was about to give up. “Of course it’s ours!” Aiden said, his chin held high. “Alright,” Sophia nodded, then pulled out her phone. “Then let’s call the police. Or we can get airport security over here and let them sort it out.” “Let’s see just who this one-of-a-kind suitcase really belongs to.” 2 At the word “police,” a flicker of panic crossed Lily’s eyes. But Aiden remained unfazed. “Go ahead! Who’s scared? We’ve got nothing to hide!” he boomed, playing the part of the righteous victim, his loud voice attracting even more attention. Seeing his confidence, Lily straightened up, clutching his arm and whining, “Aiden, how could she? We were trying to be nice, and now she wants to call the police? She’s slandering us!” Such acting talent was wasted outside of Hollywood. Sophia scoffed internally. Fine. They wanted to play dumb until the bitter end. She dialed the airport information desk and concisely explained the situation. In less than three minutes, two uniformed security officers arrived. “What’s going on here?” one of them asked sternly. Aiden immediately jumped in, twisting the story. “Officers, thank God you’re here! This woman is claiming my girlfriend’s suitcase is hers, and she even tried to snatch it!” He pointed an accusatory finger at Sophia. “We felt sorry for her, a woman all alone, and tried to reason with her, but she threatened to call the police. It’s unbelievable!” On cue, Lily squeezed out a few tears, sobbing, “This suitcase… it was my favorite birthday present. I really can’t lose it…” She cried beautifully, a picture of fragile misery. The tide of public opinion immediately turned against Sophia. “Oh my God, that woman is such a bully.” “Yeah, picking on a poor young couple.” “Look, the girl is about to faint from crying.” The security officer frowned and turned to Sophia. “Miss, do you have any proof that this suitcase belongs to you?” Sophia met the crowd’s judgment without flinching. She looked calmly at the officer. “I do.” She pointed to a nearly invisible spot where the handle connected to the case. “First, this suitcase is custom-made. Three centimeters below the handle, there are laser-engraved initials, ‘SR.’ You can’t see them unless you look very closely.” “Second,” she continued, “one of the spinner wheels was scuffed on my last trip. There’s a scratch, about half a centimeter long, on the inner side of the wheel.” “And third, most importantly, I was in a hurry, so I filled out the luggage tag by hand. It doesn’t have my name on it, but an address and the words ‘For Mr. Lancaster’s Personal Attention.’ I tucked the tag into the side mesh pocket.” She laid out the facts, one by one, her voice clear and steady. With every point she made, the color drained a little more from Aiden and Lily’s faces. They didn’t know a single one of the details Sophia had just described. Aiden stubbornly puffed out his chest. “How do we know you’re not just making that up? Maybe you were following us the whole time, eavesdropping!” Sophia looked at him as if he were an idiot. “I was following you? All the way from the design studio in Italy to here?” The security officer was clearly more convinced by Sophia. He stepped forward and addressed Lily. “Miss, could you please hand over the suitcase for inspection?” Lily clutched the case for dear life. “No! This is my suitcase! You can’t touch it!” Her reaction said it all. The officer’s expression hardened, his tone becoming severe. “Miss, I need you to cooperate with our investigation. Otherwise, we will have to involve the police.” At the mention of police intervention, Lily’s body trembled. Aiden, seeing her fear, pulled her behind him. “Check it, then! What’s the big deal? Let’s see what you have to say after you’ve checked it!” He seemed to believe that as long as they kept denying it, no one could do anything to them. The officer took the suitcase and first inspected the handle. After a moment of feeling around the area, he found it. Two subtle, raised forms in the hidden corner. “There are initials here,” he confirmed. He then crouched down to inspect the wheels. “And there is indeed a scratch right here.” Finally, from the side mesh pocket, he pulled out a handwritten luggage tag. The writing on it matched Sophia’s description exactly. The truth was out. The crowd’s murmurs instantly shifted direction. “So they were the thieves all along!” “Wow, those two have some nerve!” “How pathetic, pretending to be the victims.” Aiden and Lily’s faces cycled through shades of red and white, as if they had been slapped repeatedly. Lily, who had been weeping so dramatically just moments before, was now deathly pale. 3 “Now,” Sophia’s voice was quiet, but it landed like a hammer blow on the couple’s hearts. “May I have my suitcase back?” Aiden’s pride was shattered. He snarled, a cornered animal trying to look tough. “So what if the details match! It could be a coincidence! If you’re so sure, why don’t you open it?” He was betting she wouldn’t. After all, who would share their luggage combination with strangers? As long as she couldn’t open it, they still had room to argue. Lily, grasping at this last straw, quickly chimed in. “Yeah! Open it! If you can open it, then I’ll admit the suitcase is yours!” She was certain Sophia couldn’t possibly know the combination to the notoriously complex lock. Sophia looked at their pathetic, last-ditch effort and found it almost laughable. “Open it?” she raised an eyebrow. “Alright.” She walked to the suitcase, not even glancing at the combination dials. Instead, she pressed her finger lightly onto a tiny, unassuming square next to the lock. It was a fingerprint scanner. This custom case used the latest biometric security. Only a person with a registered fingerprint could open it. A soft beep. Then, to the astonishment of everyone watching, the latch sprang open with a sharp click. The world went silent. The air in the terminal seemed to freeze. Aiden and Lily’s eyes bulged, their mouths hanging open wide enough to fit an egg. The expressions on their faces morphed from arrogance to disbelief, then to horror, and finally settled into a mask of ashen despair. This was more humiliating than a physical slap. The crowd of onlookers erupted in a wave of laughter and derisive jeers. “Hahaha, talk about a public takedown!” “She told her to open it, and all it took was one finger. Classic!” “How embarrassing! What a total train wreck!” The security officers just shook their heads, looking at the pair as if they were fools. “Well, folks,” one of them said, turning to the couple. “Do you have anything else to say? Please come with us.” Lily’s knees gave out, and she nearly collapsed. Aiden was in a full-blown panic. He wanted to reach for Sophia, to beg for mercy. But Sophia wasn’t even looking at them. She knelt and gently lifted the lid of the suitcase. When the contents were revealed, the noisy crowd fell instantly, deathly silent. A collective gasp rippled through the onlookers. The moment Sophia’s eyes landed on the single, hairline fracture marring the perfection of her work, her blood ran cold. The world around her faded into a dull roar. The gasps of the crowd, the panicked whimpers of the couple, the stern voices of the security guards—it was all just noise. All she could see was that tiny, devastating crack on the castle’s tallest spire. It was a whisper of a flaw, almost invisible to the untrained eye. But to her, it screamed of violation. Of carelessness. Of destruction. Her heart, which had been pounding with adrenaline and anger, now felt like a leaden weight in her chest. She slowly, deliberately, closed the lid, the soft click of the latch echoing in the sudden silence. She rose to her feet, her face a mask of cold fury, and leveled a gaze at the two people who had caused this. They were still frozen, their faces pale with shock and dawning horror. Sophia’s voice, when she finally spoke, was quiet, devoid of all emotion, which made it all the more terrifying. “You’re finished.”

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In the grand romance novel of their lives, Rosalind was the heroine who believed money was filth, and I was the greedy, selfish, villainous side character. So when she went abroad to study and the male lead, Sebastian, came looking for a substitute, I asked him for ten million dollars. When she came back and he broke up with me, I asked for another ten million. And when they had a fight and she ran away, leading him back to my door once again, I asked for ten million more. Finally, Rosalind couldn’t stand it anymore. She showed up at my door, eyes red with indignation, to condemn me. “How could you value money over dignity and true love? You have no shame, tricking Sebastian out of his money time and time again!” But when I decided to go after Sebastian’s “true love” for myself? Rosalind was the one who came back, crying and begging. “I’ll give you all my money, all of it. Just please… make him stop loving you.” … The day Rosalind returned to the country yet again, Sebastian had his secretary hand me a check with practiced ease. One million dollars this time. “Rosalind is back tomorrow. I trust you understand your place.” I took the check, my eyes turning red as I wiped away a phantom tear, feigning fortitude. “I understand. I won’t bother you.” Sebastian was already busy planning Rosalind’s welcome-home party. His secretary, Ms. Finch, showed me out with cold professionalism. At the door, she gave me a look of pure contempt. “A word of advice, Ms. Vance. A capable adult should find a real job and support herself, not engage in this… sordid line of work.” “Mr. Knight will only ever love a woman like Miss Rosalind—strong, kind, and pure.” The moment she was gone, I dropped the act and shoved the check into my pocket. Damn it. It used to be ten million. This time, it was only one. Sebastian was getting cheap. Still, something was better than nothing. I hoped he’d call me again next time. Fifteen minutes later, photos of me being kicked out by Ms. Finch were all over the internet. As the city’s poster child for gold-diggers, the comments were predictable. ‘Dumped by Mr. Knight again? I don’t get what she’s trying to accomplish, crawling back like a dog.’ ‘The power of the one that got away is terrifying.’ I dismissed it all as noise. I was in this position entirely thanks to Sebastian and Rosalind. In college, I worked my fingers to the bone for a scholarship, only for Sebastian to say, “Zara might have the higher scores, but Rosalind just seems like she tried harder.” Poof. There went my scholarship. During my internship, I did the work of eight people while Rosalind did nothing but cry and cause problems. But then Sebastian said, “I think an assistant with a kind heart like Rosalind is a better fit for Knight Industries.” Poof. There went my job offer. I was living in a basement apartment, eating instant ramen and trying to make the flavor packets last for two meals. Meanwhile, Rosalind, with the job offer she’d stolen from me, stubbornly refused it. “I don’t want your charity,” she’d told him. “I’ll prove myself with my own abilities.” And with that, she flew off to study abroad. I heard Sebastian was so heartbroken he couldn’t eat or sleep. So, on the verge of starvation myself, I used the last of my credit to buy a simple white dress. Banking on the fact that my face was a sixty-percent match to Rosalind’s, I went to him. So what if I was a substitute? If it kept me from starving, I called it a win. Besides, I was the perfect woman for the job: I only wanted his money, not his love. With a clear conscience, I drove the new luxury car he’d bought me to the best private kitchen in the city to treat my friends. And who should I run into while paying the bill but Rosalind. She darted out from a corner, snatching my membership card from my hand. “Zara! Why are you still spending Sebastian’s money? It’s not easy for him to earn it, you know. Can’t you have some dignity? Must you live on handouts?” She then turned to the waiter, her voice ringing with self-righteousness. “Sir, I’d like to report a problem. The money on this card isn’t hers. She didn’t earn it with her own two hands. You should make her work here to pay off her debt!” I had no interest in arguing with an idiot, but she was Sebastian’s one true love. If she complained to him, I could lose out on millions in future “substitute” fees. So I softened my voice. “Miss Rosalind, Sebastian put this money on the card for me willingly. I didn’t steal it. In fact, I’ve already paid for your table as well.” She scoffed, then snapped the card—which still had over ten thousand dollars on it—in half. “I am a strong, independent woman! I don’t need anything from a man!” she declared. “Come on. Let’s go wash dishes in the back. Money you earn yourself is the only clean money.” She stomped on the broken pieces of my card for good measure, then grabbed at my dress, a ten-thousand-dollar designer piece. The delicate fabric ripped with a sickening tear. On instinct, I shoved her away. The moment Rosalind crumpled to the floor, Sebastian appeared, right on cue. He never cared about the context, only the result. And the result was his perfect angel, on the ground. His face turned thunderous. “Zara, what are you doing?” I clutched the torn fabric over my chest and apologized smoothly. “It’s my fault. I’ll take Miss Rosalind to the hospital for a full check-up. I’ll cover all her nutritional expenses for the month.” Rosalind scrambled to her feet, defiant. “Who wants your filthy money? I want an apology.” The restaurant staff tried to explain the situation to Sebastian, but he just frowned. “You pushed her. You need to apologize.” His tone was ice. “Zara. Apologize.” The other diners had all stopped to stare, their whispers filling the air. Humiliated, I felt my eyes well up with tears. I lowered my head and mumbled an apology. Then, pretending to be overcome with grief, I covered my face and ran out. Once I was safely out of sight, I let out a breath of relief. That was close. She almost cost me a fortune. An apology was nothing. Besides, Sebastian was always generous; I knew he’d compensate me for the trouble. Sure enough, a moment later, my phone chimed with a payment notification. Three hundred thousand dollars deposited into your account. The restaurant owner called to say Sebastian had also added another ten thousand to my new membership card. Then, a text from Sebastian came through. [Rosalind doesn’t know any better. Please be patient with her.] My fingers automatically typed out “k, thx,” but I quickly deleted it. [I understand completely, Sebastian. As long as Miss Rosalind is happy, I don’t mind.] Ten minutes later, another payment notification. I clutched my phone, filled with gratitude. Thank God I’m a greedy, selfish, materialistic gold digger. Otherwise, all this money would have gone to someone else. In high spirits, I returned to the sprawling river-view apartment Sebastian had bought for me. But my good mood didn’t last. The next day, Rosalind, accompanied by Sebastian’s lawyer, sued me. She demanded I return every penny Sebastian had ever spent on me. She stood before the cameras in a bright yellow dress, looking like a resilient little sunflower, full of righteous fire. “It’s the twenty-first century! How can a woman be so materialistic? Mr. Knight is a simple, good man who doesn’t understand these schemes. Zara’s behavior is a stain on all women. As his employee, I will uphold justice and teach her the value of earning her own living.” Sebastian stood behind her and gave a noncommittal “Mm.” His lawyer was known as “The Invincible” of the city’s legal scene; he’d never lost a case. I never thought a man of his stature would sick a lawyer on an ex-girlfriend. For a billionaire CEO in these novels, a couple million was pocket change. But the court summons arrived, and all my assets were frozen. I didn’t even have time to run. He was ruthless. Cutting off someone’s access to money is like killing their parents. Not that I had any parents. With the court date looming, I tried to call Sebastian, only to find I’d been blocked. A smug text from Rosalind arrived. [Have you realized the error of your ways, gold digger? After this, you may be broke and tens of thousands in debt, but I’ll find you a job so you can be self-sufficient.] [My aunt needs a dishwasher at her restaurant. The pay is only twenty-eight hundred a month, but on weekends you can volunteer at the orphanage. Only sincerity brings true happiness.] What an idiot. I looked at my own hands, soft and delicate, with their perfectly manicured, rhinestone-studded nails. I’d done nothing wrong. The arrangement was his idea. The money was freely given. I only took a sum that was meaningless to him. I never played with his heart. Why was I being treated like a criminal? The internet was a cesspool of gawkers and Rosalind supporters. I turned off my phone and went to sleep. When I woke up, it was to a call from Mrs. Peterson at the orphanage. Her voice was timid. “Zara, dear… they said the payments for Tilly’s medical bills have stopped. Are you in some kind of trouble?” That’s when I realized the asset freeze included the money I’d set aside for the hospital. Most of the children at the orphanage had health problems. Tilly’s was the most severe, but we’d finally arranged for her surgery in a few days. I gave a bitter laugh. Fine. Rosalind didn’t want me to take Sebastian’s money? Alright. I wouldn’t take his money anymore. That night, I packed up everything Sebastian had ever given me: deeds, bank cards, car keys, designer bags, and expensive jewelry. From the bottom of a chest, I pulled out a slightly worn white dress—the one I’d bought on credit five years ago when I was at my lowest. Then I went and waited outside the venue of a gala I knew he was attending. The city was cold in winter. Soon, I was shivering uncontrollably. By the time Sebastian came out, I was numb.

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For the sake of his new freshman flame, my childhood sweetheart kicked me in front of a crowd. That night, I blocked him on everything. Everyone waited for me to go crawling back to him. I had followed him like a shadow for ten years, ever since I was twelve. Until the day I went to the airport. He cornered me, his eyes bloodshot, his voice trembling uncontrollably. “Zoe, are you insane? All because I kicked you once?” I looked up at him, my expression perfectly calm. “Once was enough.” That’s all it took for you to lose me. … The moment he kicked me, my world went silent. Caleb’s leg swung with a vicious force, slamming into my shoulder. Thud. The dull impact sent me stumbling backward. My lower back crashed hard against the sharp corner of a desk. A blinding explosion of pain shot through me, as if a thousand needles had pierced my spine all at once. I gasped, my vision going dark. I could barely stand. My knuckles turned white as I gripped a nearby chair for support. The initial numbness in my back gave way to a searing, tearing agony. When I looked up, I saw Caleb just pulling his leg back, his fingertips trembling. My childhood friend, my boyfriend, was defending a girl from his university club by kicking me in front of a room full of people. Realization of what he’d done flickered across Caleb’s face, stiffening his expression. But it was quickly replaced by a wave of irritation and impatience. “Zoe! Can you stop being so damn dramatic?” In the tiered lecture hall, a few people stifled laughs. Most just watched the spectacle in silence. Bella’s auburn hair glowed softly in the sunlight streaming through the window. She stood beside Caleb, a smug little curve to her lips. “Caleb, don’t be so harsh,” she purred. “Look, Zoe’s face has gone all pale.” At her words, Caleb’s jaw tightened, the anger in his eyes flaring hotter. “Zoe, this is the university, not your house. No one’s here to coddle you!” His voice was as cold as winter snow. Whispers rippled through the classroom. A dull ache throbbed through my body. I couldn’t tell if it was from the impact or from my heart breaking. Ten years. I had seen every side of his temper, but I never knew he could be this violent. Shame, hurt, and rage washed over me in a suffocating tide. My nails dug into my palms. Caleb started to say something else, but I didn’t want to hear it. I grabbed my bag and bolted from the room. As I fled, I heard someone whisper behind me: “Oh my god, getting kicked by your own boyfriend in public? I’d die of embarrassment if I were her.” I didn’t know where I was going, but I wasn’t going to class. I couldn’t face their pitying, mocking stares. Caleb had always been impatient with me, but he’d never, ever laid a hand on me. Not like this. This was the first time in my entire life anyone had treated me with such brutality. When I was twelve, we moved into a new neighborhood. I saw Caleb for the first time by the basketball court, sipping a soda. The setting sun slanted between the apartment buildings, stretching his shadow so long it covered my little leather shoes. We lived in the same building—him on the fifth floor, me on the third. My mom always said Caleb and I were like two vines, destined to grow intertwined, supporting each other. Except his vine had always grown wilder, more freely than mine. For all these years, it was always me looking up at him. But we had our golden days. The autumn of my first year of middle school was unusually hot. A boy named Kevin dropped a caterpillar into my pencil case. I shrieked and burst into tears while the whole class roared with laughter. The teacher just smoothed things over. “Boys will be boys. He didn’t mean any harm. He probably just teases you because he likes you. Don’t cry.” Her words made me feel sicker than the slimy green bug. I cried all the way home from school that day. When Caleb’s dad heard about it, he called his son away from his video games. “Caleb, go check in on the kids in seventh-grade, room three, tomorrow.” The next day, during break, he cornered Kevin by the bathrooms. The image is seared into my memory. He was like a furious young lion, pinning Kevin against the wall, his fists landing with heavy thuds. “Listen up,” he snarled, grabbing Kevin’s collar, his voice still raspy with puberty. “Zoe is with me. You ever mess with her again, and I’ll make sure you don’t last another day in this school.” When he walked away, he ruffled my hair with a grin. From that day on, I became Caleb’s little shadow. In middle school, after his basketball games, I’d wait for him by the court, clutching his jacket while he and his teammates went to the campus store, staying until the streetlights flickered on one by one. He’d stomp over, grumbling, “Zoe, are you my freaking shadow?” But he’d still twist open an orange soda and hand it to me. He hated it when people called me his “little wifey.” Once, at a gaming cafe, one of his friends yelled, “Look, Caleb brought his child bride for an inspection!” He went stone-faced and ignored me for the rest of the day. But the next day, when I was home sick with a stomach bug, he skipped class to come to my house. He passed medicine and his class notes through my window, with all the key points meticulously highlighted. In high school, I caught him looking at me countless times. When I was chewing on my pen, memorizing vocabulary. When I tucked my bangs back with a clip. Even when I was napping at my desk. His gaze was like an autumn leaf, brushing past me before quickly fluttering away. “Caleb,” I said one day, turning suddenly and catching his eye before he could look away. “Do you know how to solve this one?” The pen in his hand clattered to the floor. Sunlight streamed through the classroom window, turning his ears bright red. “I…” He fumbled to pick up the pen, his fingertips brushing the back of my hand. “You just… use that formula…” His voice trailed off into an incoherent mumble. I propped my chin on my hand and just watched him. The boy who would fearlessly defend me could be reduced to a flustered mess just by my presence. The night our parents joked about arranging our marriage, he pulled me out to a corner of the athletic field. The streetlights cast a dim, yellow glow. His palm was sweaty, but his grip on my wrist was painfully tight. “Think this through,” he said, his voice strained. “We’re too close. So close you might not be able to tell if it’s just habit or…” I stood on my toes and gently touched his lips with my fingertips. “Caleb, I can tell.” His breath hitched. Suddenly, he pulled me into his arms, his kiss landing softly in my hair. A cool autumn breeze swept past us. I could feel the scar on his shoulder—the one he got in ninth grade, shielding me from a bicycle crash. The moonlight was so beautiful that night, wrapping around us like a gentle blanket. It made me believe this was forever. After graduation, we both got into the same university. I chose literature; he chose business. Then, at the start of our senior year, Bella appeared. She was a freshman in the business school and a new recruit for Caleb’s basketball club. On her first day, she handed out chocolates to everyone with a bubbly smile. “Please take care of me, seniors!” When she got to me, she paused. “Wow…” she giggled, covering her mouth. “People still use Lotso Bear pencil cases? That’s so cute! But, senior, how old are you? I thought all the senior girls were so sophisticated and had, you know, taste!” Every eye in the room turned to me. My cartoon-covered notebook, my phone case, even the Lotso keychain on my keys—things Caleb used to lovingly call my “treasures”—suddenly felt ridiculous under their collective gaze. My head buzzed as if I’d been stripped naked in public. It was the first time I’d ever been mocked for something I liked. The shame made me want to disappear. “Haha, sorry, I’m just a really direct person!” she said, tilting her head, her freshly manicured nails tapping on the bunny-shaped eraser on my desk. “You’re not going to get offended by a little joke, are you, senior?” My knuckles were white where I gripped my shirt. “That’s enough,” Caleb’s voice came from behind me. I turned to see him frowning. For a fleeting moment, he was that protective boy again. Bella pouted. “I was just chatting with her! Is the club president going to police that too?” “Club time isn’t for gossiping, Bella. If you want to chat, you can do it outside.” Bella reluctantly shuffled back to her spot. I didn’t know when she and Caleb had gotten so close. But one day, our regular two-person lunch in the dining hall became a three-person affair. “Everything on the menu today is vegetarian,” my voice trembled. Caleb didn’t even look up from his phone. “We’re eating light today. Bella said it’s healthier.” Bella sat down next to me with her tray. “Sorry, senior!” she chirped. I just looked at her. She raised an eyebrow, a playful smirk on her lips. “I forgot you don’t like eating grass. But less oil is better for you. You should probably go on a diet anyway, that shirt looks like it’s about to burst. Unlike me…” She let the sentence hang, her mocking gaze saying the rest. “You enjoy commenting on other people’s bodies?” my voice was quiet. “My weight is perfectly healthy. And if I’m not mistaken, you weigh a few pounds more than I do.” The cafeteria went silent for a beat. Bella’s face froze, as if she’d swallowed a fly. Caleb finally put down his phone, but it was to frown at me. “Zoe, that was out of line.” The boy who used to get into fights if someone called me chubby was now scolding me for another girl. “Out of line? Or am I just interrupting you two?” I sneered, picking up my tray to leave. Caleb instinctively grabbed my arm, just like he always did when I was about to storm off. But this time, his hand smelled like someone else’s lotion, and his voice was laced with annoyance. “Alright, alright, we’ll eat at your favorite place tomorrow. Stop being angry, okay?” Bella’s face immediately darkened. After that, her attacks became relentless.

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Getting back together with Andrew meant one thing: he became impossibly clingy. He reported everything—what he ate, what he drank, who he saw—in painstaking detail. One day, he called, his tone testing the waters. “Rick’s hitting a spa with a few girls, wants me to come along.” “Oh,” I said. “Have fun.” The line went dead. Twenty minutes later, he was at my door, blocking the entrance, his voice a raw whisper. “You’re just going to let me go off with other women?” I took a step back under his intense gaze. “Isn’t this the ‘boundaries’ you always wanted?” My words hung in the air, and he froze. 1 “Are you done? If you’re done, you can leave. I really don’t mind.” And just in case he misunderstood, I added, ever so helpfully, “Don’t worry, I’ll play my part perfectly for your parents tomorrow.” Andrew’s face darkened instantly. “Anya, you’re really one of a kind.” He slammed the door on his way out. The commotion had completely shattered my sleepiness. I curled back under the covers and scrolled through my phone. At two in the morning, a few photos arrived from an unknown number. A young woman, wearing nothing but a bikini, her pale body straddling Andrew. Steam ghosted around them. His arm was wrapped casually around her waist, a single, thin piece of fabric the only thing separating them. A message followed: Hey Anya, the water’s a little scary, so Andrew’s holding on to me. You’re so lucky to have such a caring husband 😉 I stared at the screen, considering my options. Should I get up and play the role of the scorned wife? It was too late. My driver was off for the night, and getting a cab would be a nightmare. Well… how about drafting a long, scathing essay tearing Andrew apart? The weather was too cold; my fingers would probably freeze. Maybe I could just copy and paste an old one from our chat history to get it over with. As I scrolled back through our old fights, I actually drifted off to sleep. No wonder Andrew never read them. Stripped of emotion, the words were just a long, rambling mess. Turns out, they make for a pretty good sleep aid. The next day was New Year’s, and we went to the Knight family estate. I was chatting with the elders when the doorbell rang sharply. When the door opened, the girl from the photo stood there, looking shy and hesitant. She was clutching a pair of men’s briefs. “These… were left at my place yesterday.” The style was bold and youthful. There was only one man in this house they could possibly belong to. The scene was nauseatingly familiar. The year we got engaged, another girl had shown up just like this. I had lost my mind, lunging at her, yanking her hair, ready to drag her to the floor. Andrew had shoved me aside, taken the girl, and left without a backward glance, leaving me in a heap on the ground. That night, the estate was in chaos. No one had a happy new year. The elders always said you shouldn’t start the new year on a bad note. Sure enough, that was the year Andrew and I fought the most viciously. The living room was silent now. Everyone seemed to be waiting for my reaction. I immediately put on a smile and smoothed things over. “Oh, this is my cousin! She grew up abroad. We were celebrating together last night.” Andrew’s father breathed a sigh of relief, but his mother’s eyes were still filled with suspicion. “Really?” “Yes, of course.” I pulled the girl inside and shut the door, extinguishing the last flicker of hope in Andrew’s eyes. 2 On the drive back, I pulled the briefs from my pocket and tossed them at Andrew. He stammered out an explanation. “It’s not what you think. She’s Rick’s sister. I was drunk, nothing happened…” I tore open an antiseptic wipe and meticulously cleaned my hands. “You can drop me off here. I’m meeting Zoe for a game of poker.” Andrew’s throat worked. He softened his voice. “I can pick you up when you’re done?” “No need,” I said, pushing the car door open. “You do you.” I didn’t want to know what those briefs had been through. I was just worried they might have picked up something… unclean. At Zoe’s place, I took a long, hot shower and changed into a fresh set of clothes she’d laid out for me. Only then did the tight, suffocating feeling in my chest finally begin to fade. Zoe watched Andrew’s car drive away, then raised an eyebrow at me. “So, what’s the damage? How many did you take down? Why didn’t you call for backup?” I sank into her sofa. “There was no fight. Scaring off a man is one thing, but scaring off the money? Not an option.” That New Year’s, the Knight estate had been a warzone. Several of the elders had been so upset they’d ended up in the hospital. I had been left lying on the cold, hard floor until Zoe finally arrived and bundled my mud-caked self into her sports car. As she turned the key in the ignition, she couldn’t resist a jab. “Living out your childhood dream at the Knight estate? Making mud pies?” The moment I opened my mouth, tears spilled out. “Zoe, how did it get like this?” She panicked, fumbling to wipe my tears away, but she had no answers. No one could have predicted that Andrew and I would end up in such a toxic mess. We were childhood sweethearts, after all, friends since we were in diapers. I’d worked myself to the bone, getting up before the sun and studying late into the night, just to get into the same university as him. The day my acceptance letter came, my mother marveled, “If I’d known you’d kill yourself studying for Andrew, I wouldn’t have wasted all that money on tutors.” Everyone assumed that Anya and Andrew Knight were meant to be. But just as we finally grew up, just as we no longer had to share a single hot dog from a street cart, he let go of my hand. He hated his family for controlling his future, for forcing him to give up his dream of being a musician to inherit the family business. That hatred reached its peak when I agreed to our engagement. Back then, I was too blinded by my own happiness, too thrilled at the thought of finally marrying the man I loved, to notice that the love had vanished from his eyes. After the engagement, he was never home. I’d wake up to a phone full of “concerned” messages from well-meaning friends. Andrew had dropped a fortune on some model. Andrew was on a yacht, draped in women. Andrew had thrown himself a mock wedding somewhere exotic… The messages were like a persistent mold, growing in the damp corners of my life, impossible to scrub away. I’d had my share of hysterical confrontations, of screaming matches that became public spectacles. All it ever earned me was more of Andrew’s contempt. “Can’t you have some damn boundaries? You don’t like it? Fine, go tell my mother to call off the engagement!” Zoe had put it perfectly: our relationship was less like a marriage and more like a rebellious son and his desperate mother. One trying desperately to escape, the other clinging on for dear life. I thought I would be tangled up with him forever. But then, one day, in the middle of a fight, I just got tired. Zoe and I didn’t need words. One look was enough. Seeing my unusual calm, she asked softly, “So, what’s the plan?” I took the warm glass of water she offered me. “The London project… both our families have invested a lot. I’m going to oversee it myself.” “For how long?” “Three years, for now.” She wrapped her arms around my neck, not wanting to let go. “Before you go, we’re going to have the time of our lives. My treat.” “Don’t worry,” I said, leaning my head on her shoulder with a smile. “I’ll hold you to that.” 3 The doorbell woke me from a deep sleep. Andrew was slumped against the doorframe, drunk, his tie hanging loosely around his neck. I checked my phone. My Do Not Disturb was on, but his chat window showed 99+ unread messages. He couldn’t reach me, so he’d come in person. A year ago, I would have been pathetically grateful that he’d even bothered to come home drunk. I would have scrambled to help him inside, fetching him water, fussing over him for half the night. But now? My hair was freshly washed and fragrant, my apartment was spotless, and I had no intention of letting the stench of stale alcohol contaminate my space. Seeing that I wasn’t letting him in, he asked, his voice raspy, “Are you just going to leave me out here?” “You’re at the wrong place. This is my pre-marital apartment, not our marital home. Should I call someone to pick you up?” As I looked down to find a number, he shamelessly shuffled closer. “Anya, I could really go for some of your soup.” I took a deep breath, pushing down the familiar, sharp sting in my heart. “Really? You’ll leave right after you have some soup?” He nodded eagerly. I opened a food delivery app and held it out to him. “Pick whatever kind you want.” He froze, the alcohol seeming to evaporate from his system. “Anya, you never let me eat this stuff…” He must have been remembering the early days of our engagement when I, determined to be the perfect wife, had hired a chef to teach me how to cook, starting from the very basics of chopping vegetables. He never so much as glanced at the food, let alone tasted it. I’d secretly post pictures of my carefully prepared meals on Instagram, hoping the likes and comments from our mutual friends might entice him to come home and try them. Instead, I overheard him at a bar, laughing with his friends. “If you had a doormat like Anya, you’d know my pain. You think I’m going to pass up the gourmet food out here to go home and eat her slop?” Amid the roar of their laughter, I ran home and cried for three days straight. Zoe was furious. “My dear girl, you’re the type who would rather starve than cook for yourself! Why are you learning to cook for a man? He’s out partying, and you’re turning yourself into a ghost!” It was a wake-up call. I never cooked for him again. “Mine doesn’t even taste good,” I said, pushing the phone closer to him. “Just order something.” He sighed and took the phone, his fingertips brushing against my palm. His other hand moved instinctively to my shoulder. I flinched back so hard my back hit the door with a dull thud. In the dead silence that followed, he lit a cigarette. The small flame flickered in the darkness, illuminating the features I had once been so hopelessly in love with. “Anya, I’m your fiancé, not the plague.” “Who can say for sure?” I took another half-step back. “I need to sleep. I have work tomorrow.” I don’t know when he left. The next morning, the hallway was littered with cigarette butts. 4 On the way to the office, waiting at a red light, I suddenly remembered the night I’d finally tried to leave him. Andrew had locked me out then, too. But that was at our marital home. He was inside with a crowd of people, partying. He’d changed the keypad code. The deep winter wind cut like a knife. I pounded on the door, my hand instinctively cradling my stomach, my voice cracking with tears. “Andrew, open the door… my stomach… it hurts…” It was the same girl from the spa who answered me through the video intercom. “Hey, you out there? Andrew said the Knight family is marrying you, not him.” Her voice was syrupy sweet. “You should go. Andrew says you need to learn about boundaries.” I froze for a second, then started hammering on the door like a madwoman. Someone inside must have found it amusing. They started recording me through the intercom’s camera. In the background, I could hear the spa girl’s cloying voice. “Andrew, she says she’s not feeling well.” His voice, slurred with alcohol and thick with irritation, came through clearly. “Ignore her. She’s just playing the victim.” In the video, I was a mess, crying and screaming, before I finally gave up. I dragged my suitcase away, disappearing around the corner. The video made the rounds in our social circle. Andrew only saw it after a full day of people looking at him with expressions that screamed, You’re a real piece of work. He didn’t think it was a big deal. So what? He was having a good time at home and didn’t want me to ruin the fun. But the Knight family elders were furious. They said his behavior was disgraceful and had brought shame to both families. So he found me, wearing an expression of someone forced to bow their head. “I didn’t know you would… leave alone that late. I saw the video.” He looked at me, as if assessing whether I had learned my “lesson.” “People are whispering, saying I left my fiancée stranded on the street… Anya, that’s enough. Come home with me.” He had no idea what happened in the darkness after the video ended. And I had no desire to explain. I was lying in a hospital bed. I just turned over wearily. “It wasn’t your fault.” After that, we supposedly made up. But from that day on, I stopped caring where he slept or if he came home at all. I quietly moved out of our marital home and back into my own small apartment. 5 Saying it wasn’t his fault was a lie. I’m no saint. Giving up on someone you’ve loved for so long is like tearing a part of yourself away, right down to the bone and marrow. When the withdrawal hit, I’d lie awake all night, my chest feeling like a gaping hole with the cold wind from that winter night howling through it. Besides, my family’s fortune and the Knights’ were already deeply intertwined. The consequences of a clean break were more than either side could bear. I knew better than anyone that our personal grievances were nothing compared to the interests of our families. Perhaps the pressure from his family scared him. Or maybe he belatedly realized he’d gone too far. Andrew started to rein it in. He stopped staying out all night. He stopped ignoring me. Instead, he began reporting his every move to me, in detail. One day, I was in the middle of a high-stakes negotiation, hammering out the final terms of a multi-million dollar deal. We were at a standstill over profit margins. You could hear a pin drop in the conference room. All eyes were on me, waiting for my response. And that’s when his texts started flooding in. Non-stop. Something about booking a famous wedding dress designer, asking me what style I wanted. When I didn’t reply, he started calling. Again and again. The buzzing of my phone was deafening. The client said, graciously, “Please, take it. It might be urgent.” I nodded my apologies with a polite smile, walked to the restroom, and finally answered, my voice a low hiss of fury. “What the hell do you want? Why are you blowing up my phone over something so trivial? Are you that bored? Can’t you have some damn boundaries?” After my tirade, the other end of the line was silent. I was the first to snap out of it, rubbing my temples wearily. “I’m sorry. I’ve been pulling all-nighters for this project. The style… you can just pick one for me.” On the other end, Andrew was quiet for a long time before he finally managed a dry, “Okay.” 6 I pulled up to the Knight Corporation building. I was here to consolidate some resources before heading back to my own company. In the breakroom, I overheard some colleagues gossiping. “Did you see? Mr. Knight came in with her again this morning.” “I know! I heard he even left his underwear at her place last time…” “What is he even doing? Isn’t he engaged?” “Please, everyone knows Andrew can’t stand Miss Anya. He’s always saying he wishes she’d just disappear.” … Thanks to Andrew never publicly acknowledging our relationship at work, “Miss Anya” herself got to hear all the juicy gossip. I sipped my coffee, my eyes lowered, feeling nothing but a calm detachment. This little scandal was nothing. They were amateurs. They’d never seen a female delivery driver show up late at night wearing a matching set of lingerie underneath her uniform. They hadn’t dealt with the mountains of explicit texts on his phone. They’d never been toasted at a family banquet by some random girl who called me “sis.” Andrew never said no to anyone. I was always the one left to clean up his messes. A pair of briefs left at someone else’s house barely even registered on the scale. I fought the urge to say something. When I looked up, the subject of the gossip was standing right in front of me. The girl from the spa, the one who was “afraid of the water,” was clinging to Andrew like she had no bones. Andrew saw me and frowned, telling her to stand up straight. I took a closer look. Of all his flings, she had certainly lasted the longest. The girl pouted and handed me a file. “Aren’t you the one from Mr. Knight’s house?” I took the file and met her gaze. “And you’re the one who was sitting on his lap in a bikini at the spa.” The breakroom went dead silent. Her face changed, and she bit her lip. “Why can’t you just let him go?” I waved my hands dismissively. Don’t start with me, sweetie. I’m just trying to get my paperwork done so I can get out of this country. In a moment of desperation, my voice rose an octave as I threw Andrew’s own words back at them. “You call him ‘brother,’ I call him ‘brother.’ What’s all this about letting him go?” “Anya.” Andrew’s warning tone came from behind me. “What nonsense are you talking about?” I waved the file in my hand and hit the elevator button. “Bro, handle your own drama. Leave me out of it.” The elevator doors slid shut, reflecting Andrew’s furious face and the hurt expression of the girl beside him. Looked like they were having another lover’s spat. Not my problem anymore. I glanced down at the flight confirmation email on my phone. In twenty-four hours, I would be gone.

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1 My sister was back in the hospital. All because I opened a window for some fresh air. Outside the ward, my mother jabbed a finger at my face, her spittle flying as she screamed, “We never should have taken you back! Your grandmother raised you wrong, sending you here just to torture your sister!” “If anything happens to Rosie, you can forget about living, too!” Deep in the night, the house was silent. A tall man in a black coat phased through the wall and drifted straight toward my sister’s bed. “Rosie Wallace, your time is up. Come with me.” My sister was sound asleep, but I was wide awake. I scrambled up from my makeshift bed on the floor and stood between him and my sister. My voice trembled, but I didn’t move. “Sir, you’ve made a mistake. That’s my older sister. I’m Rosie.” I glanced back at my mother, sleeping in a chair beside the bed, her brow furrowed even in her dreams. Maybe she’d be happier without me. “Sir, I won’t run,” I said. “But… can I have three more days?” “I want to be here for my mother’s birthday.” … The Man in Black paused. The iron chain in his hand scraped together with a sound that set my teeth on edge. “A substitute?” he rasped. “To take another’s place is to forfeit your own soul, never to be reborn.” I didn’t hesitate. I nodded hard. I looked back at Rosie on the hospital bed. A little color had returned to her cheeks. Even in sleep, a faint smile played on her lips. Mom had read her three fairy tales before bed. Meanwhile, I was curled up on the cold floor, not daring to pull even a corner of the thin blanket for myself. “I’m willing, sir.” “As long as my mother doesn’t have to cry, I’ll do anything.” “Three days. Just three. I want to see her through her birthday.” The Man in Black was silent for a long time. So long I thought he was going to refuse, that he would swing his chain and drag Rosie away. Then, he slowly raised his hand. A tiny, nail-sized stick of incense materialized at his fingertips. It glowed with a violet light, the smoke curling not upwards, but around my wrist. It felt cool against my skin. “This is a soul-thread. When it burns out, your three days are up.” “I will come for you then.” And with that, he vanished into the shadows of the corner. I touched my wrist. A thin, violet mark glowed there, burning down with an agonizing slowness. My own personal countdown clock. I should have been terrified. But for some reason, a strange sense of peace settled over me. Grandma used to say that when people die, they become stars, and from there they can watch over the ones they love most. If I become a star, will I finally see Mom smile at me? Even just once. Just as the sky began to lighten, I was jolted awake by a wracking cough. I tried to get up, but my head was heavy, my vision swam with black spots, and my forehead was burning. “What are you coughing for?” My mother stood over me, her coat thrown over her shoulders, her face a mask of irritation. “If you wake Rosie, I swear I’ll rip your mouth off!” I quickly clamped my hands over my mouth, swallowing the rest of the coughs until tears pricked my eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She scoffed, her eyes filled with disgust. “Well, get up. Rosie will want her vegetable porridge when she wakes. Go to the cafeteria and get it. Make sure it’s the softest kind.” She turned back to the bed, her movements becoming instantly gentle as she dabbed Rosie’s forehead with a damp cloth. I pushed myself up from the floor, my legs shaking. My knees, sore from kneeling for so long last night, screamed with pain. I didn’t dare say I had a fever, too. The last time I said I had a headache, Mom accused me of faking it to get out of chores. If I said anything now, she’d only get angrier. I felt the small, heavy weight in my pocket. My little piggy bank. It held a year’s worth of coins I’d saved since coming back from Grandma’s. I had been planning to buy a new backpack. The strap on my current one was broken, held together with a safety pin, and the other kids always made fun of me. But that didn’t matter anymore. I wouldn’t need a backpack where I was going. I was going to use the money to buy my mother a birthday cake. On her past birthdays, Rosie always got to cut the cake. The wishes were always for Rosie. I just wanted Mom to make a wish for me. Just once. Even if it was just an afterthought. Clutching my piggy bank, I shuffled out of the room. The hallway was freezing; the wind seemed to cut right through to my bones. But as I looked at the violet mark on my wrist, I couldn’t help but smile. Three days left. I had to make them count. 2 The hospital elevators were always a nightmare to wait for. Worried the porridge would get cold, I took the stairs. Nineteen floors. I had to stop on every landing to catch my breath, my lungs feeling like they were on fire. When I pushed open the door to the room, Dad was already there. He was holding a pink bag with the logo of the newest tablet on it. Rosie was propped up in bed, giggling as she played with it. “Thank you, Daddy! I love you the most!” Dad’s face was full of adoration. He reached out and tweaked her nose. “As long as it makes you happy and helps you get better, it’s worth every penny.” Mom was beside them, applying hand cream. The room was filled with a warm, sweet scent. The scent of a home. I was the only thing that didn’t belong. I stood there awkwardly, clutching the lukewarm porridge. “You’re back?” Dad glanced at me, his smile fading slightly. He pulled a pastry out of a bag at his feet and tossed it to me. “Here, you probably haven’t eaten.” The pastry was hard. It hit me in the chest with a dull thud. I looked down. It was one of those cheap, red bean buns, the kind with a bright yellow “Clearance” sticker on the plastic. Nearly expired. On Rosie’s bedside table sat a delicate tiramisu and a carton of imported milk. Rosie and I were twins, but she had been frail since birth. So, naturally, everything in the family went to her first. Including our parents’ love. “Thanks, Dad,” I whispered, bending down to pick it up. Grandma always said to be grateful for what you have. “Daddy,” Rosie suddenly whined, putting down the tablet. “My mouth tastes bitter. I want some of those candied chestnuts from the shop on the corner.” Outside, the sky was a dark, angry grey, and rain was pouring down in sheets. Dad hesitated. “Rosie, honey, it’s a storm out there. Can we wait until it stops?” Rosie’s eyes immediately filled with tears. “No, I want them now! Cough, cough, cough…” Her coughing sent the whole family into a panic. Mom started patting her back while Dad paced frantically. “Okay, okay! Chestnuts it is! Daddy will go right now!” He started to grab an umbrella, but then his eyes fell on me, standing in the corner. He stopped. “Nina,” he said. “Your sister wants chestnuts. Go and get them for her, would you? Your mother and I need to stay here with Rosie. You’re young, you can run. It won’t be a problem for you.” I froze. I wanted to say I didn’t feel well. I wanted to say it was pouring outside. But the look in his eyes silenced me. “Okay.” I put down the bun I’d just taken a bite of and walked out into the rain. I didn’t have an umbrella. The only one was by the door where Dad had left it, but he hadn’t offered it to me. And I hadn’t dared to take it. The rain hammered down on me. My head spun, and the ground seemed to tilt beneath my feet. But I couldn’t stop. I was afraid the chestnut shop would close, afraid Mom would call me useless. The shop was three blocks from the hospital. The rainwater was over my ankles, and my shoes were filled with muddy water. When I finally bought the chestnuts, the lady at the counter looked at me like I was some kind of strange creature. “Little girl, where are your parents? You don’t even have an umbrella in a storm like this.” I managed a weak smile and said nothing. I clutched the warm paper bag of chestnuts to my chest, using my body to shield it from the rain. I was running on my way back. I slipped in a deep puddle, my knee slamming hard against the sharp edge of the curb. My first instinct was to check the chestnuts. The bag wasn’t torn. They were still warm. I breathed a sigh of relief and limped the rest of the way back. When I got to the room, I was dripping wet. “What took you so long?” Mom hissed, keeping her voice low. “And stop stomping around! Rosie just fell asleep!” My hands, holding out the bag of chestnuts, froze mid-air. Dad was on the sofa, scrolling through his phone, not even glancing at me. “Just put it on the table. You’re dripping everywhere. Go dry off before you get your germs all over Rosie.” No one saw my bleeding knee. No one asked if I was cold. I quietly backed out of the room and curled up on a chair in the hallway, staring at the bag of chestnuts on the table. Rosie wouldn’t eat them when she woke up. She never ate chestnuts once they got cold. The thing I had nearly killed myself to get would most likely end up in the trash. Late that night, I looked at my wrist. The violet mark had already burned down by a third. I whispered into the empty air. “Mister Reaper, are souls real? When people die, do they still exist?” “I just want to see if Mom will cry for me. Just once.” The air was silent. No one answered. 3 On the third day, it was Mom’s birthday. My fever had gone down a little, but my head was still spinning. The violet mark on my wrist was just a tiny sliver now. I went to the nurses’ station and begged for a long time before one of them, Nurse Wallace, agreed to let me use the small kitchen in the breakroom for an hour. “Oh, you poor thing, you look so pale. You should be resting,” she said, reaching out to touch my forehead. I flinched away. I wasn’t used to being touched, even kindly. “Thank you, ma’am. I just want to cook a meal for my mom. It’s her birthday today.” I used the last of my money to buy groceries from the market. Sweet and sour ribs, steamed sea bass, and scrambled eggs with tomatoes—all of Mom’s favorites. Grandma taught me that the way to a person’s heart is through their stomach. I knew I could never capture Mom’s heart. But I had to try. The cooking fumes made me cough, and my hands were shaking so badly I nearly sliced my finger while chopping vegetables. But I was more careful than I had ever been. Blanching the ribs, caramelizing the sugar, letting it simmer slowly—I followed every step with meticulous care. When I was done, I packed the food into an insulated container and carried it back to the room. As I walked in, I saw Rosie leaning over the edge of her bed, trying to reach a glass of water on the table. I quickly put the container down. “Don’t move, I’ll get it for you.” I poured a cup of hot water and carefully handed it to her. She was weak from her illness, and her fingers fumbled. She couldn’t get a good grip. “Oops!” The entire cup of scalding water tipped over, splashing all over the back of my foot. Before I could even cry out, Rosie let out a piercing scream. “It’s hot! It’s so hot!” She clutched her hand, which hadn’t been touched by a single drop of water, and fat tears rolled down her cheeks. It was a performance she had perfected since she was a toddler. The door burst open. “What’s wrong?” Dad rushed in, his eyes immediately landing on the crying Rosie and the shattered porcelain on the floor. Without a second thought, he whirled around and shoved me hard. “Your sister is sick! And you’re making her get things for herself?” The force of the push was so strong that I stumbled backward and fell right into the pile of broken shards. A sharp, searing pain shot through my palm. Blood welled up, mixing with the hot water on the floor in a sickening swirl of red. “No, that’s not…” I opened my mouth, trying to explain. Rosie hadn’t held it properly. She had asked me to get it for her. I didn’t mean to burn her. But my throat felt like it was stuffed with cotton. I couldn’t form the words. Grandma always said that explaining was talking back. And nobody loves a child who talks back. I looked at Dad’s furious eyes, at the way he gently cradled Rosie’s uninjured hand, blowing on it softly. Something inside me shattered completely. “I’m sorry,” I choked out, my head bowed low, my tears falling into the puddle of blood. “I wasn’t careful. It was my fault.” If I just admitted I was wrong, the storm would pass. If I just stayed quiet, Mom’s birthday wouldn’t be ruined. As I expected, hearing me apologize cooled his anger slightly. “Just get out of the way. You’re an eyesore.” Ignoring the throbbing pain in my hand, I slowly picked myself up and began cleaning up the broken pieces. Then, I pushed the insulated container forward. “Mom,” I whispered as she walked in, her brow furrowed at the scene. “I made this for you. Happy birthday.” Her expression softened when she saw the table full of food. She didn’t yell at me. During dinner, Rosie chattered away, keeping Mom’s attention. I sat in the corner, nursing a bowl of cold, plain rice. Suddenly, a piece of pork rib landed in my bowl. Mom had given it to me. “Alright, stop looking so miserable,” she said. “It’s a happy day. You should eat, too. These ribs aren’t bad. You’ve got your grandma’s touch.” Tears streamed down my face. It was the first time Mom had ever served me food. The first time she had ever praised me. I put the rib in my mouth. It was so salty, drenched in the taste of my tears. But I chewed it slowly, carefully, not wanting to waste even the bone. It was the most delicious thing I had ever eaten. And it would be the last.

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My incubus husband was ridiculously clingy. After landing in the hospital again because of… that, I threw the divorce papers in his face. The man just gave a soft, “Alright,” a complete one-eighty from the primal intensity of the night before. I was just starting to breathe a sigh of relief when my vision was flooded with a barrage of text. [Here we go! It’s the basement arc we’ve all been waiting for!] [The chains and little toys in the cellar were all custom-made to the villainess’s measurements. What’s with this gentlemanly act?] [This is the kind of toxic passion I live for. Go on, villainess, you’ve got this!] 1 I froze mid-turn, my legs suddenly unsteady. I grabbed the man’s arm. “Actually, maybe we shouldn’t get divorced after all.” “What?” Damien’s eyelids lifted slightly, his tone flat. His utter indifference made me wonder if I’d imagined the whole thing. I took a deep breath, scrambling for an explanation. “I just… suddenly don’t want to. We’ve been married for three years, we’re used to each other. To be honest, I don’t think I can live without you…” By the end of my little speech, the man’s expression had shifted to one of pure confusion, and my own confidence withered, my voice trailing off. My marriage to Damien was an accident. Five years ago, my picture-perfect life started to fall apart, all thanks to a dirt-poor intern named Lily who started at my family’s company. My childhood sweetheart, the man who’d sworn to take care of me forever, fell for her and publicly broke off our engagement, leaving me utterly humiliated. Even my parents, who had always spoiled me rotten, inexplicably sided with Lily. I was consumed by jealousy. To prove I wasn’t some unwanted cast-off, I threw a tantrum and married Damien, the notoriously dark and ruthless incubus CEO everyone else avoided like the plague. For three years, I tried to make Lily’s life hell, but every attempt backfired spectacularly. Either Damien would find out and stop me, or I’d somehow manage to hoist myself by my own petard. Recently, one of my schemes to frame Lily was exposed. My reputation was in tatters, and many of my so-called friends had cut ties. I knew Damien had always hated my vicious streak and had a soft spot for Lily. I figured it was better to dump him myself and look cool doing it than to wait for him to kick me when I was down. When I texted him about the divorce, he was in the middle of a crucial meeting. He called me back almost instantly. “The reason,” he’d stated, his voice cool through the speaker. I had laughed, a cruel, sharp sound. “I saw your tail by accident when you didn’t close the bathroom door all the way. It was all… slimy. Grossed me out.” So now, hearing me spout nonsense like “I can’t live without you,” it wasn’t just Damien who didn’t believe it; I barely believed it myself. “You’re sure?” No cold sneer, just his deep voice pulling me from my thoughts. “I don’t want to, for now.” I watched his face, but there was no trace of joy. “As you wish.” After a pause, he picked up the half-signed divorce papers from the desk and fed them into the shredder. The comments exploded again. [What’s going on with the villainess? Did she suddenly grow a brain?] [Is Seraphina finally wising up and deciding to cling to the second male lead? A little late for that, though. His resentment has been festering for years.] [Late? This is perfect timing! Did you see the corner of his mouth twitch when he shredded the papers? And the shredder! That sly bastard was terrified she’d change her mind again, lmao.] [Keep it up, villainess! Don’t stop! More! He’s a yandere incubus with no morals, and you’re the evil queen. You two are a match made in hell. If you can win him over, taking down the female lead will be a piece of cake.] 2 I spent the entire afternoon piecing things together. Apparently, I was living in a fluffy romance novel. Lily was the heroine, and I was the evil villainess, destined to be imprisoned and killed by the second male lead. No wonder anyone who got near Lily was instantly drawn to her, as if the entire universe revolved around her. It was a lot to take in. That evening, after a shower, I picked up my phone, hoping to unwind, only to be met with a tidal wave of hate comments. All my social media accounts had been flooded by users defending their precious heroine, Lily. A message from my ex-fiancé, Ashton, popped up. [Seraphina, don’t think I don’t know what you’re doing. You’re trying to use these pathetic tricks to force me to leave Lily and get back with you.] [Hah. All this drama just to see me, right? Fine. You win. Friday afternoon, the usual place.] I didn’t bother replying. I just blocked him and turned off the screen. The comments were a chaotic scroll. [Not trying to defend her, but the villainess isn’t evil for no reason. Imagine being a proud, pampered princess, and overnight your parents, your fiancé, and your friends all start ignoring you for some other girl. I’d lose my mind too.] [Sera has the looks and the money. Why is she losing to a heroine who can’t even tell the difference between Word and Google Docs? This novel makes no fcking sense…*] [If I were the author, I’d slap the crazy heroine, slap the asshole hero twice, and lock the villainess and the yandere in the basement to hate-fuck until they have at least eight kids. How about that?] “…” Not a great plan, in my opinion. After calming myself down, I got ready for bed. I had just taken off my lingerie when the bedroom door creaked open. Damien’s gaze swept down my body. I snatched my robe and threw it on. “Sorry, you didn’t lock the door.” His eyes were fixed on me, burning. I could see his throat move as he swallowed, and the faint outline of black scales shimmered on his skin. When an incubus is aroused, his true form starts to show… The word “Get out” was on the tip of my tongue. But then I saw the comments. [I can already picture it. The villainess will put on her usual haughty, disgusted face and tell him to get lost. She’s so beautiful, but so determined to self-destruct. This is how she grinds away all his affection.] [Seraphina, for the love of God, be nice to your husband. You slap him now, you’ll be paying for it with your mouth in that basement. Split lips are a bitch to deal with.] The comments were a stark reminder. I did a quick one-eighty, offering Damien a small, sweet smile. “It’s okay, hu—” Damien, who had been about to leave, froze. His eyes darkened, waiting for me to finish. Damn it. It was all those comments calling him “husband”… it had gotten to me. [For God’s sake, spit it out! One little ‘hubby’ from you, and he’d give you his life. The heroine would be nothing.] [Let’s not make him sound so cheap. Three years of emotional abuse? He definitely hates her more than he loves her by now. Besides, have you all forgotten? He’s the one who imprisons her to death to protect the heroine.] The comments split into two factions and started arguing. I raised an eyebrow. I might as well test the waters. Playing along, I purred, “Damien, do you think I have a good body?” “It’s average.” He lowered his gaze, his expression unreadable. [Lying bastard. Playing hard to get won’t win you a wife. No wonder the villainess has been hung up on the male lead all these years. You kind of deserve it.] [Am I dreaming? Did the villainess just stop looking at him like he’s dirt? Is our evil power couple ship finally sailing???] Not one to give up, I took a step closer, teasing, “You didn’t even look. How would you know it’s ‘average’?” “I don’t need to look,” he replied coolly, but his fingers curled into a fist, his knuckles turning a pale pink. He was gripping his trousers so hard he was practically tearing a hole in them. How had I never noticed before? He was actually kind of cute when he was flustered. I saw that his collar was askew and reached out to fix it. “Don’t touch me,” a low, cold voice commanded from above me. It was harsh. I froze, remembering the warring comments. Right. In three years, I’d never given Damien anything but contempt. Lily, on the other hand, had been like a little sun, always encouraging him to step out of the shadows. It was only natural that he would hate me. I gave a self-deprecating smile and let my arm fall. “Just remember to close the door on your way out. I’m going to sleep.” The man closed the door but didn’t leave. Instead, he started walking toward me, one slow step at a time. His breathing grew heavy, ragged, and the rims of his eyes were a startling red from suppressed emotion. I finally realized something was wrong. “Damien, what’s the matter with you? Do you have a fever?” The comments answered for him. [To be precise, he’s in heat… Dude, you are so down bad. The villainess was just teasing you for fun, and you went and triggered your mating season early.] “Mating season?” I murmured to myself. Married for three years, and this was the first I’d ever heard of it. [The villainess is so clueless. She actually thought he was some kind of monk. Hello? He’s an incubus. And with a body like yours and a face that’s literally the most beautiful in the whole book, he’s just been holding back because he couldn’t bear to force you.] [During his previous heats, he would always steal a piece of your lingerie and hide away so you wouldn’t see him.] [That reminds me, I feel sorry for those clothes. They were probably worn to shreds by our… gifted… second male lead.] I stared at the scrolling text, my brain feeling like it was trying to process a screen full of pixelated blurs. So, when he told me not to touch him, was it because of the heat? Damien buried his face in the crook of my neck, nuzzling restlessly. His pale skin was flushed, giving him a debauched look that completely undercut his usual detached coldness. Before, I’d been so obsessed with taking down Lily and winning back Ashton that I’d never really looked at Damien. I had no idea he was this devastatingly handsome. His features were more refined than any movie star I’d ever seen. 3 “Study… drawer… there are meds… and a syringe… get them…” Damien’s voice was broken, and he was desperately trying to hide the patterns and scales that were beginning to appear on his skin. I watched him, his lips bitten raw, his shirt soaked with sweat, clinging to his body and outlining the kind of abs that could make your blood boil… And I suddenly changed my mind. Three years of a celibate marriage… while I wasn’t as desperate as an incubus in heat, I was still a normal, healthy woman. Sure, the first rule of our marriage contract, written by me, was: No feelings, only finances. No taking advantage of the other party. But I was the morally bankrupt villainess, wasn’t I? What did I care about contracts? My decision made, I gently patted his cheek. “Damien,” I whispered, “try to be gentle.” “Don’t touch me… I’m filthy…” My touch sent a tremor through his entire body, but he was still clinging to his last shred of control. “But I want you…” I let my robe fall to the floor. I wiped the blood from his lips with my thumb and stood on my toes to kiss him. The comments went wild. [What is happening, the villainess actually made the first move!] [That little pat on the cheek, ahhh, it’s so intoxicating, I’m dead! Ma’am, are you accepting applications for a pet dog?] [Love mixed with hate is trash. Love born from hate is divine!] [My heart is pounding, my hands are shaking, is our evil power couple finally going to do the deed?!] The moment our lips met, Damien immediately took control, his large, warm hand cupping the back of my head. He stole the air from my lungs, and my legs went weak. A thick, black “rope” had coiled itself around my waist. It was too tight, and I let out a small whimper of pain, trying to push it away. “I’m sorry… don’t… don’t look…” Damien snapped out of his haze, his pupils contracting as he frantically tried to hide the tail that had emerged in his arousal. Before I could react, he had bolted from the room. A moment later, I heard the frantic sounds of drawers being thrown open in the study next door, and the faint, medicinal scent of something I couldn’t place drifted into the air. I leaned against the wardrobe, gasping for breath, and watched the scrolling comments. [Damien, you coward, get back here! I’ve already got my pants off, what are you running for?!] [Okay, am I the only one who feels bad for him? He was bullied and shamed his whole life for being an incubus. He finally marries the girl of his dreams, and she acts like he’s disgusting. Of course he has no self-esteem.] [Villainess, my sweet summer child, did you really have to pick this moment to act disgusted by his true form? He’s about to shatter into a million pieces.] Wait, they’d gotten it all wrong. I just wanted him to loosen up a bit… 4 The next morning, Damien was gone. I was eating a sandwich for breakfast. I took a deep breath, and then, steeling myself, I opened my phone. To my surprise, all the hate comments seemed to have vanished overnight. The media outlets that had been slandering me the most had even had their official accounts suspended. One of the few journalists I was still on speaking terms with sent me a photo of my parents at their office, with the caption: [All taken care of.] A smile spread across my face. I knew my parents wouldn’t really abandon me. They’d always been there to clean up my messes, big and small. [I can’t believe it. Every time the second male lead secretly helps the villainess, he lets her asshole parents take all the credit…] [Damien, the undisputed king of cold-faced CEOs who secretly handles his wife’s dirty work. When she’s in a good mood, he happily serves her. When she’s being a bitch, he… coolly serves her.] [It’s a shame the villainess doesn’t know any of this. After her blatant disgust last night, even though she avoided the divorce, she’s probably still on track for that forced imprisonment arc.] My jaw dropped. I tore my eyes away from the comments and stared at the photo on my phone. After scrutinizing it for a good ten minutes, I actually did find traces of Photoshop… I opened my messages and scrolled all the way to the bottom to find Damien. [Are you free today? There’s something I need to talk to you about.] He replied instantly. [Wrong person.] “…” [No, I meant you, hubby~] This time, the reply took much longer. [I apologize for last night, for letting you see… that. I’m very busy today. If you still want a divorce, please contact my lawyer first.] [No, no,] I typed back quickly. [It’s not about a divorce.] Damien: [Alright. I’ll see you this afternoon.] The comments were on fire. [LMAO. Divorce? No time. Not a divorce? See you this afternoon.] [That was a close one. The villainess dodged the basement arc by a hair’s breadth again. I feel like she’s starting to figure things out, like she’s trying to save herself.] [I have a bad feeling about this plot point. I feel like something awful is about to happen, but I can’t quite remember what.] 5 That afternoon, I made an effort with my appearance and arrived half an hour early at the coffee shop near Damien’s office. I ordered a dessert and was slowly enjoying it when someone sat down opposite me. “Hubby,” I said, a wide smile on my face as I looked up. “You should try some of this…” My smile froze. It wasn’t Damien. Ashton stared at my sexy, strapless red dress and flawless makeup, and a smirk played on his lips. “Seraphina, are you really that desperate for me? You’re even calling me ‘hubby’ now.” I didn’t have time for this. I stood up to leave, but he grabbed my wrist. “Let go. My husband is nearby.” “Stop pretending. You’re so proud, you never would have married that inhuman bastard Damien if it wasn’t to piss me off. Don’t think I don’t know that you haven’t let him touch you once in three years.” Ashton’s gaze dropped to my lips, his eyes darkening, his tone becoming sleazy. “One kiss. Is that enough to get you to leave Lily alone for a while?”

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