I was in the hospital for a month and had three surgeries. The doctors issued a critical condition notice twice, and both times, I was the one who had to sign it, alone, outside the ICU. Not a single phone call from my son. My texts vanished into a black hole. On the day I was discharged, I dragged my weak body back to an empty, silent apartment. The next day, my son finally called. His first words were: “Hey Mom. My father-in-law wants a new car. Can you wire me sixty grand?” I was stunned into silence for three seconds, then I said calmly, “Son, Mom is out of money.” “What do you mean?” His voice immediately shot up. “Your mortgage payment. I stopped it.” The other end of the line erupted. 1 In the sterile white corridor of the ICU, my fingers wouldn’t stop shaking. The pen weighed next to nothing, but in that moment, it felt as heavy as lead. “Family of the patient, please sign here.” The nurse’s voice was flat, the sound of someone who witnesses life and death as a daily routine. I looked up, my gaze drifting past her to the end of the long hall. In front of the other rooms, anxious family members huddled together, sitting or standing in worried clusters. But I, Evelyn, was completely alone. The harsh fluorescent lights stretched my shadow long and thin across the polished floor, like a giant, mocking question mark. A flicker of sympathy, almost imperceptible, crossed the nurse’s face. She lowered her voice. “Ma’am, is there any family we can call for you? The hospital chaplain, perhaps?” My throat was dry. I managed a smile that felt more painful than tears. “I have a son. I have a son.” The nurse’s expression turned awkward. She didn’t press the issue, just nudged the pen a little closer. I signed my own name. Each stroke felt like it was being carved into my heart. Back in my hospital bed, every cell in my body screamed in pain. I fumbled for the phone under my pillow. The screen lit up, showing the same familiar chat window. Mom’s sick, at City General Hospital. Could you come visit when you have a chance? The message sat there, unanswered. Beneath it, the word “Unread” felt like a tiny, sharp needle in my eye. Before the second surgery, my surgeon approached me with the consent forms, his face grim. “Mrs. Miller, this procedure is high-risk. We absolutely must have a signature from a next of kin.” I forced myself to sit up, my voice weak but firm. “My son is on a business trip. He’s on his way. I’ll sign for now. I take full responsibility for myself.” The doctor looked at my face, pale as a sheet of paper, and finally sighed, handing me the pen. Again, my own name: Evelyn Miller. There were three of us in the room. The lady in the next bed had a daughter who brought her different kinds of homemade soup every day. The woman in the bed across from me had a husband who never left her side. When mealtime came, the room would fill with the comforting aroma of real food. I opened the plastic container delivered from the hospital cafeteria. White rice, a few limp green beans, and two thin slices of mystery meat. I could hear the soft cooing from the next bed. “Mom, I made you chicken soup today. Drink up, it’ll give you strength.” I poked at my rice. A tear fell, unbidden, then another, splashing hot against the cold food. In the dead of night, a searing pain from my incision ripped me from a shallow sleep. Cold sweat soaked through my hospital gown. I curled up into a ball, like a small, abandoned animal. Once again, I reached for my phone and pulled up the number I knew by heart. Alex. My finger hovered over the call button for a long, long time. In the end, I let my hand fall, defeated. It’s been ten years, Evelyn. You should be used to this by now. After the third surgery, they sent me straight to the ICU. The second critical condition notice followed. When the nurse found me to sign it, I just looked at the paper and started to laugh. I laughed out loud, my shoulders shaking, laughing so hard that the young nurse just stood there, stunned. She probably thought I’d lost my mind. I was just wondering, if I really did die this time, would he come? Would Alex finally make the trip back home, the home he hadn’t returned to in a decade, just to claim my body? When my consciousness was at its foggiest, a warm hand took mine. “Evelyn!” It was Susan, my old colleague, my only true friend in this world. She looked at me, with tubes running in and out of my body, and burst into tears. “How much longer are you going to put up with him?” she choked out, her voice trembling. I shook my head, too weak to even speak. Susan, furious, snatched my phone and dialed Alex’s number directly. It rang for a long time, so long that Susan was about to give up when someone finally answered. The background was loud—music and laughter. It sounded like a party. “Yeah? Who’s this?” Alex’s voice was sharp with annoyance. “Alex! Your mother is in critical condition in the ICU, do you have any idea?” Susan yelled into the phone. “Look, I’m busy right now. Just text me whatever it is.” He hung up. Just like that. Susan was shaking with rage, about to call back when my phone chimed with a notification. It was a text from the bank. A transfer of $1,100.00 from your account ending in xxxx was completed on xx/xx. I stared at the text. It was the automatic transfer I had set up the month before, the day before I was admitted to the hospital. The money for his mortgage. Right on time. A chill, colder and more piercing than the 24/7 air conditioning in the ICU, shot through my bones. Susan saw it too. She grabbed the phone, her eyes red. “He remembers the day his mortgage is due,” she seethed, “but he can’t remember if his mother is alive or dead!” 2 I lay in bed that night, wide awake. The last ten years played over and over in my mind like a broken film reel. My son, Alex, hadn’t set foot in this home since he got married a decade ago. Christmas? He had to spend it with his in-laws. My birthday? He was taking his wife and kids on vacation. The excuses were always perfectly valid, leaving me with no room to argue. I still remember at his wedding, his father-in-law, Robert, clapping me on the shoulder and booming for all the guests to hear, “My dear Evelyn is a retired teacher! So cultured, with a great pension. Alex and Jessica are going to need your help to get by!” At the time, I brushed it off as polite wedding chatter and smiled and nodded. I never imagined it would become a ten-year prophecy. The first month after the wedding, Alex called. “Mom, we want to get some new furniture. Jessica found a set she loves from Restoration Hardware. We were thinking…” I didn’t hesitate. I transferred five thousand dollars. The next month, he called again. “Mom, we want to remodel the house. Jessica thinks the old style is so dated.” I transferred another ten thousand. I once tried, full of excitement, to visit their new home, to see the “Restoration Hardware style” that my life savings had paid for. I showed up with bags full of groceries and called Alex from the gate of their community. He stammered on the phone. “Oh, Mom, the house is a total mess right now, we haven’t finished unpacking. Don’t come up. Next time. I’ll pick you up next time.” That day, I stood outside that upscale gated community from afternoon until dusk. I watched as lights flickered on in one window after another, but not a single one was for me. In the end, I gave the groceries to the security guard and took the last bus home alone. For ten years, I was like a wind-up toy. Every month, on schedule, I transferred $1,100 for his mortgage. For holidays, a check for two or three thousand. For his in-laws’ birthdays, another thousand or two as a “gift of respect.” I scrolled through my mobile banking history, my finger swiping through page after page. Car for Alex: $30,000. Renovations for Alex: $15,000. Birthday gift for Alex’s father-in-law: $5,000. Wedding gift for Alex’s sister-in-law: $8,000. Tuition help for Alex’s father-in-law’s nephew: $3,000. Every transfer had a noble-sounding reason, and every reason revolved around his perfect, respectable family. Meanwhile, my own home, his childhood home, hadn’t seen him in a decade. Even when he did come back, it was just to pick up money. He never stayed, never even came inside. I remember it so clearly. Three years ago, on my sixty-fifth birthday. I spent the day before shopping, and I made a huge batch of his favorite lasagna. I worked up all my courage and called him. “Alex,” I said, my voice timid. “Tomorrow… it’s Mom’s birthday. Could you… could you come over for dinner?” There was a pause on the other end. “Oh, Mom, what a coincidence. It’s actually my father-in-law’s birthday tomorrow too. We’ve had plans for weeks. I really can’t get away.” After he hung up, I sat alone at the dining table, staring at the big pan of lasagna as it went from steaming hot to cold and stiff. It was only later that I found out from Susan, completely by chance, that it wasn’t Robert’s birthday at all. My son had lied to me, just to avoid coming home. Susan once sat down with a calculator and added it all up for me. “Evelyn, you get seven hundred dollars a month from your pension. That’s not bad. But where are your savings? You’ve given him everything! You’re still living in this thirty-year-old apartment from your teaching days. The paint is peeling off the walls, and you won’t even spend the money to fix it.” At the time, I had argued back, full of righteous indignation. “He’s my only son. If I don’t give my money to him, who else would I give it to?” Lying in this cold hospital bed now, those words sound utterly ridiculous. A nurse came in to change my IV drip. She saw my red-rimmed eyes and asked softly, “Ma’am, is the incision hurting again?” I shook my head and turned my face away. It doesn’t hurt. My heart went numb a long time ago. How could it possibly feel any pain? I was just remembering things. Things I had deliberately forgotten, lies I had told myself for years. 3 Susan came again the next day. She carried a large thermos filled with a bone broth she had been simmering all morning. She fed it to me spoonful by spoonful, as gentle as if I were a child. “Evelyn, your daughter-in-law… her name is Jessica, right?” she asked suddenly. I nodded. “In the ten years they’ve been married, how many times have you seen her?” I counted on my fingers, seriously. There was the wedding. Then the few times she came down to the car with Alex when I was dropping off money; she’d stand a few feet away and give a cool nod. All told, no more than five times. Ten years. Five times. I could barely even remember what she looked like. I only recalled her at the wedding, in her white dress, coming to serve me the traditional tea. She had smiled so sweetly. “Mom, we’re a family now. Alex and I will come visit you all the time.” Ten years later, that sentence had become the funniest joke I’d ever heard. The irony was, half the time Alex asked for money, the reason was related to Jessica’s family. “Mom, my mother-in-law hasn’t been feeling well, she’s in the hospital. As her family, we have to show our support.” “Mom, Jessica’s sister is getting married. As the brother-in-law, I can’t show up with a cheap gift, you know?” “Mom, it’s my father-in-law’s big birthday. We’re planning on getting him a nice watch. We were thinking…” I used to be so naive. I thought if I supported them without reservation, they would at least have some affection for me. I thought if I emptied my own pockets, I could buy my son a respectable life with his in-laws, could ensure his marriage was happy. But I never imagined that when I was critically ill, in the hospital for a whole month, Jessica’s family wouldn’t make a single phone call. Not one. It was as if I were a complete stranger. An ATM. Susan saw the distant look in my eyes and sighed. “Evelyn, do you know what Jessica tells people about you?” My heart clenched. “She complains to the neighbors in her community that her mother-in-law is eccentric and antisocial, that you’re impossible to get along with. She says that’s why they never visit.” Susan’s face was tight with suppressed anger. “My niece heard her with her own ears. They live in the same community. She thought you were some kind of monster-in-law!” I was floored. I had been a teacher my whole life. My reputation, my integrity, meant everything to me. I’d never said a harsh word to her. I’d barely even seen her. Where did “eccentric and antisocial” come from? Susan saw the color drain from my face and seemed to hesitate, as if she had more to say. I grabbed her hand. “Susan, what else? Tell me.” She paused, then finally said, “She also said… she said that you have a good pension and savings, so you’re supposed to be helping them. She called it an ‘investment.’ She said when you get old, of course they’ll take care of you, but right now, they’re young and under pressure, and as a mother, you just have to be understanding.” Understanding? Who was there to understand me when I was alone outside the ICU, signing my own critical condition notice? Who was there to understand me when I was in so much pain I couldn’t sleep, living on painkillers? Susan’s words were a dull knife, twisting in my heart. No blood, but the pain was suffocating. I suddenly remembered something. Last month, a week before I was hospitalized, Alex had called in a panic. He said Jessica was feeling unwell and needed ten thousand dollars for a minor surgery, urgently. I was so worried, thinking something terrible had happened to my daughter-in-law. Without a second thought, I transferred all the money I had set aside for my own medical bills. Thinking back on it now, was there ever a “minor surgery”? Or was it just another lie, cooked up to get more money? The door to my room opened, and an orderly helped a new patient in. She was an elderly woman with white hair. Her daughter bustled around her, efficiently making the bed, swapping the hospital sheets for fresh ones from home, and pouring a glass of warm water. The old woman beamed, comfortable and cared for. I quickly turned my head and stared out the window at the gray, overcast sky. The tears I’d been holding back finally broke free, streaming down my face. 4 After a full month in the hospital, I was finally discharged. The doctor gave me stern instructions. It was major surgery, and my body was severely weakened. I had to rest at home, avoid any strenuous activity for three months, and come back for regular check-ups. I noted it all down, nodding. When I was handling the discharge paperwork, it was the same young nurse. She saw me struggling with my suitcase and couldn’t help but ask, “Ma’am, isn’t your family here to pick you up?” I stretched my lips into what I hoped was a decent smile. “I can manage. I don’t want to bother them.” The nurse’s expression flickered, but she didn’t say anything more. Susan had offered to drive me, but I refused. I needed to be alone. I needed to think. A month on the brink of death had clarified a lot of things for me. I hailed a cab. The driver was a kind, middle-aged man. He saw my pale face in the rearview mirror and started a friendly conversation. “Just got out of the hospital, ma’am? You don’t look too well. Make sure you get plenty of rest.” When we arrived, he insisted on carrying my suitcase up the stairs for me, all the way to my front door. I felt bad and tried to give him a generous tip for his trouble, but he just waved his hands, smiling warmly. “No, no, ma’am. You just take care of yourself. That’s more important than anything.” I closed the door and leaned against the cold wood, my nose stinging. A complete stranger, a taxi driver I’d never see again, showed me more concern than the son I had raised. When I opened the door to my apartment, a wave of stale, musty air hit me. A month of being empty had left the place coated in a thin film of gray dust, devoid of any signs of life. I shivered. If I had died in that hospital, how long would it have taken for anyone to find me here, in the home I’d lived in for most of my life? I dragged my weak body to the refrigerator and pulled open the door. The fruits and vegetables I had bought before my hospital stay had rotted completely, emitting a sickeningly sweet stench of decay. I squatted down, pulled out a trash bag, and started cleaning them out, one by one. With every rotten piece of fruit I threw away, my heart grew a little colder. The tears started again, dripping silently into the putrid mess. By the time I had cleared a small space to live in, the sky outside was dark. I was so exhausted I could barely stand. I found a packet of instant noodles in the cupboard and boiled some water. Huddled in my small kitchen, slurping the bland noodles, I started crying again. Just then, my phone rang, the sound jarring in the silence. My heart leaped. My first, instinctive thought was that it was Alex. I hastily wiped my tears and grabbed the phone. But the screen showed a text message from the bank. Dear Customer, the automatic mortgage payment from your account ending in 8888 has failed due to insufficient funds. This has resulted in a late payment. To avoid a negative impact on your credit score, please deposit the required amount as soon as possible. It hit me then. Before I went to the hospital, I had transferred the last of my money to Alex for Jessica’s supposed surgery. My own account was empty, not even enough to cover the mortgage payment. My first impulse was to call Alex and tell him to deposit the money immediately. But my finger froze over the screen. A thought, like a bolt of lightning, cut through the fog in my brain. Why was I the one panicking? He was the one living in the house. He was the one enjoying it. If the mortgage went into default, my credit would be hit first, but shouldn’t he be the one worried about it? Slowly, I put the phone down. I decided to do nothing. I would just wait. I wanted to see just how long it would take for him to remember this. To remember that he even had a mother. 5 And so began the longest wait of my life. I rested at home, clutching my old smartphone, refreshing the screen over and over again. Waiting for the call I had been waiting for for ten years. A day passed. Silence. Two days passed. Still nothing. Three days. Nothing but a few spam texts. It felt like I was conducting some kind of absurd experiment. The hypothesis: if I don’t initiate contact, how long will it take for my son to remember I exist? This was the first time in a decade I had ever done this. In the past, I was always the one who kept track of the dates, who worried he was too busy, too forgetful, or short on cash. I was always the one who called first, who transferred the money first. On the fourth day, the doorbell rang. My heart hammered against my ribs. I practically flew off the sofa. It had to be him! It must be! The bank’s warnings were serious. He couldn’t possibly be this careless! Clinging to a final shred of hope, I stumbled to the door and peered through the peephole. Standing outside was a delivery driver in a yellow uniform. In that instant, a tidal wave of icy disappointment washed over me, drowning me completely. Susan came to visit again. She brought fresh vegetables and meat from the market and went straight to my kitchen, moving with familiar ease. She looked at my gaunt, haggard face and sighed. “You’re still waiting for him, aren’t you?” I just gave her a bitter smile, unable to speak. At the dinner table, Susan suddenly became very serious. “Evelyn, I did some checking for you at the county records office. You’re not destitute.” I stared at her, confused. “You have three properties in your name.” “One is this old apartment we’re in now. It’s yours.” “Another is the house your parents left you. It’s downtown. It’s old, but it’s in a prime location.” “And,” she paused, looking me straight in the eye, “the mortgage you took out in your name to buy your son’s marital home… the title deed for that house is also in your name!” I was completely stunned. “That house… isn’t it in Alex’s name?” I whispered. Susan shook her head. “Absolutely not. I had my contact double-check. You are the borrower on the loan, and you are the sole name on the title. Alex is, at best, a tenant.” My mind reeled. I remembered when we bought the house. Alex had said that since he was just starting his career, he wouldn’t qualify for a large enough loan. But as a retired teacher with a stable income, I would be easily approved by the bank. At the time, all I cared about was helping my son settle down, so I agreed without a second thought. I never imagined that this casual decision, made only to help him secure a loan, would become my only lifeline today. Susan continued, “Think about it, Evelyn. Your pension is seven hundred dollars a month. If you weren’t paying his $1,100 mortgage, you could live quite comfortably. And that old house from your parents? You could rent that out for at least a few hundred a month.” I had never thought about any of this. For ten years, my only thought was: what’s mine is my son’s. But now, lying in that hospital bed, thinking about that cold text from the bank, thinking about his annoyed voice as he hung up on Susan… I started to wonder. I had treated everything I owned as his. But had he ever treated my life as if it were his own? On the seventh day, a second notice arrived from the bank. The language was harsher, explicitly stating that if payment was not made, legal proceedings would begin, and my credit score would be severely damaged.

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I got my hands on a magic potion. Whoever drinks it falls hopelessly in love with me. Without a moment’s hesitation, I tilted my head back and drank every last drop. This time, I was choosing to love myself. For me. See you tomorrow. 1. In my last life. After my husband, Sean, cheated on me, I came across a strange potion. It was in a small, clear vial, filled with a shimmering blue liquid. A faded inscription clung to the glass: Whoever drinks this water shall fall helplessly in love with the one who gave it. I clung to it like a drowning woman to a piece of driftwood, pinning all my desperate hopes on this mysterious concoction. I mixed it into Sean’s coffee. The effect was instantaneous. He began to distance himself from his mistress, his gaze slowly returning to me. He started remembering our anniversaries, bringing home flowers. He would hold me as we fell asleep, whispering the sweet nothings I hadn’t heard in years. It was as if we’d truly returned to the heady days of our first love. We became that couple again, the one everyone envied. Everyone thought Sean was deeply in love with me. Only I knew his love wasn’t his choice. It was mine. I was the one who made him drink the potion. When he held me, when he kissed me, my mind would conjure the sordid, intimate photos of him with her. When he spoke to me with gentle words, I’d wonder if he’d whispered the same lines to someone else. Worse, a gnawing fear became my constant shadow. Every time he spoke to another woman for work. Every time his phone screen lit up. Every time one of his former flings crossed our path. Alarm bells screamed in my head: Is the potion wearing off? Is he going to leave me again? I became a nervous wreck, a stranger to myself. Hypersensitive, suspicious, jumping at shadows. A brief lapse in Sean’s attention, a slightly flat tone in his voice—it was enough to send me spiraling, obsessively dissecting his love for me. Then, I got pregnant. The joy was fleeting, immediately swallowed by a massive wave of terror. What if… What if one day, the potion really did wear off? What if Sean went back to being the man who despised me? What would I do then? And what would happen to my child? My hand resting on my still-flat stomach, I realized for the first time: I was living in a beautiful, fragile cage of my own making. My hair started falling out in clumps. The chronic anxiety wrapped itself around me, gnawing away at my sanity, bit by bit. Even when Sean tried to soothe me, I couldn’t simply sink into the warmth he offered. Love, in its truest form, is the surrender of free will. It’s the conscious fall two free souls take after finding each other. But I had poisoned that possibility long ago. A careless comment from Sean—”Honey, you’ve got some new lines around your eyes”—was enough to completely shatter my composure. I couldn’t focus. I made constant mistakes at work. I felt like a string stretched to its breaking point. And finally, after weeks of emotional turmoil, the baby I had never met slipped away from me. Sean held me, murmuring words of comfort. But in that moment, what flooded my heart wasn’t solace, but a tidal wave of regret. I regretted it all. I regretted begging, like a common beggar, for the affection of a man whose heart had long since moved on. So, this time, when that familiar blue vial appeared before me again, I didn’t hesitate for a second. I twisted off the cap, tilted my head back, and poured the entire contents down my throat. The liquid had a faint, bitter tang as it slid down. Better to love myself than to exhaust my soul trying to reclaim a man who had already strayed. Love you, Paige. See you tomorrow. 2. After drinking the magic potion, I stood still for a moment, waiting for a change. Hmm. Nothing felt different. But remembering the effect it had on Sean in my past life, I didn’t doubt its power. Perhaps some changes aren’t meant to be seen. Just then, my stomach rumbled. Right. I hadn’t eaten a thing since I’d been reborn. I walked out of the bedroom. In the warm glow of the living room lights, a lavish spread of food covered the dining table. I froze for a second, then remembered. I had been reborn on the exact day of my sixth wedding anniversary with Sean. How had I spent this day in my last life? I had dressed up meticulously and gone to Sean’s office. In front of everyone, I’d begged him to come home for dinner. As I left his office, I could feel the pitying and mocking stares of his employees on my back. But I was so thrilled he’d agreed that I didn’t care. I came home and cooked a feast. All of his favorites. Spicy fish stew, beef and potato casserole, steamed sea bass, stir-fried greens, scallops steamed with garlic and vermicelli… I had poured all my culinary skills into it, hoping to win back his heart through his stomach. Looking at the magnificent spread, I’d even felt a flicker of pride, fantasizing about the look of appreciation, or even love, in his eyes when he walked through the door. And what was the result? I sat alone on that cold chair all night. Sean spent the evening with his mistress. That was his anniversary gift to me. The long, crushing loneliness of that night was what finally pushed me to use the potion. I just couldn’t bear the solitary waiting anymore. Thinking back on it now… What was I so lonely for? I had me, didn’t I? Now, looking at the same table of food, the feeling was completely different. No anticipation, no anxiety. Just a pure, primal need—I was hungry. 3. I pulled a treasured bottle of red wine from the cabinet, one I’d picked up on a trip to a private vineyard. The dark crimson liquid swirled in the crystal glass, catching the light. I took a sip, the rich, fruity notes blooming on my tongue. “Damn,” I murmured to myself after swallowing. “That’s good wine.” You deserve it, Paige. I’m treating you right. My gaze fell back to the dishes on the table, and my brow furrowed. Steamed, blanched, low-salt, low-oil… When did I ever eat like this? To cater to Sean’s bland palate, I, a Louisiana girl born and bred, hadn’t even made a single decent spicy dish! I slapped my thigh. That’s right! Who was I trying to please now? It was past eight in the evening, but I was suddenly buzzing with energy. I threw the fish stew back in the pan, cranking up the heat and topping it with a generous slick of sizzling chili oil and a handful of peppercorns. I reworked the steamed seafood, burying it under a mountain of minced garlic and fiery red peppers. Still not satisfied, I whipped up a plate of my absolute favorite: fiery chili chicken. The table was now a glorious, vibrant crimson. The intoxicating aroma of spice filled the entire kitchen. I refilled my wine glass and sat back down. A piece of fish, slick with chili oil, melted in my mouth. It was so good it made me want to stomp my feet. A shrimp, dripping with garlic and chili, sent a jolt of savory heat straight to my brain. The crispy, numbing spice of the chicken, washed down with a sip of wine—it was pure bliss. This feeling… It was absolutely incredible. I was in the middle of my feast, sweat beading on my forehead from the heat, when my phone, lying on the table, lit up with a new message. It was from Sean’s assistant. Also one of his mistresses. Hey girl, you haven’t seen my new post, have you? I picked up a piece of chicken, chewing it slowly as I tapped open her social media feed. The latest post was from ten minutes ago. The photo showed two hands, fingers intertwined. The background was my favorite high-end restaurant. The romantic implication was obvious. I recognized Sean’s hand instantly; I had compared it to my own countless times. Long fingers, elegant knuckles. And the faint, pale band of skin where his wedding ring used to be. I stared at it for a moment, then expressionlessly hit ‘like’. A moment later, the post vanished. It was immediately replaced by a new one: Oops, my boyfriend saw my last post~ He said my punishment is no sleep tonight. Blushing! I put my phone down. There was, admittedly, a small, sharp sting in my chest. My once-ravenous appetite had dimmed slightly. Not for them, of course. For me. I set down my chopsticks and began a serious internal monologue, speaking to the empty air. “Paige, you cooked this amazing meal, a whole table of food you love, just for you. And you’re going to let some pathetic social media post ruin it?” “Is that fair to yourself after all this work? Is it fair to this incredible wine? Is it fair to your stomach?” “Eat. Now. Look at you, you’re so thin you look like a strong wind could blow you over. Do you even know you’re under a hundred pounds? Right now, Sean is wrapped up with his little plaything, and you’re here getting sentimental over a perfect meal?” “You can’t do this to yourself, Paige. You hear me?” After my little self-pep-talk, I took a deep breath, pushing down the sour feeling in my chest. I picked up a large piece of fish, put it in my mouth, and chewed with purpose. Damn, that’s good. That’s more like it, Paige. As I was finishing up, my phone vibrated again. It was my mom. I had barely answered before her voice, sharp and angry, assaulted my ear. “Paige! So what if Sean cheats on you? Are you going to die if you just turn a blind eye?! What successful man doesn’t have a little fun on the side?” “I don’t care what you have to do—cry, beg, pretend you don’t know—but you are not to let a catch like Sean go! Do you hear me?!” “If you keep making a scene, he’s really going to divorce you! Then what will you do?!” “He’s a big shot now, a CEO! All you need to do is hold on tight to your title as Mrs. Collins! Why are you so obsessed with possessing him completely? Have you lost your mind?” “A man as exceptional as Sean, it’s normal for him to have a few mistresses! You just be a good little wife, enjoy your comfortable life, and stop asking so many questions!” 4. My fingers, clutching the phone, felt ice-cold. A sense of absurdity choked me. News of my recent… activities must have reached my parents. I hadn’t even done anything that extreme. Not in my eyes, anyway. Not compared to what Sean had done to me. All I did was smash the car he bought for his mistress the day I found out. All I did was storm into his company and wreck his office in front of all his employees. Or maybe it was when I found out he was taking his mistress to a charity gala. I showed up in my most eye-catching red dress and, in front of everyone, gave him and the woman on his arm each a resounding slap across the face. I thought that by humiliating him, by shaming him, he would learn that betrayal has consequences. But I was wrong. In his world, in his circle, cheating was an unspoken privilege. No one condemned him for it. They just looked at me with pity or scorn, then clapped Sean on the shoulder and said, “Just divorce her, man. Why put up with a crazy woman?” But I didn’t want a divorce. So my “craziness” became his excuse to cheat even more blatantly. He started staying out all night, deliberately coming home with traces of other women on him just to provoke me. He couldn’t control me, so he fed an exaggerated version of my actions to my parents. He knew their weaknesses, their values. He used them to suppress me, to discipline me, to make me “face reality.” So, as my mother’s “advice” continued to pour through the phone, the rage and hurt I had suppressed for so long finally erupted. I screamed into the receiver. “What do you mean it’s normal to have mistresses?! He cheated! He betrayed our marriage! And you think he’s the one who’s right?!” “You don’t know a damn thing!” her voice screeched back, rising in pitch. “You ungrateful girl, you have a wretched fate! Landing a man like Sean was the luckiest thing that ever happened to you! Don’t be so ungrateful!” “I’m telling you, if you dare cause trouble with him again, if you dare mention the words ‘divorce’ or ‘unfair,’ your father and I will pretend we never had a daughter! We’ll consider you dead!” “Such bad luck! You have a good life and you just have to ruin it!” They hung up. My hand trembled as I placed the phone back on the table. My whole body was shaking. My chest felt like it was being crushed by a boulder, heavy and tight, making it hard to breathe. Two lifetimes. In my last life, I listened to them. I chose to endure. This time, I thought being reborn was a release, a new beginning. But the knife wielded by my closest family still found the same old wound, and plunged even deeper. The injustice of two lifetimes, the loneliness of being misunderstood, the venomous accusations from my own parents… all of it crashed over me, lodging in my throat. Everyone said Sean was young and successful. That it was “normal” for a man, especially a rich one, to have a few women on the side. But who remembered? Who remembered when he was starting his business, hitting walls everywhere, his funding about to dry up? It was me. I took every penny of my savings, scraped together from years of working and scrimping, and put it in front of him without a word. I told him, “If you lose it, you lose it. I can always earn more.” Back then, we were crammed in a tiny rental, eating instant noodles, and he would hold my hand, his eyes brighter than the stars, and promise he would never let me down. I took my wine glass and walked barefoot to the floor-to-ceiling window. Outside, the city glittered like a river of stars. Sean’s mistress’s taunts hadn’t hurt me. But my parents’ words, all delivered “for my own good,” felt like a dull blade sawing at my heart. My eyes suddenly burned. I tilted my head back, blinking hard, trying to force back the heat. I drained my glass in one go. After the initial burn, a long, bitter aftertaste remained. Fine. I chose the wrong man. So what? It’s not so hard to admit I had terrible judgment. It’s okay. Last time, I was possessed. I tied my entire self-worth to one man. I lost myself and lost everything. This time, I just won’t make the same stupid mistake again. “Alright, Paige,” I whispered to the sprawling city lights, my voice hoarse, deliberate. “I give you permission to be hurt in love. I give you permission to pour out your heart and find you loved the wrong person. I give you permission to feel wronged, to want to cry, because your family doesn’t understand.” “I give you permission to cry. Permission to break. Permission to just be incredibly sad and fragile in this one moment.” As the words left my lips, I hugged my knees tightly to my chest. As if a final chain had snapped, I let out a raw, wrenching sob. The sound echoed in the empty living room. It was ragged, ugly, but utterly real. I don’t know how long I cried. Until I was exhausted, until only quiet, hiccupping sobs remained. I lifted my head, my face a mess of tear tracks, my voice thick. “It’s okay to cry. It’s not a big deal.” “I won’t judge you for it.” “Right, Paige?” Outside, the city lights burned on, indifferent. Just as I felt I was about to be swallowed by grief, my phone rang. I flinched, as if waking from a nightmare. I stumbled to the table, fumbling for the phone. The screen’s glare stung my swollen eyes. Not wanting anyone to hear my state, I sniffled hard, wiped my face on my sleeve, and took a big gulp of water from a glass on the table. After clearing my throat, I finally answered. “Hello?” “Paige!” It was my best friend. “Did you hear? They’re forecasting a major aurora display up near Fairbanks! It’s a once-in-a-lifetime chance! You wanna go? If we could get a great shot of it, it would be incredible!” The Northern Lights… As a photographer, chasing and capturing the world’s fleeting beauty was more than a job; it was a calling, a mission. A way to prove my skills and a way to preserve a moment of magic before it vanished. In my last life, I’d given up a trip to see the aurora—and so many other beautiful sights—to stand guard over my relationship with Sean. A pang of regret shot through my heart. “Yes!” The word flew out of my mouth, my voice high and urgent. “I’m in! I’m booking my ticket right now!” 5. The moment I hung up, I sprang into action. Book the flight, confirm the itinerary—it was all done in a seamless rush. Then, I tore into my room, throwing heavy coats, thermal wear, my camera, and a tripod into a suitcase with frantic speed. It all happened so fast, my tears couldn’t keep up. Until a single, hot tear splashed onto the back of my hand. I kept packing, sniffling, my voice still thick with emotion as I talked myself through it. “See, Paige? I missed it last time. We can’t miss it again, right?” “It’s going to be a tough few days… all the travel, the freezing cold… but come on, let’s do this. Let’s get the most beautiful shot of the lights. And when we do… I’ll buy you that bag you’ve been wanting forever. How does that sound?” I was a mess of determined, forward-planning energy and raw, tear-streaked grief. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Red, swollen eyes, messy hair, but my hands never stopped, stuffing a down jacket and camera batteries into the suitcase. I looked… ridiculous. And a little heartbreaking. But I knew I was moving forward. Even if I had to do it one crying step at a time. 6. At a little past five in the morning, long before dawn, I was on a plane. The world outside the window was a deep, inky black. Inside, the cabin lights were dim, and most passengers were asleep. But I was wide awake, staring out into the darkness. Around eight, the plane touched down in Alaska. A blast of crisp, dry, frigid air hit me as I stepped out. After leaving the airport, my friend and I warmed up with a steaming bowl of local noodle soup that thawed us from the inside out. My friend finally broke the silence. “I honestly didn’t think you’d come this time.” “I mean, the last few times I asked, you always said… you had to stay home and keep an eye on your husband. Make sure no other women tried to seduce him.” I swallowed the last of my soup, letting out a satisfied sigh. “A man is not more important than my career,” I said, the words feeling surprisingly natural. Her eyes went wide. She looked me up and down, as if I’d just announced I was from Mars. “To hear that coming from you… I just don’t believe it. Are you possessed or something?” I just smirked, not answering. Even I couldn’t quite believe how easily those words had come out. I instinctively pulled out my phone and unlocked it. The screen lit up, showing my chat with Sean. The last message was from me, sent yesterday afternoon: Honey, it’s our sixth anniversary, you have to come home! I have a surprise for you, and I made all your favorite food. Scrolling up, I saw a dense wall of green bubbles. Almost all from me. Asking, sharing, waiting. His replies, in contrast, were short, dismissive. I locked the screen and shoved the phone back in my pocket. Forget it. Why waste another ounce of energy on someone who no longer belonged to me? After our meal, my friend and I boarded a long-haul train headed for Fairbanks. For seventeen solid hours, I leaned against the window, watching the endless, flowing snowscape slide by. The rhythmic clatter of the tracks and the ever-receding scenery slowly soothed my frayed nerves, and I drifted in and out of sleep. It was the middle of the night when the train finally pulled into the station. The biting air made us shiver the moment we stepped off. The ground was hidden under a thick, pristine blanket of snow. We dragged our luggage to a small inn we had booked in advance. We slept until the afternoon. When we woke, my friend and I set out for a prime viewing spot just outside the village. I was wearing my thickest down jacket, wrapped in a scarf and hat, looking like a clumsy bear, but I could still feel the cold seeping into my bones. Every breath of frigid air was a sharp sting in my lungs. I had heat packs on my knees, but they still made a faint creaking sound when I walked. We were joined by a young couple we’d met on the train. The girl was bubbly and bright, the boy was steady and attentive, and they chattered nonstop. “I heard that making a wish on the Northern Lights makes it come true!” the girl said, her eyes shining as she clung to her boyfriend’s arm. “Yeah,” he murmured, looking down at her tenderly. “If we see them… we’ll be happy forever.” They huddled together, their warm breaths mingling in the cold air. Their faces were full of hope and sweetness. Their smiles were so pure and radiant, like two small, warm flames in the vast, frozen landscape. I watched them, and I felt no jealousy, no bitterness. Only a quiet, genuine happiness for them. That’s good. The world needs people to be this happy. And I was here for myself. With my friend. And with Paige. That was pretty good, too. 7. We reached the observation point, the snow crunching over our ankles. The sky was already pitch black, but the snowy field was dotted with the silhouettes of other hopefuls. Like us, most of them were armed with cameras, determined to capture a masterpiece. The minutes ticked by, turning into hours. As midnight approached, the celestial curtain we were waiting for failed to appear. Instead, a blizzard rolled in. The driving snow stung our faces, blurring our vision.

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At my mother’s birthday dinner, my wife, Isabelle, uncorked the bottle of Macallan she’d brought. As she raised her glass for a toast, her voice cut through the quiet chatter. “You know, Mom,” she began, a small, curious smile on her lips, “I’ve always wondered.” “What’s your secret? How on earth did you manage to raise a son like Alex? So spineless, so selfish, and so utterly oblivious to it all.” My mother’s hand, holding her glass, trembled slightly. I calmly placed my napkin on the table. “I agree to the divorce.” Isabelle’s hand paused for a fraction of a second, but her smile never wavered. “Good. I’m glad you’ve finally seen reason.” That night, she handed me the divorce papers. “Don’t worry,” she said, her tone magnanimous. “If you ever need anything, you can always come to me.” I said nothing, just picked up the pen and signed my name. Isabelle had started her affair a year ago. She’d been hounding me for a divorce for the last six months. In that time, she’d become relentless, resorting to one vile tactic after another. She threatened my best friend’s job to get him to convince me to leave her. She’d brazenly video chat with her lover, a high school classmate of hers, right in our living room. And now, she had stooped to publicly humiliating my mother just to break me. If she wanted a divorce this badly, I would give it to her. I just hoped she wouldn’t regret it when she had nothing left. The moment my signature was on the paper, Isabelle was on the phone with her lawyer, unable to hide the excitement in her voice. “Yes, he signed it.” “Great. Meet me at Portside Tower in a bit. We’ll go over the details.” I listened, my face a mask of indifference, and reached up to take down the wedding photo hanging on the wall. We’d taken it when we were broke. It cost a hundred and ninety-eight dollars, a cheap package deal. Even then, I thought it was terrible. Our faces were photoshopped into pale, uncanny versions of ourselves. But I had kept it on the wall all these years. It was the only proof left of what we once had. A heavy pressure settled in my chest. Isabelle, finished with her call, saw me holding the frame. She wasn’t surprised. Instead, with a breezy confidence, she said: “Don’t rush to pack. We still have a month before the divorce is final. You can stay here in the penthouse for now.” “And don’t worry about the assets. I won’t make things difficult for you.” “I’m just glad you agreed without making a scene. I really didn’t want to drag this through the courts.” She glanced at her watch. “Well, since that’s settled, I should go. Ryan’s waiting for me. He gets pouty if I’m back too late.” Without waiting for a reply, she hurried to the entryway, slipped on her shoes, grabbed her car keys, and was gone. The moment the door slammed shut, my body went limp. I collapsed onto the sofa. The wedding photo fell from my hands, its cheap wooden frame shattering on the floor. I didn’t want to be weak, but the pain in my chest was unbearable. This past year, ever since I found out about the affair, had been a living hell. First came the shock. How could Isabelle betray ten years of our lives together? Then came the heartbreak. I had been willing to look the other way, to let her have her fun, but she still wanted to leave me. She did everything she could to force my hand, to humiliate and wound me. But what could I do? It’s like the relationship experts say: it only takes one person to end a marriage. Especially when that person is a woman who has made up her mind. You can’t imagine the lengths a woman will go to, the cruel and vicious things she’ll do, when she’s determined to leave you. Like tonight, telling my mother to her face that she’d failed as a parent. She knew my mother had a heart condition. She knew she’d just had major surgery three months ago. I had spent the last six months hiding our problems from my mother, desperate not to worry her. But Isabelle, in her quest for freedom, had shattered that peace without a second thought. The pain in my chest intensified. I couldn’t take it anymore. I decided to go lie down. I’d barely taken two steps when my phone rang. It was my mother’s caregiver. My heart seized. I knew. The moment I answered, her panicked voice came through the line. “Mr. Miller, you need to get to Hillside General right now! Your mother… she wasn’t feeling well after the party. She’s in critical condition! They’re trying to save her!” Tears welled in my eyes, and my hand holding the phone began to shake. Panic, cold and sharp, washed over me. I remembered the doctor’s warning when she was discharged: Her heart is extremely weak. Any stress, any shock could be fatal. It was a miracle we saved her last time. I forced myself to breathe, to stay calm. I told the caregiver to stay with my mother and that I was on my way. I rushed to the bedroom, threw on a jacket, and started calling Isabelle. The last time my mother had a heart attack, Isabelle had been the one to find the top specialist who saved her life. I needed her to call him again. But from my apartment, to the elevator, to the parking garage, I called Isabelle twenty times. She didn’t pick up once. In desperation, as I started the car, I called her assistant, Jenna. She answered on the first ring. “Mr. Miller.” “Jenna, where’s Isabelle?” I asked, my voice tight. “Can you get me the number for that specialist she knows? My mother’s had a heart attack. She’s in the ER.” There was a two-second pause. When Jenna spoke again, her voice was full of regret. “I’m sorry, Mr. Miller. Ryan called me a little while ago. He said you signed the divorce papers and that I’m not to help you with anything anymore. I can’t contact Ms. Isabelle on your behalf.” “I’m really sorry, sir. It’s my job on the line. You know how… devoted Ms. Isabelle is to Ryan. I can’t go against his wishes. Maybe you could try calling her again?” She hung up. I slammed on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt inches from a concrete barrier. A cold rage spread through my body. I thought back to the past year, since Isabelle had met Ryan. At first, I didn’t see him as a threat. He was a nobody. A high school dropout working as a barista in some trendy cafe. I truly believed Isabelle was just having a momentary lapse, a mid-life crisis. That changed when Ryan started texting me, taunting me, insulting me. When I showed the messages to Isabelle, she was unnervingly calm. “He’s just a kid,” she’d said. “Cut him some slack.” That’s when I realized Ryan was more calculating than I’d thought. Still, I didn’t take him seriously. Not until he provoked me into a fight that landed me in the hospital with a bleeding ulcer. Isabelle’s reaction was a cold splash of water to the face. “You’ve always had stomach problems,” she said, her eyes blank. “What does that have to do with Ryan?” “The affair was my mistake. It has nothing to do with him.” In that moment, a genuine fear took root in my heart. I started digging into Ryan’s background. And I discovered why Isabelle was so captivated by him. It wasn’t about his charm or his looks. He had been her deskmate in high school. During a time when she was desperately poor, he had brought her breakfast every single day for three years. Sometimes, he’d bring her fried rice his mother made at her street food stall. It was that connection, that shared history of starting from nothing, that had blinded her. It was why she was willing to throw everything away to be with him. The moment I found out, the pain was a physical blow. Ryan and Isabelle’s story began when they had nothing. But hadn’t ours? Isabelle and I met in college. I’d missed my first-choice program and ended up shuffled into Computer Science, a major I hated and didn’t understand. The lectures were like a foreign language to me. But Isabelle… she was a prodigy. As a freshman, she was already writing her own code, building her own games. Desperate not to fail, I asked her if she would tutor me. She agreed, with one condition. “You buy me three meals a day,” she’d said with a grin. That’s when I learned how difficult her life was. Her father had passed away when she was young, and her mother supported her by selling trinkets at a street market. Maybe it was because we were both from single-parent homes, both having lost a father, but we just clicked. After six months of tutoring sessions, we started dating. She was poor, it was true, but only for that first year. In our sophomore year, she started doing freelance coding work online. Soon, she had money. More money than any other student we knew. And she was so good to me. No matter how busy she was, if I called, she would drop everything to go out with me. She sent half of her earnings to her mother. The other half, she gave to me to put into a savings account. I thought our life would just go on like that. But then, one rainy night during our senior year, she showed up at my dorm, soaking wet, and told me we were over. I couldn’t believe it. I grabbed her, demanding to know why. She collapsed in the rain, sobbing, and told me her startup had failed. She was a million dollars in debt. I had no idea she’d even started a business. She’d maxed out credit cards and taken out predatory online loans. Her partner had vanished with the last of the money. My heart ached for her. I held her tight and told her I had a solution. I went home and knelt before my mother, the woman who had always cherished me, and begged her to help Isabelle. My mother, a retired teacher, sighed deeply. “Alex, I do have a million dollars saved for you. But that’s for your future, for you to start a family. Are you absolutely sure you want to give it all to her? If you do this, I won’t have anything left to give you when you get married.” The words were like a weight on my chest, but I looked her in the eye. “I don’t want the money. I just want Isabelle to be okay.” I took that million dollars and paid off all of Isabelle’s debts. Overwhelmed with gratitude, Isabelle knelt before my mother and bowed her head to the floor three times. She swore, with tears in her eyes, that she would spend the rest of her life making me happy. But in the end, my million dollars, our shared story of struggle, couldn’t compete with three years of high school breakfast. My chest felt tight, like I couldn’t breathe. I tried calling Isabelle one more time. This time, someone answered. But it wasn’t Isabelle. It was Ryan. His voice was dripping with the same old taunting arrogance. “What do you want?” “I need to speak to Isabelle. It’s important.” He scoffed. “She’s in the shower. Can’t talk. And for the record, stop calling her. She’s going to be my wife soon.” I felt the air leave my lungs, but I clenched my fist, forcing the words out. My voice was a low plea. “Ryan, my mother is in the hospital. I need Isabelle to contact a doctor for me.” “Please. I’m begging you. Just let me talk to her.” The words “I’m begging you” felt like acid in my mouth. My eyes burned with humiliation. Ryan just laughed. “Then just let your mom die.” He hung up. Listening to the dial tone, I lost control. With a choked, guttural roar, I smashed my phone against the car window. The pain in my chest was a physical tear. But I had no time to break down. I forced myself to start the car and speed towards the hospital. My mother was waiting for me. But when I arrived, what I saw was not a hospital room. It was a body covered by a white sheet. My legs gave out. I nearly collapsed. The caregiver rushed over, her words a frantic blur. “Mr. Miller, I swear, it wasn’t my fault… I was with her the whole time. The second I saw something was wrong, I called 911. The dispatcher told me what medicine to give her…” A thousand needles pricked at my heart. Tears streamed down my face. It wasn’t her fault. It was mine. I knew Isabelle had been unhinged lately, but I still dragged her to my mother’s birthday party. How stupid was I? Did I really think that if we just spent more time together, she would change her mind? That I could somehow “win” her back from Ryan? And what was the result? Not only did she force me into a divorce in front of my entire family, she killed my mother. My heart felt like it was going to explode. But after a moment of pure, blinding grief, I pushed myself up from the floor. There was a funeral to arrange. Affairs to put in order. I could not fall apart. So, even as my chest heaved with silent sobs, I forced my trembling fingers to text our family and friends, to call the funeral home. And in the midst of that nightmare, Isabelle, the woman I had called a hundred times, finally sent me a text. [City Hall, 9 AM tomorrow. Don’t forget.] Reading that message, the pain in my heart went numb. This past year, I had been hurt, I had been miserable, I had been in despair. But through it all, a part of me had never let go of Isabelle. In that moment, that part of me died. Perhaps it was because the pain was so absolute, but a strange clarity washed over me. [I can’t tomorrow. Next Monday.] I turned off my phone and got back to work. The next few days were a blur. A constant stream of visitors offering condolences, of relatives to comfort. So many people came. My mother’s former students, our relatives, even some of Isabelle’s family. But not Isabelle. Instead, I got a text from Ryan. [Heard your mom died. lol. That’s rough. Guess you’re an orphan now? Serves you right.] [If you’d just divorced her sooner, maybe your mom would still be alive. You killed her, you loser.] He followed it with a video. On a sun-drenched beach, Isabelle was lounging in a bikini, sipping from a coconut. Ryan panned the camera from her to himself. He ran towards her, and they kissed, long and deep. Then, Ryan asked with faux innocence, “Isabelle, who do you love more? Me or your husband?” Isabelle rolled her eyes. “I’m divorcing him for you. Don’t ask such stupid questions. You must be bored.” She pulled him down for another kiss. The video ended. Tears streamed down my face. But I wiped them away after a single, shuddering breath. I forwarded the video to my lawyer. [Another one for the collection.] He replied instantly. [Received, Mr. Miller.] [How is the research on Isabelle’s company coming along?] [Almost complete. The entire team is working overtime. Rest assured, we will get you what you deserve.] I gripped my phone. [You know I don’t want compensation. I want Isabelle bankrupt and in prison.] The reply was swift. [Understood, Mr. Miller. We will do everything in our power.] I put the phone down and walked back to my mother’s memorial. “Mom, I’m so sorry,” I whispered. “This is my fault. But I promise you, the people who did this to you… they will pay.” In the days that followed, I learned the full truth. My mother had known about Isabelle’s affair for six months. Ryan had told her himself. My mother was a retired teacher. After my father died in a car crash when I was ten, she never remarried. She raised me on her own, being both a mother and a father to me. Her greatest wish was to see me happy. But Ryan… he had sent my mother videos of Isabelle and me fighting. He sent her screenshots of texts where Isabelle criticized me, complained about me. He had even “advised” her to convince me to get a divorce. That was what caused her first heart attack three months ago. The shock of it all. And it was what killed her. After Isabelle and I left her birthday party, Ryan had gone to see her. He told her I was holding back their true love. He told her that even if I clung to the marriage, I would be thrown out with nothing. That night, consumed with worry for me, my mother collapsed. She never woke up. I found the recordings of their conversations on her phone when I was going through her things. Listening to Ryan’s cruel, relentless voice, I couldn’t imagine the agony my mother must have been in. And yet, for six months, she never let on. Every time she called, it was just to remind me to eat well, to take care of myself. The pain was a blade twisting in my gut. Ryan wanted to take my place? Fine. He could have it. He could have the life of a man married to a bankrupt, soon-to-be-convicted felon.

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On the day I divorced my fifty-year-old CEO husband, I wore a full face of makeup and a stunning scarlet dress. A flicker of annoyance crossed Arthur Sterling’s handsome, refined face. “Dressed like you’re getting married today?” he asked, his voice laced with sarcasm. I fluffed my newly styled curls, a picture of a much younger, dashing face flashing in my mind. A genuine smile touched my lips. “I am.” “And it’s someone you know.” A cold sneer formed on his lips. “Everyone in my circle is famously devoted to their spouse. Did you even think before you came up with that lie?” I just shook my head and smiled. No need to explain. After all, he was already on his way. … In the car, Arthur didn’t head straight for the courthouse. He turned in the opposite direction. Meeting my questioning gaze, his tone was dismissive. “Catherine is coming with us. She’s waited over twenty years for this. I’m not making her wait a second longer.” So that’s how long our sham of a marriage had lasted. As we neared Catherine’s neighborhood, a new text came through. While I was replying, I slipped out of the car and bought a bottle of water from a convenience store. When I returned, the front passenger seat was occupied. “Sophie, I hope you don’t mind,” Catherine said, her voice cloyingly sweet. “I’m just so used to sitting up front with Arthur.” Why would I mind? We were on our way to get a divorce. As I reached for my handbag, Catherine gasped dramatically. “What a beautiful bag!” “Sophie, give the bag to Catherine,” Arthur commanded from the driver’s seat, his eyes fixed on the road. I was only trying to grab the small charm hanging from the strap, but he slammed on the brakes and whipped his head around. “I bought you that bag. Are you expecting me to pay you for it now?” I held up the cute little charm I’d just unclipped. “You didn’t buy me this.” His expression darkened, a strange look in his eyes. I placed the bag in Catherine’s lap. “I have plenty more at home, brand new. Give me your address, and I’ll send them all to you.” Arthur nodded, satisfied. “Sophie, as long as you don’t cause any trouble, I’ll make sure no one in our circle ever finds out about the divorce.” I didn’t answer. The man I was about to marry had no intention of keeping our marriage a secret. My phone began to vibrate insistently. I leaned against the window and answered in a low voice. It was him. He was on the plane. A small smile played on my lips as I whispered, “Okay.” Arthur caught my reflection in the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing at my smile. A surge of irritation washed over him. He was about to demand who I was talking to when Catherine, in the front seat, let out a deep sigh. Her hand absently stroked the bag in her lap. “What’s wrong?” Arthur asked, his voice softening as he turned to her at a red light. Catherine quickly covered a spot on the bag, her eyes darting away. “It’s… it’s nothing…” Sensing something was wrong, Arthur snatched the bag from her. A long, fresh scratch marred the expensive leather. It was impossible to miss. His anger flared. He threw the bag at me. I was looking out the window, completely unprepared. It hit my arm with a solid thud. My hand jerked, accidentally ending the call. But I wasn’t finished talking. Ignoring Arthur, I immediately tried to redial. The call had just connected when Arthur got out of the car, stormed over to my side, and snatched the phone from my hand. He threw it to the ground. A passing car crushed it instantly. “Arthur, you…” Before I could finish, he had dragged me out of the car. My high heels caught on the pavement, and a sharp pain shot through my ankle as it twisted beneath me. I stumbled, unable to stand. Seeing my swollen ankle, Arthur let go of my arm in disgust. “I asked you to give her a bag, and you scratch it first? Sophie, I never knew you were so manipulative!” He didn’t even ask. He just pronounced me guilty. I looked up at Catherine in the car. She quickly averted her gaze, her hands nervously fidgeting with her dress. Ever since she had reappeared in his life, I had become the most manipulative woman in the world in Arthur’s eyes. Marrying him to save his family’s company from financial ruin? Manipulative, using gratitude as a weapon. Working my fingers to the bone to grow his business? Manipulative, using his connections as a launchpad for myself. Agreeing to the divorce to let him be with her? Manipulative, a calculated retreat to gain the upper hand. In the past, I would have patiently explained, defended myself. But not today. I was done. “You’re right. I didn’t want to give it to her. I wanted to piss her off. Are you satisfied?” Biting back the searing pain in my ankle, I forced myself to stand and limped towards the sidewalk without a backward glance. Arthur, I’m done chasing after you, done explaining myself. He stood by the car, a vein throbbing in his temple. “Fine, Sophie! You admitted it! So don’t blame me for leaving you here. You can walk to the courthouse yourself!” Leaving me behind? Wasn’t that his specialty when it came to Catherine? He’d walked out on our wedding reception because of a text from her, leaving me to face our guests alone. He’d left me shivering in the cold for two hours after a gala because he’d secretly gone to pick her up. He’d abandoned me in a foreign country in the middle of a business trip because she’d called him, not even bothering with an explanation. My heart had long since turned to ice. By the time I reached the courthouse, my ankle was a swollen, angry mess. Every step sent a wave of cold sweat down my back. I was leaning against a wall, trying to catch my breath, when someone scooped me up from behind. “Arthur, put me down!” His face was a stony mask as he ignored my protests and marched inside. As we passed Catherine, a flash of pure hatred crossed her face. Inside, a helpful bystander pointed the way. “Sir, marriage licenses are this way.” Arthur’s face darkened. He dropped me. “We’re here for a divorce.” I landed hard, my injured ankle buckling under the sudden weight. A sharp, blinding pain shot up my leg. After the paperwork was done and the divorce decree was in my hand, I found a seat and waited. He should be arriving soon. “Sophie, aren’t you leaving?” Catherine asked, her arm linked possessively with Arthur’s. “Your ankle looks pretty bad. After Arthur and I get our license, we can give you a ride to the hospital!” I took out my compact and reapplied my lipstick. “No, thank you. I’m waiting for someone. We’re getting married. He’ll take me to the hospital.” “Oh, what a coincidence! Arthur, darling, let’s wait with Sophie, shall we?” Catherine pulled Arthur over to the seats next to me. “After we get our license, we can wait and see. If Sophie’s ‘fiancé’ doesn’t have a car, we can still give her a ride.” Arthur squeezed her hand tenderly and tucked it into his pocket. “You’re always so considerate of others.” But as the sky began to darken, no one came. I reached for my phone, only then remembering it was in pieces on the side of a road. Frustrated, I started to get up. Catherine, clutching her brand-new marriage certificate, walked over with a triumphant smile. “Sophie, let’s just forget about this imaginary person. Be reasonable. Let Arthur and I, as a married couple, take you to the hospital.” I patted my pockets again. I didn’t have a single dollar on me. The only valuable thing I’d had was the handbag I’d just given away. So, I didn’t refuse her offer. Outside, I clung to the railing, carefully making my way down the steps. “Sophie, let me help you.” Catherine hurried to my side. I was about to wave her off. “Ah!” She let out a scream, stumbled, and fell backward. Arthur caught her instantly. She buried her face in his chest, her eyes filled with tears. “Sophie, I was just trying to help. Why did you push me?” Arthur shot me a furious look. He stroked her back comfortingly, then grabbed my arm and dragged me down the remaining steps. “Sophie, you are unbelievable…” Seeing me clutch my ankle in agony, a flicker of pity crossed his face. He was about to tell me to get in the car. But then Catherine whimpered, “Arthur…” He immediately wrapped his arm around her and helped her into the car. And drove away. I limped to the nearest police station and asked an officer to drive me home. My assistant got me a new SIM card and brought it to me at the hospital. The moment I turned on my new phone, it was flooded with missed call notifications. Before I could even unlock it, it rang again. “Sophie! You finally answered! What happened? Are you okay?” He sounded like he was on the verge of tears. I glanced down at my bandaged ankle. “It’s nothing serious. I just sprained my ankle.” “What! How bad is it? Have you been to the hospital?” He sounded frantic, as if he would teleport to my side if he could. “I bought a train ticket the second I landed. I’ll be there in half an hour.” “My flight had to turn back halfway because of the weather.” “I’ve been calling you since we landed. I was so scared when you didn’t answer.” Just after we hung up, Arthur, who never posted on social media, updated his status. It was a silhouette of him and Catherine, holding their marriage certificate. I commented: [Congratulations to the happy couple. Wishing you all the best.] When I looked again, the post was gone. A call from Arthur popped up on my screen.

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I was scrolling through a forum while waiting for my test results at the hospital when a question caught my eye: “What’s the most thrilling thing you’ve ever done?” An anonymous user commented: “Going through a divorce, sleeping with my lawyer’s husband, and now I’m pregnant with his child.” “She’s so buried in legal statutes, she has no idea I’m the one that got away, his first love.” “Even better? I control his finances now, and she’s completely in the dark.” “Oh, and that woman is pregnant, too. I told him I couldn’t stand the thought of her child being born. He promised he’d convince her to get rid of it, citing developmental issues.” “He’s mine. So is his money.” At the edge of the accompanying photo, a watch was faintly visible. My blood ran cold. That watch… it was identical to the one on my husband’s wrist. Just then, the door to my room swung open. My husband walked in, his voice as gentle as ever. “Honey, the doctor said… the baby isn’t developing well. For your own health, maybe we shouldn’t keep this one.” 01 The corner of the report was crumpled in his tight grip. I unfolded it, my eyes locking on the words “Suggested Termination.” My throat tightened. “Is that… really what the doctor said?” His gaze darted around the room, never once meeting mine. He just murmured, “You weren’t careful, you took that medication.” “Just to be safe, it’s for the best.” A sharp pain bloomed in my chest, shattering the last shred of hope I was clinging to. But before the wave of emotion could drown my reason, professional instinct took over. I forced myself to detach. I did a quick mental calculation. My physical condition and the medication I’d recently taken meant keeping the baby was a risk. I had to protect myself first. Finally, I nodded. Seeing my crestfallen expression, he moved closer, taking my hand. He soothed me with a warm voice, “Honey, we can always have another baby. Your health is what’s most important.” What a hypocrite. I pulled my arm away and turned my back to him. “I’m tired. I need to rest.” And just like that, with a few careless words, he had discarded the child we had longed for. In ten years of marriage, he had always been the perfect husband. But I had just learned that he was playing the same devoted role for another woman. The anonymous comment had already exploded into a full-blown flame war. The replies were split into three camps: those who called her a homewrecking monster, those who romanticized their “fated love,” and those who speculated that I must have stolen him away first, claiming they couldn’t judge without knowing the whole story. The first thing I did after being discharged was pull up that post and read every single word. Four months ago, Isabelle Croft was fighting for a divorce. I was her lawyer. And through her, I was reunited with Marcus. [My lawyer didn’t just win my case; she brought my first love back to me. What a godsend.] [The day of the hearing, her husband dropped her off. I knew it was him the second I saw him. My first love. And from the way he looked at me, I knew he’d never forgotten.] [After we won, I went to their house to thank her. I cornered him in the kitchen and kissed him against the counter.] [As I was leaving, he made up an excuse to get my number.] [He started finding reasons to see me, saying he wanted to celebrate me finally getting away from my scumbag ex.] [We talked so much about the past, about why we broke up. He cried.] [Seeing his eyes glistening with tears, I leaned in and kissed him, and then… we just did it.] [Later, he saw me arguing with my ex about the settlement money and got angry. He said if I needed money, I should have just asked him, that I didn’t need to degrade myself.] [I never wanted to destroy his family. His wife helped me, and I’ll always be grateful for that…] [But he told me he never really got over me. He said he only agreed to the blind date with her back then because she looked a little like me.] [Before I could even figure out what to do, I found out I was pregnant. I guess it was fate.] I stared at the screen, my nails digging so deep into my palms they nearly drew blood. Twenty-two and thirty-two. A decade lies between those years. From cramming for the bar exam side-by-side to propping each other up as we started our careers; from sharing a single bowl of instant noodles in a cramped apartment to owning a home of our own. Everyone called us the picture-perfect couple, a match made in heaven. I never once doubted that we were each other’s one and only. But it turned out our decade of love was nothing but a mirage. I remembered four months ago, when a distraught Isabelle was about to jump off the West End Bridge, and I was the one who talked her down. Later, I took her case and fought to get her the best possible settlement. I also remembered the strange way Marcus froze the first time he saw her. I’d even joked about it. “What are you staring at? You smitten or something?” He was quiet for a long moment before murmuring, “She… reminds me of a friend who’s no longer with us.” I didn’t suspect a thing. I even comforted him. “Life is unpredictable. You never know when you’ll see someone for the last time.” He hummed in agreement, pulling me into a hug, his arms wrapped tightly around me. That night, he had whispered in my ear, “You have to promise you’ll always stay safe, right by my side.” At the time, I thought he was just being sentimental, leaning on me for comfort. Looking back, it was probably the thrill of touching a ghost from his past. Or maybe, it was the unease of a guilty conscience. A new comment appeared at the bottom of the thread. [His wife’s procedure went smoothly. Next up, dividing the assets.] [He said he has plenty of ways to make sure she leaves with nothing. After all, he knows exactly how to handle her.] […I really am sorry, but I can’t help it.] I read that last line and a bitter laugh escaped my lips. Isabelle, have you forgotten how we met? I’ve handled countless divorce cases. And I have never, ever lost. 02 As a lawyer with over a decade of experience, digging up information was second nature to me. It didn’t take long to piece together the whole ugly picture from the digital breadcrumbs they’d left behind. In just four short months, Marcus had poured all his energy into Isabelle. All that was left for me were lies and manipulation. Four months ago, shortly after filing Isabelle’s case, I’d pulled several all-nighters gathering evidence and ended up with acute gastritis. Marcus said he was on his way. I waited for four hours. The IV drip finished, and he never showed. Now I know why. He was so worried something would happen to Isabelle that he stayed by her side all night. Then there was the high-profile case I took on, the one that made the news. I was targeted by the defendant’s family. I was attacked and hospitalized, frantically calling his phone, but he never picked up. Because he was with Isabelle, taking a trip down memory lane at their old university, reliving their teenage romance. After the attack, I was left with severe anxiety and trauma, walking around in a constant daze. He canceled all his work to be with me during that time. He put me first in everything, planned little surprises, and surrounded me with a sense of security. My favorite gift was a custom necklace. He said it had a GPS tracker so he could always find me. Turns out, it was just a mass-produced freebie from a brand event he and Isabelle had attended together. The treasure I cherished was just a cheap party favor from one of their dates. It was all a calculated act to monitor me, a way to prevent his secret from ever coming out. I watched a video of them, surrounded by people, laughing together. My fingers slowly curled into a fist. The worst part? Our mutual friends, every single one of them, knew. No one warned me. No one said a word. The dinner parties continued, the likes on social media kept coming. They all tacitly agreed to ignore my existence. But it was what I found next that sent a true chill down my spine, plunging me into an icy abyss. It was a neatly organized document titled: Evidence Chain Regarding Attorney Audrey Lane’s Improper Use of the ‘XX Case’ for Self-Promotion. It contained my home address, social security number, place of employment, and dozens of clear photos of me. The document was created a month before I was attacked. And I found it on Marcus’s computer. A note inside read: This person is a glory-hound, using a major news story to build her own brand and manipulate public sympathy. Below that was a screenshot of Isabelle’s social media. She had reposted the message that leaked my private information. The image attached was a scan of my ID. Her caption read: [I can’t believe the lawyer I respected so much is this kind of person. I really hope someone teaches her a lesson.] Someone replied below: “You sure it’s her?” Her response was a single word: “Yes.” A roar filled my ears. The attack I’d suffered wasn’t random at all. They had worked together, leaking my personal information, deliberately putting me in harm’s way. The storm of online harassment and public condemnation that followed wasn’t a coincidence either. It was them, meticulously, step by step, pushing me to the edge. How is that any different from murder? I laughed until my eyes burned with tears. All the little pieces I had dismissed came rushing back, sharp and jagged: The faint scent of an unfamiliar perfume on his clothes. The hushed phone calls on the balcony late at night. His overly attentive behavior after I was attacked… What I had believed to be love. It was just a carefully measured dose of poison. I wiped my eyes fiercely. Fine. If he wanted to play this elaborate, cruel game, then I would be more than happy to play along. As a lawyer, I knew exactly what it took to utterly destroy someone. I opened my laptop and began compiling the evidence I had gathered. Marcus’s asset transfer records, proof of his affair with Isabelle, the email logs tracing the leak of my personal information… It was more than enough to build a complete evidence chain for a criminal complaint. Just as my thoughts were racing, my phone rang. It was Isabelle. I took a deep breath and answered. Her voice, light and smiling, came through the phone. “Audrey, it’s me. I’m having a little party this weekend to celebrate my… well, my new beginning. I especially want to thank you for everything you did for my case. You absolutely have to come.” Her tone was sincere, but then she added, almost as an afterthought, “Oh, by the way, Marcus promised he’d be there too. You’ll grace us with your presence, won’t you, Audrey?” She slowly recited an address. It was only twenty minutes from my law firm. I listened to the flawless blend of intimacy and calculation in her voice and smiled without a sound. Thank me? The audacity was staggering. “Of course,” I said, my voice perfectly steady. “I’ll be there.” They were so eager to put on a show, right under my nose. A celebration of a new beginning? Perfect. Let’s see if they can stomach the feast I have planned for them.

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New Year’s Eve. My sister Zoe was admitted to the hospital after a car crash. It was supposed to be a standard surgery for a fractured leg. Two hours later, she was a cold, lifeless body. The surgeon, Dr. Price, claimed she died from massive hemorrhaging, that they couldn’t save her. My wife, a medical examiner, issued a report of accidental death with lightning speed, before I even had a chance to see Zoe one last time. My mother, her face streaked with tears, rushed to have Zoe’s body sent for cremation. I just wanted to arrange a proper farewell, but when I got a glimpse of Zoe’s body, I saw her arms were covered in needle marks and deep bruises. Her whole body was shriveled, like a mummy. Her pupils were discolored, a sickening purple, and her skin was a sallow, jaundiced yellow. My heart sank. In that instant, I knew the truth of my sister’s death had been buried. That night, I strapped her surgeon to an operating table and started a livestream for the whole world to see. 1 “Is this some kind of movie stunt?” “Look at the doctor’s eyes. That’s real, primal fear. You can’t fake that.” “That’s Cole Reed! His sister died in that crash on New Year’s Eve. He was the one who collapsed from grief!” “His poor sister… so young, gone just like that…” I ignored the flood of comments, taping Dr. Aaron Price’s mouth shut before picking up a thick-gauge IV catheter. I stared into the camera and let a cold smile spread across my face. “Anna, my love, I know you’re out there watching. The man who operated on my sister just happens to be your dear senior colleague.” “I’m going to drain him, drop by drop. And I think I’ll start right here.” With swift, brutal precision, I plunged the needle into the vein in Price’s left arm. Blood immediately began to flow into the collection bag. Price’s eyes bulged, a muffled scream tearing through the livestream. He struggled, but a jolt of electricity shot through his spine from the device I’d placed beneath him. The comments section exploded with vitriol. They called me a monster, a sick bastard, a butcher. I just smirked, my hands never pausing. I took the blood-stained needle and slowly dragged its tip up the inside of his trembling thigh. “Tell me, Anna, do you think my sister was in pain when she was being tortured like this?” “When I pulled back the sheet, I saw her. Her eyes were sunken, her skin was yellow, and every vein in her body was collapsed and empty.” I didn’t give Price a moment to react. In the next instant… The tip of my scalpel hovered over his abdomen. My expression turned feral. “Zoe’s abdomen had a suture line that had nothing to do with the crash. And where her kidney should have been… there was nothing.” “Your autopsy report, Anna—the one you wrote—mentioned only massive hemorrhaging from the accident. Not a single word about any other wounds.” “Someone with your skills, making a mistake like that? Who are you kidding? You were covering for the real killer.” I reversed my grip and plunged the knife into the muscle of Price’s right thigh, twisting it, grinding the steel against flesh. He was like an animal on a slaughterhouse floor, helpless, unable to fight back. His muffled screams echoed through the livestream as he babbled incomprehensible pleas for mercy. I leaned close to his ear, gently tapping his cheek with the blood-slicked back of the blade. “Tell me, when you’re just a dried-up corpse, completely drained of blood, do you think anyone will rule your death an ‘accident’?” Suddenly, the operating room doors burst open. My wife, Anna, rushed in, breathless, followed by Captain Miller from the Major Crimes Division. “Cole! Drop the knife!” Miller’s face was grim, the barrel of his gun aimed squarely between my eyes. I ignored his fury, my gaze fixed on Anna, standing behind him. “Anna. Perfect timing.” “Why don’t you explain to the hundreds of thousands of people watching right now…” “Why my sister, Zoe, had her kidney removed after a simple surgery for a broken leg?” Anna’s voice was choked with sobs. “Cole, you’re insane! What are you talking about?” “Zoe died of post-operative hemorrhaging, complicated by acute renal failure!” “Dr. Price was trying to save her life! He had to perform an emergency nephrectomy!” “It’s all documented! In the surgical records and in my autopsy report!” “You’re a doctor yourself, for God’s sake! Can’t you see that?! You’re just… you’re having a psychotic break from the grief! Stop this, please!” Her words set the livestream on fire. “Oh, so it was renal failure. I knew it. No doctor would just steal an organ.” “The poor guy is having a complete breakdown from grief. It’s tragic.” “And he’s a doctor! Supposed to save lives, and here he is, torturing someone on a livestream! He’s a disgrace to medicine. Bastards like him should rot in hell!” I read the comments, the words like acid, and I laughed. “The surgery was barely over, and before I could even properly examine Zoe’s body, you had the cremation forms signed and were rushing them to push her into the incinerator.” “No body, no evidence! What exactly am I supposed to see?” I turned and hoisted Price higher, causing the blood to flow even faster. “At this rate, he has about thirty minutes before he goes into irreversible shock from blood loss.” “Thirty minutes. If one of you tells the truth, I’ll stop.” Captain Miller’s face was ashen. “Cole, I’m telling you for the last time. Put down the knife and release Dr. Price!” “Or I’ll have to put you down right here!” I looked at him, and a strange smile touched my lips. “Captain, have you forgotten? Three years ago, during that drug bust. You took two bullets to the gut, your intestines were spilling out.” “Everyone else had given you up for dead. It was me, Captain. I was the one who pulled you back from the brink.” “And today, you’re going to use that hand to kill the man who saved your life?” The hand holding the gun trembled. Anna’s voice was a raw whisper. “Cole, please, calm down! What you think you saw wasn’t real!” “Zoe’s death… it’s all there, clear as day, in the autopsy report!” I let out a cold laugh and pulled a crumpled piece of paper from my pocket. “You mean this one?” “The one you wrote half of before throwing it in the trash!” Under the camera’s glare, the words on the torn report were sharp and clear: Subject: Zoe Reed, F, 24. Body is in good health, with no history of major illness. Anna’s pupils shrank to pinpricks. “Anna, didn’t you just say my sister had acute renal failure?” “Then tell me, why does this initial report, in your own handwriting, state that she had no history of major illness?” She stammered, “That… that was just a draft… I got her full medical history later, and that’s when I…” “Still lying!” I roared, cutting her off. In a flash, I slashed a new gash across Price’s other thigh! Blood sprayed out, flowing several times faster than the IV drip. Price convulsed, a death rattle in his throat. “Cole, stop!” Anna screamed, completely unhinged. She pointed a trembling finger at me, tears streaming down her face. “You’re a monster, Cole! A monster! Have you forgotten the oath you took?” “When Zoe was hurt, why didn’t you operate? Why didn’t you save her yourself?!” “Dr. Price stepped up for you! He tried to save her, and he failed, and now you’re going to murder him for it?!” Why didn’t I operate? I staggered, gripping the operating table to keep from collapsing. For the past six months, my vision has been getting worse. My memory is failing. I’ve been fainting without warning. The night of Zoe’s accident, I had just come out of a ten-hour surgery. I was practically delirious with exhaustion. I couldn’t have held a scalpel, let alone stood on my own two feet. Seeing my anguish, Anna pressed her advantage. “Cole, your grief is making you hallucinate!” “If you don’t trust me, don’t you at least trust your own mother?” “Mom personally selected Dr. Price to be Zoe’s surgeon! Why would she ever do anything to harm her own daughter?!” My head snapped up. It was my mother who had stopped me from examining the body. A bitter laugh, sharp with rage, escaped me. I raised the knife again, and another bloody wound opened on Price’s body. “Fifteen minutes left, Anna.” “And I am deeply unsatisfied with your explanation.” Price’s screams were growing weaker. Anna finally broke. She fell to her knees, slamming her forehead against the floor again and again. “Cole, I’m begging you! Please, let him go!” “It was all my fault! I’m not skilled enough, I made a mistake in my assessment, that’s why the report was wrong!” “Zoe’s death had nothing to do with him, he did everything he could! I swear, he did everything!” She sobbed, her body wracked with grief. Just then, the doors to the OR were thrown open again. A middle-aged woman in a white coat strode in. It was my mother, the vice president of City Center Hospital, Dr. Evelyn Reed. “Cole. Zoe’s death was an accident.” “I personally examined her body. I reviewed all the surgical records and the autopsy report.” “The conclusion is clear. It was complications from the car crash. Massive hemorrhaging. They couldn’t save her.” “As for the removed kidney, it was a standard emergency procedure, completely in line with medical protocol.” “There was no organ theft.” Evelyn looked at me, her eyes filled with pain and disappointment. “Son, stop this. Don’t disturb your sister’s peace.” “What you’re doing is a crime. You are disgracing this entire family!” I looked at her, this woman I had admired my entire life, and felt a chill seep into my bones. Could I really be wrong? If Price had nothing to do with it, why did Anna destroy the first report? Why were they in such a hurry to cremate my sister’s body? “Mom. Make her finish that report. Right here, in front of everyone.” I hit a button, increasing the speed of the blood pump. The clear bag was rapidly filling with crimson. Price’s body arched in a final, agonizing spasm. “Fine! I’ll write it!” Anna snatched a pen, her hand shaking violently. “You want the truth? Fine, I’ll give you the truth.” “But the truth is, we were all just trying to protect you.” The livestream comments exploded with question marks. “Protect him? He’s torturing a man to death, and they’re protecting him?” “I don’t understand this plot twist at all.” I sneered. “Protect me? By sacrificing my sister’s life?” My mother’s voice was like iron. “Yes.” “Zoe was already gone by the time she got to the hospital.” “It was a catastrophic accident.” “And the person driving the car… was you.” Me? I was driving? Impossible. I was at the hospital that night. I had just finished surgery. How could I have been driving? Anna got to her feet, tears carving paths down her face. “It’s true, Cole. Your vision has been failing for months. You’ve been having blackouts, episodes of confusion.” “That night, after your surgery, you took a phone call and left. We thought you were going home to rest.” “But you got in your car. And on the road…” Her voice broke. “You blacked out right after it happened. You don’t remember any of it! We brought you home and told everyone you were resting at the hospital.” “We couldn’t let you go to prison! We couldn’t let you live with the guilt of killing your own sister!” “So…” My mother finished the sentence, her voice heavy with sorrow. “So we created this story.” “We had Dr. Price perform the ‘surgery’ and declared it an accident.” “That kidney wasn’t stolen. It was ruptured so severely in the crash that it had to be removed!” “We had Zoe cremated to destroy the evidence, to protect you, so you could have a life!” “Son, we were trying to save you! How could you be so blind?!” Tears streamed down my mother’s face as she looked at me, her heart breaking. The livestream chat went insane. “HOLY SHIT! PLOT TWIST! HE KILLED HIS OWN SISTER!” “So he’s the real murderer? And because of amnesia, he tortured the doctor and his family who were trying to protect him?” “This is… this is beyond monstrous. He’s an animal!” “My god, his wife and mother are saints. They went through all of that to protect that psycho.” I stood there, stunned. I clutched my head, the world spinning around me. Seeing my collapse, Anna’s eyes filled with a flicker of pity, but she still reached into her pocket and pulled out a USB drive. “Cole, I know you don’t believe us.” “See for yourself.” She plugged the drive into the monitor in the operating room. “This is from your car’s dashcam. I made a copy.” The screen lit up. A video began to play. A familiar dashboard. The interior of my car. Then, my own voice, weary and strained, came from the speakers. “Zoe, I just got out of surgery. Where are you? I’ll come pick you up.” On the other end, my sister’s bright, cheerful voice replied, “No way, big brother, you stay put. It’s freezing out. I bought you your favorite soup, I’m almost at the hospital entrance. Just wait for me.” “Okay.” The call ended. The car moved slowly. My heart was in my throat. I stared at the screen, desperately searching for a flaw, a glitch, anything. There was nothing. It was my car. My voice. In the video, the car suddenly swerved, then accelerated violently. Caught in the high beams was my sister, Zoe, holding a thermal container. She was still smiling. Then my car slammed into her.

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In the third year of my imprisonment, I stumbled upon a post on an online forum. The topic was: [Can young love ever last?] The original poster wrote about her deskmate, how he got into fights for her, how he brought her breakfast every morning. How he’d plastered a love letter with her name on it all over the school’s public notice board. Between the lines, her own budding affection was impossible to miss. But then I saw the date of the post and the username, and I froze. It was from me, ten years ago. Ten years later, the boy who wrote that letter was my husband. And he had chained my ankles to the bed, the floor around me littered with graphic photos of him and a buzzy new actress. I swallowed the sleeping pills I had been hoarding for months and replied with a self-deprecating laugh. [Don’t say yes. In the end, all love turns into this.] … The bitter taste of the pills hadn’t even faded from my tongue when the door slammed open with a deafening crash. Damien Blackwood slapped the bottle from my hand, his voice a furious growl. “Are you insane?!” Before I could answer, he swept me into his arms and sprinted to the car. He ran who knows how many red lights on the way, a symphony of blaring horns and screaming drivers trailing behind us. It wasn’t until the cold feeding tube was pulled from my stomach that he grabbed me by the collar. “What the hell are you trying to pull now?” “You knew Stella was accepting her award tonight. Did you have to arrange for someone to humiliate her during her press interviews?” My face was pale, but I smiled. “She sent me those photos of you two, didn’t she? She wanted to see me lose my mind.” “You love her so much. Why not just let me die and give her my spot?” He took several deep breaths. “You know I would never let anyone come before you. Even with her baby, if you wanted…” “I don’t want it!” I screamed, cutting him off. “Damien, don’t you dare talk to me about a baby!” It was like I was back in that hopeless night, the air thick and suffocating. In an instant, I lost all energy to fight him. My hand trembled as I touched my lower abdomen. “Damien, just let me go. Stella will give you so many children. But we… we’ll never have another one.” His cool fingertips brushed my cheek as he regained the cold composure of a man long accustomed to being in charge. “You know I love you the most.” Most, but not only. I laughed so hard tears started to form. He leaned down, as if to place a kiss on the corner of my eye. I turned my head away, and his movement froze in mid-air. After a long moment, he sighed softly. “Promise me you won’t do anything stupid again, okay? Otherwise, your journalist friend might get very worried about you.” I understood his threat perfectly. Stop trying to die. I have your friend. The moment he stepped out of the hospital room, I collapsed onto the bed, all strength gone. I was so tired of this life of mutual torture. The phone in my palm suddenly vibrated. [All love turns into this? Why do you say that?] My numb heart gave a violent jolt. I stared at the words on the screen, finally realizing that the post I’d replied to wasn’t a hallucination. A new reply popped up. [Do you… know Damien Blackwood?] It felt like a lifeline, a chance to escape. Fat tears splattered onto the screen as my trembling fingers flew across the keyboard. [He’s your future husband. And I am you, ten years from now.] [Stay away from him! Run!] There was a short silence, then two simple words appeared. [Prove it.] I stared at the phone, completely blank. For a moment, I couldn’t think of a single thing that could prove I was the woman who had spent a decade as Damien’s wife. The five hundred love letters he wrote me? The night he slept with Stella, I’d set them all on fire and thrown the ashes at them. Our marriage certificate? I’d stuffed it into the bouquet of flowers Stella received at her wrap party, subjecting her to three months of negative press. The torn pieces of that certificate had come back to me, wrapped in the sting of Damien’s palm across my face. They say love gives you armor. But for me, all the proof of our past love had become a blade I tried to use against him. The problem was, he had new armor now. My dull, old blade was useless against him. I was the only one left bleeding. Finally, I lifted my shirt and sent a photo of a faded tattoo. It was on my left side, over the fifth rib, the one closest to the heart. Damien had a matching one. Ten years ago, I was harassed by some street thugs. Damien, all by himself, fought them until his shirt was soaked through with blood. The worst of his wounds was a long gash that ran diagonally across his chest. An inch deeper, and he would have been dead. Later, that deep scar was covered by a tattoo of a vibrant red koi fish. The teenage boy had grinned at me in the setting sun, his smile wild and free. “Cora, I want you on my heart forever.” I’d cried until I couldn’t breathe, overwhelmed by the intensity of his love, and by the hopeless, head-over-heels way I felt for him. The day I made that forum post, I accepted Damien’s confession of love. And I had the same tattoo etched onto my own skin. When my family found out, my strict, disciplinarian parents were furious and demanded I break up with him. For the first time in my life, I, the ever-obedient daughter, defied them. I ran away from our gated community and went with Damien to the city where we planned to attend university. My family, perhaps giving up on me, never came looking for me after that. I was sad, but with Damien by my side, it all felt worth it. Damien’s grades weren’t great, so he gave up on college and dedicated himself to supporting my education. We curled up in a tiny, cramped apartment, sharing a single bowl of instant ramen. Through winters so cold the water froze in the pipes, we kept each other warm. Under the dim glow of a tungsten lamp, I made a wish over a small birthday cake that one day I would become a famous screenwriter. Damien just watched me, his chin resting on his hand, a smile playing on his lips. “Your wish is my command. Your personal genie has received your request.” He traded his work coveralls for a suit and became a bodyguard for a powerful figure. After five years of living on the edge, his suits got more expensive, and the places we lived in got bigger and bigger. Finally, he handed me a project proposal for a film. “Honey,” he said, “go cast the actors for the story you wrote.” And Stella was the leading lady I chose. Back then, she had just come from a poor, rural town, and she carried a kind of gray, faded quality about her. But her eyes… her eyes burned with a stunning light, filled with a stubborn refusal to let go of any opportunity that came her way. She told me, “Mrs. Blackwood, I won’t let you down.” Her spirit was a perfect match for the protagonist in my script. We were the same age and shared similar passions, and we quickly became inseparable. We spent countless nights revising the script, often too busy to even go home. Damien would bring us hot meals, watching with a fond indulgence as we devoured them. The warmth in his gaze was like the sun to me. But that same sun also shone its way into Stella’s heart. A month before filming wrapped, I found out I was pregnant. Suffering from morning sickness, I went home early one day, only to find a mess of clothes scattered in front of our familiar bed. The two people tangled together under the sheets were also painfully familiar. When my hand struck Stella’s face, Damien just grabbed my wrist, his brow furrowed as he asked if I was hurt. I slapped him across the face with my other hand. He just worked his jaw and smiled, trying to pull me into a hug. “Don’t stress the baby. It was just for fun, to blow off some steam.” But the man who said it was “just for fun” ran after Stella the moment her face went pale and she fled the room. The next day, every entertainment headline was screaming about how the CEO of Blackwood Corporation had dispatched dozens of cars to search every street in the city, all for the love of an actress. And me, sick with stress and fear for my baby, I couldn’t find a single car that night. Alone in our villa in the hills, I could only lie there in despair as my child slipped away from me. After that, I cried. I raged. I leaked the story of Damien’s affair to a rival media company. I added scenes for Stella that required her to be submerged in freezing water in the middle of winter. Damien didn’t even look up from feeding me chicken soup, meant to help me recover. He just had the people who came to complain thrown out. “The stock price will go back up. Stella’s cold will get better. As long as you’re happy, anything is fine.” It wasn’t until the wrap party, with reporters everywhere, that I exposed Stella as the other woman. By then, some on-set photos had already given her a bit of fame. Overnight, the internet was flooded with venomous attacks against her, nearly destroying her career before it had even begun. I thought I had won. But I couldn’t see it then. I thought losing was when someone stopped loving you completely. It wasn’t until Stella jumped into a river because of the public backlash that I realized I had already lost everything. The sting of Damien’s hand across my face hurt more than any blade. He carried a dripping wet Stella away. “Cora, I saved you all those years ago so you could have a life, not so you could become this… this malicious woman.” For Damien Blackwood, who by then held the city in the palm of his hand, protecting someone was easy. Destroying someone was even easier. He released stories about how I had changed the script to torment Stella, and then he told the world about how he had dropped out of school to put me through college. Unsurprisingly, I became the vampiric, shrewish wife in the public eye, sucking him dry. Damien’s affair was reframed as a justifiable release after years of sacrifice. And Stella… Stella became his redemption.

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The scion of the powerful Donovan dynasty crashed his car, and with the resulting amnesia, he erased all memory of the gentle woman who had been his anchor during his darkest days. The family elders, seizing the power vacuum, played matchmaker and pushed me—the perfectly respectable, “suitable” society princess—into the role of his emergency fiancée. I was well aware that when Gabe Donovan was scraping the bottom, treated like the family’s unacknowledged bastard, I was part of the gallery of rich, cruel kids who watched him squirm. Only the housekeeper’s daughter had seen him as a treasure. Now, two years later, his savior is back. And Gabe’s memory is on the verge of returning. Everyone is waiting for the spectacle, anticipating the moment I’ll be cast out like garbage, expecting him to settle the score. But there’s an awkward hitch: right at this critical moment, I found out I’m pregnant. 1 When the news broke that Gabe Donovan had been rushed to the hospital after a blinding headache at the company, my heart seized up. I rushed to the VIP wing, but just as I was about to push open the door to his room, Logan Keller, his sharp-eyed special assistant, blocked me. His expression was troubled. He leaned in and delivered the quiet blow: “Clem, I think the boss is about to get his memory back.” My hand twitched. Before I could even process the weight of the disaster, I heard voices from inside. It wasn’t just Gabe. There was a man and a woman. The man was Brooks Donovan, Gabe’s hostile stepbrother. The woman was dressed modestly, radiating an almost fragile innocence—the legendary Sierra West, the ghost of his first love. Her voice was trembling: “I’m Sierra West. I’m back, Gabe. Do you remember who I am?” I pushed the door open, bracing myself for a tearful, cinematic reunion. Instead, Gabe wasn’t in the bed. Even in a hospital gown, the man radiated an effortless aura of cold, old-money arrogance. He was sprawled on the small sofa, his long legs casually crossed, absently toying with a Zippo lighter. Apart from a slight pallor, he looked nothing like a patient. Faced with Sierra’s desperate plea, he didn’t even lift his gaze. He simply spoke to Brooks, his voice a block of ice: “Next time, don’t bring every random woman who claims to be my ‘true love’ into my private room.” Then, he waved a dismissive hand, signaling Logan to send them out. Brooks was furious. He dragged Sierra out, spitting venom at Gabe: “You’ll regret this, Donovan. You’ll regret it forever!” Once the unnecessary drama had cleared, the room was silent. Just him and me. As the current—and supposedly perfect—fiancée, I had to play the part of the dutiful partner. “Does your head still hurt?” Gabe paused his rotation of the lighter. “I’m fine,” he said flatly. “Logan mentioned… you might be remembering things?” I asked tentatively. He rubbed his temples, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “A few fragments, flashes. They won’t connect. I can’t grasp them.” He put his legs down, pulled me sharply onto his lap, and wrapped his arms around me. We’d been engaged for nearly eighteen months. We were adults, and what needed to happen had long ago happened. He cupped my chin, his tone casually cruel. “Brooks has lost his mind. He’ll trot out any girl he finds to claim she’s my great love.” He leaned in, his lips brushing my earlobe, his breath hot. “Compared to that sort of timid, plain-Jane type, I much prefer a woman who knows how to be compliant. You, Clem, are much more to my taste.” It sounded like a dark kind of flirtation, but I knew the truth: he still hadn’t remembered. If he realized the woman he had just scornfully dismissed was the one he’d once cherished above all others, he might very well throttle me on the spot. That night, Gabe insisted on checking out and going home. Later, in the quiet darkness, he held me from behind, his hands hot on my skin. “Can you?” he asked, his voice rough with desire. I hesitated, then gave a tiny nod. “Just… be gentle.” In this, at least, Gabe was an impeccable lover, perhaps even the perfect potential husband. If I cried out in pain, he would immediately stop and soothe me. Grandma Donovan had been blunt when she chose me: “Clem, be agreeable and compliant, and no man can resist you.” Her plan was simple: get me cemented in place before Gabe’s memory returned, thereby permanently displacing the housekeeper’s daughter. And it seemed to be working. Gabe clearly enjoyed my presence. But the truth was, his preference was shallow. It was based only on my physical presence and our compatibility in the bedroom. What Grandma Donovan didn’t know was that when Gabe was the most abused pariah in the Donovan household, I had absolutely been one of the privileged, rotten kids who laughed at his humiliation. When his memory returns, survival, let alone displacing his savior, will be a miracle. 2 Gabe Donovan is now the undisputed Prince of this city’s elite. But years ago, he lived worse than a dog in the Donovan estate. His mother died young, and his father ignored him. Everyone bowed to Brooks, the son of the stepmother. Brooks and I were high school classmates. Everyone in our circle orbited Brooks, and naturally, we all followed suit, kicking Gabe when he was down. Brooks was especially malicious. The worst incident was at his eighteenth birthday party. He had his lackeys drag Gabe out and pin him down, insisting Gabe shine my shoes. Brooks was chasing me then, and he thought this display of humiliation would win me over. I was startled. I instinctively stepped back and said coldly, “Don’t touch me.” Goddess knows, I was repulsed by Brooks and the whole sickening display, and I didn’t want to get involved. But the crowd of spectators roared with laughter, pointing at Gabe. “Hear that, Clementine? She thinks you’re filthy!” Gabe then was rail-thin, pressed onto the ground and utterly humiliated, yet his back remained rigidly straight. His head was bowed; no one saw the deep-seated hatred in his eyes. I later found out he kept a mental ledger of every single person who had laughed that day. It was during those dark, endless days that Sierra West was his lifeline. Sierra was the daughter of the Donovan housekeeper, humble in status, but completely devoted to him. In a place as vicious as the Donovan family, Gabe’s eventual rise was entirely thanks to Sierra, who was his spy, his shield, and who almost lost her life protecting him. When Gabe finally took over, his methods were ruthless. Every rich kid who had scorned him paid a steep price. Brooks’s downfall was the most spectacular. With only myself and a few others yet to face his reckoning, Sierra was forcibly shipped overseas by Grandma Donovan because her low status wasn’t acceptable. Gabe drove out into a blizzard to chase her. He crashed his car. The accident destroyed his memory and wiped Sierra clean from his mind. The Donovans sealed off the incident. No one dared utter her name around him. For the amnesiac Gabe, marrying me—the ‘perfect’ daughter of a family with matching wealth—was the ideal corporate merger. But my conscience was a constantly throbbing wound. I am technically only the stepdaughter of the Marsh family. The Marshes’ biological daughter was lost as a child and never found. If not for that tragedy, this colossal fortune—and this engagement—would never have fallen into my lap. That night, I slept fitfully, dreaming of Gabe’s recovered memory, his hands around my throat. I woke up in a cold sweat. Gabe sensed it. He reached out, touching my forehead, then glanced at my stomach, his brow furrowed. “Clem, is it… your time of the month?” I looked down. There was a small, unmistakable red stain on the sheet. My cycle was usually erratic, but this was a surprisingly light flow, accompanied by a dull ache in my abdomen. My guilt made me bury my face in the pillow. “I’m sorry. I messed up the sheets.” Gabe didn’t say a word. He went to the closet for a towel, then carried me to the bathroom to clean me up. Look how good he is to me. But this kindness was a sandcastle, waiting for a single wave to wash it all away. Midday during the week, Grandma Donovan assigned me a task: deliver a homemade lunch to Gabe at his office. I arrived just as his meeting was wrapping up. Gabe, in a perfectly tailored suit, took the lunchbox from my hands and immediately passed it to Logan. In the small crowd of executives, my eyes instantly landed on a familiar face. Sierra West. The project director for the collaborating company chuckled as he introduced her: “Mr. Donovan, this is Ms. Lin. She just returned from overseas and will be handling the daily interface on this project.” A vice president, clearly unaware of the tension, smiled and teased: “Mr. Donovan, I hear wedding bells are coming soon?” Gabe gave a faint smile. He reached out, circled my waist, and pulled me close. The public declaration felt like a lead weight in my gut. “Yes, it’s time to settle down. The wedding is set for three months from now. We look forward to seeing you all.” I distinctly saw Sierra’s face drain of all color. After lunch, Gabe dismissed everyone, keeping me in his massive corner office. I decided to address the subject weighing on my mind. “Grandma wants me to quit teaching piano and focus on wedding planning.” I taught at an international prep school—a light, fulfilling job. But Grandma Donovan was intensely controlling, and her demands were non-negotiable. Gabe saw right through me. “If you don’t want to quit, then don’t. I’ll handle my grandmother.” A man like Gabe never offered anything for free. Immediately, he pressed me against his huge mahogany desk, demanding his payment. We were kissing fiercely when the door was abruptly knocked. Logan walked in, carrying a file. My face was a ripe tomato, but Gabe was unperturbed. He simply pulled me tighter into his embrace, shielding my disheveled collar. Logan kept his eyes respectfully averted, his tone strictly professional. “Sir, the file you requested on Sierra West.” My heart plummeted. He was investigating Sierra? He had acted completely dismissive at the hospital. Had his subconscious taken over? Did he suspect something? Once Logan left, Gabe smiled at my obvious tension. “Clem, why do you think I asked for her file?” I shook my head, my palms slick with sweat. Gabe said casually, “Your stepbrother specifically reached out, asking me to give this Sierra a professional leg-up. He called it ‘mentoring.’ And then, the other shoe dropped.” He dropped the real bomb. “The long-lost Marsh daughter has been found.” My mind exploded. “Is it Sierra?” Gabe nodded, his tone possessive and utterly logical. “You and I are a united front now. I have to protect you. I needed to know her background. If she turns out to be difficult, I’ll be prepared to shield my fiancée.” In that moment, I felt an excruciating mix of guilt and pity. I had entered the Marsh family when my mother remarried. I never intended to steal anything. But fate was a terrible writer of fiction. I glanced at the file on the desk. It glossed over Sierra’s adoption by the housekeeper and completely omitted her history with Gabe. Gabe believed he was protecting me from a simple rich-girl vs. imposter drama. He had no idea that when Sierra West reclaimed her identity as the Marsh heiress, the first thing she would come for was the engagement that was supposed to be hers. 3 I returned to the school that afternoon and called my mother to confirm. My mother, Vivian, sighed. “Your stepfather plans to announce it at the family dinner next week. Clem, I wasn’t intentionally hiding this… By the way, are you feeling alright lately?” I was about to say yes when a sudden, sharp pang hit my lower abdomen. It was a strange, pulling ache, nothing like my usual cramps. Combined with the intermittent spotting over the last few days, a terrible premonition took hold. I took the rest of the day off and went to a clinic. The doctor peered over her glasses at the results. “Congratulations. You’re approximately four weeks pregnant.” “However, you’re experiencing early-term spotting. You need to be on strict bedrest, and absolutely no intercourse.” I clutched the printout, my hands shaking. This child could not have picked a worse time. Gabe and I were always careful. The only variable was the herbal medicine I’d been taking recently for general wellness, which included some auxiliary pills. At the Marsh family dinner, I pulled my mother aside for an anxious confrontation. She finally confessed. “The Marshes set up this engagement for their birth daughter. Now, your stepfather wants to make amends, to switch the fiancé back before the wedding. I didn’t want you to have sacrificed for nothing, so…” Her voice dropped to a whisper. “About a month ago, I had your birth control swapped with placebos.” I felt a cold dread wash over me. This was my own mother, willing to manipulate me into pregnancy to secure my spot as Mrs. Donovan. Not long after, Gabe arrived. He walked over, naturally taking my hand. He frowned. “Why are your hands so cold?” He turned and asked a servant to fetch me a shawl. My little stepbrother, a chubby terror, ran over and hugged Gabe’s leg. “Gabe!” Gabe managed a rare, gentle smile, patting the boy’s cheek. “I heard you failed your last exam? Next time you make the top ten, your sister’s fiancé will buy you anything you want.” The boy, who was uncontrollable otherwise, was putty in Gabe’s hands. My mother seized the opportunity, smiling broadly. “Gabe, you’ll be such a wonderful father. You two should hurry up. Clem, why the flats tonight? Are you pregnant?” The warmth instantly drained from Gabe’s face. His voice was flat. “No. She was on her cycle last week.” Once we were alone, I couldn’t help but ask him. “Marriage and children are inevitable, aren’t they? Do you just… dislike the idea of having kids?” Gabe was arranging the shawl around my shoulders. His movement froze. He looked detached. “No rush. I’m not thinking about it for a few more years. We’re young. I’m not ready to be a father yet.” Looking at his cold indifference, a bitter ache spread through me. Of course. In a dynastic family as cold as the Donovans, where ties of blood meant so little, he probably had zero expectation for a family of his own. Just then, the clatter of heels echoed down the stairs. The Sierra West of today—or rather, Sierra Marsh—was a different woman entirely. She wore an exquisite designer gown and flawless makeup. She was unrecognizable from the fragile figure in the hospital room. She glided down the stairs, her eyes fixed directly on Gabe. “Gabe…” she called softly. Gabe glanced up. There was no flicker of recognition or warmth in his eyes. He held my shoulder tighter, his voice utterly professional and distant. “Clem is only two months older than you, Sierra, but by family standards, you should probably call me your brother-in-law.” That single, casual designation was a brutal slap across Sierra’s face. The dinner was a grand announcement of the true heiress’s return. But my mother’s maneuvering was masterful. She ensured Gabe and I stayed the night in my old bedroom. Gabe emerged from the shower, smelling of clean, expensive soap. He came toward me, kissing me, his hands immediately exploring beneath my clothes. I flinched, quickly pressing his hand down. “Not tonight. I’m still not feeling well.” Gabe’s throat worked. He saw my slightly pale face and relented. He buried his face in my neck, his voice muffled. “You’ve been off for a while. I’m going for my follow-up check tomorrow. Come with me?” I went rigid. Gabe had been in intensive treatment for his amnesia, recently with a top European specialist. Logan had hinted the treatment was starting to show significant progress. His memory could fully return any day now. If he remembered, this child in my belly was a ticking time bomb. I quickly made an excuse about a morning class and refused to go to the hospital. The next morning, however, Sierra Marsh came directly to my school. In a discreet café, she elegantly stirred her espresso. “Clementine, I’m not here to fight over a man.” She smiled thinly. “I know your secret. Besides the history of humiliating Gabe, you’ve kept an even bigger time bomb from him.” She leaned forward, dropping her voice. “Logan Keller, the assistant Gabe trusts the most. He’s your grandfather’s sponsored student, isn’t he?” I gripped my coffee cup hard. Sierra’s smile widened, radiating victory. “With him running interference, no wonder Gabe couldn’t dig up my history. You seem so obedient, Clem, but you have a wild streak. To avoid this engagement, you tried to run away with Logan, right?” “When you were dragged back, you agreed to marry Gabe to keep the Marshes from retaliating against Logan.” “I can keep your secret. Just cooperate with me. Let’s put everything back where it belongs.” “The four of us can simply switch partners.” Just as the cascade of information left me reeling, the cell phone on the table buzzed. A long-unseen name flashed on the screen: Logan. The man I supposedly ran away with, who was now Gabe’s trusted confidant. I answered. Logan’s usually steady voice was laced with frantic urgency. “Clem, something’s wrong.” “Gabe collapsed in the treatment room. When he woke up… he remembers everything.” I hung up, feeling like a shot of liquid nitrogen had hit my spine. Sierra looked at my ashen face, the corner of her mouth curling into a triumphant smile. She took a dainty sip of coffee. “Well. It seems I didn’t have to lift a finger. Fate is on my side.” I ignored her spite. I grabbed my purse and bolted for the door. I wanted to run. Honestly, what other choice did I have? Stay and let Gabe take his revenge? I had coldly observed his humiliation. I had taken the place of his savior for two years. I had slept with him for two years. And now, I was potentially pregnant with the child of the man he trusted most—or so he would think. With this stack of debts, death was a certainty. I raced back to the penthouse to grab my essentials: passport, cash, jewelry. I crammed everything into a suitcase. Just as I dragged the luggage to the front door, the lock clicked. BEEP. Standing outside was Gabe Donovan, who was supposedly “recovering his memory” at the hospital. Behind him, Logan stood with a face devoid of emotion. Our eyes met. The air thickened into concrete. Gabe wasn’t wearing a hospital gown. He had changed into a sharp black dress shirt, the collar slightly open, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, exposing the taut lines of his forearm. But his face was like a chunk of ice carved from a glacier. His eyes no longer held the recent possessiveness or the former indifference. They were filled with an intense, invasive, and deeply sullen scrutiny. This was the terrifying, calculating look of the resurrected Gabe. “Where are you going?” He spoke, his voice hoarse, impossible to read. My palms were sweating cold. I forced a look of strained composure. “S-school field trip. I’m going on a sketching retreat.” “Sketching?” Gabe took long strides into the room, closing the distance. The sheer power and dominance in his posture made me instinctively back away until my knees hit the sofa edge and I collapsed onto the cushion. He bent over me, bracing his hands on the sofa back, caging me in the small space. His deep eyes burned into mine. A cruel smirk touched his lips. “Clementine Marsh, did you think the accident turned my brain to mush? That I was stupid?” His long fingers hooked under my chin, his grip painful. “You’re taking my money and planning to run off with who, exactly? Hmm?” “Logan?” My heart squeezed. I looked instinctively toward Logan, who stood by the door, head down, refusing to meet my eyes. I was sold out. That traitor, Logan, must have told him everything to save himself! “No… Gabe, let me explain…” I reached for his sleeve, trembling. “Explain what?” Gabe violently shook off my hand as if I were something vile. He straightened up, looking down on me, his eyes churning with a storm I couldn’t decipher. “Explain how you thought I was disgusting back then? Explain how you were forced to ‘sacrifice’ yourself to me because of Logan? Or explain…” His gaze slowly drifted downward, settling on my abdomen. The look was a physical probe, a surgical knife slicing into me to discover the truth. “Explain who the father of the bastard child inside you really is?” My head exploded in a deafening WHOOSH. He knew? Yes, if Logan betrayed me, he must have mentioned the pregnancy. But I never expected him to jump to the conclusion that it was Logan’s. I opened my mouth, ready to blurt out, It’s yours. But the words caught in my throat. Tell him it’s his? And risk him demanding I keep the child as an heir, only to be discarded myself? Or worse, have him think I was using the baby as leverage, compounding his hatred? If he believed it wasn’t his, I could disappear with the child, and we’d both be safe from the machinations of the Donovan world. My silence intensified the rage in his eyes. He gave a cold laugh, turned to the liquor cabinet, poured a tumbler of whiskey, and tossed it back. “Good. This is perfect.” “Clementine, you have nerve.” “Logan,” he called out without turning around. Logan stepped forward instantly. “Sir.” “Seal this house. No one in, no one out. Not even a fly.” Gabe turned back to me, his voice a razor’s edge. “You want to run, Clem? You’ll never get the chance. The debt you owe me from the past, we’ll settle it, account by account.” I was officially under house arrest. My phone was confiscated, the internet cable cut. Two grim-faced bodyguards stood watch 24/7. Apart from the nanny delivering meals, I had no one to speak to. Gabe didn’t return. But I knew what he was doing. The news channels were filled with the Donovan Group’s lightning-fast movements. He was ruthlessly purging the company’s senior management. Several old-guard directors were ejected, and the Marsh family’s joint projects were abruptly suspended. The Marshes were in utter chaos. My mother tried to visit but was turned away. Sierra Marsh, however, managed to get through. I don’t know what she did, but the guards let her in. A few days without seeing her, and she was even more radiant, clutching a limited-edition Hermès bag, strutting like a proud peacock. “Tsk, tsk, sister. Why are you letting yourself go like this?” Sierra sat opposite me, looking down her nose at my wrinkled house clothes. I met her eyes coldly. “Spit it out.” Sierra wasn’t offended. She merely smiled and tossed a document onto the coffee table. “Gabe asked me to deliver this. Sign it.” I looked down. The Dissolution of Engagement Agreement. Though we hadn’t married yet, the engagement party had been elaborate. This document covered the termination of the contract and the division of assets. It was crystal clear: I was leaving with nothing. “Gabe said that out of respect for your two years together, he won’t pursue fraud charges. Just sign it and disappear from the city. He’ll even go easy on the Marshes.” Sierra played with her freshly manicured nails. “Don’t feel wronged. This was never your spot. If I hadn’t gone abroad, you’d never have had it.” I opened the document, flipping straight to the last page. Gabe’s signature was missing. I closed the file and threw it back at her. “Tell him to come speak to me himself.” Sierra’s expression darkened. “Clementine, don’t be unreasonable! Gabe can barely stand the sight of you. Do you honestly think he’ll meet with you?” “Then he can just keep feeling sick.” I touched my flat stomach and suddenly smiled. “I have nothing left to lose. Tell Gabe this: if he wants me to clear out, fine.” “He has to come here, look me in the eye, and explain the last two years. Otherwise, I will die in this house. Two bodies. Let’s see if the Donovan name can withstand that scandal.” Sierra flinched, startled by the manic edge in my voice. She clearly hadn’t expected the quiet, compliant fiancée to be capable of such an outburst. “Lunatic! You are a complete lunatic!” Sierra stormed out, spewing insults. I didn’t actually expect to leverage a threat against Gabe. I was gambling. Gambling that he still held a shred of regard for me—even if it was hatred interwoven with obsession. Or, perhaps, gambling on his possessive need to control the disposal of the “bastard child.” Gabe returned that evening. He brought the chill of the night and a strong smell of whiskey. I was curled up on the sofa watching a trashy reality show when he entered. He didn’t turn on the lights. His tall frame loomed over me, suffocating. “You wanted to see me?” He tore off his tie, letting it drop to the floor. His voice was deep and husky. I kept my eyes on the screen. “Sierra brought a document. Since your signature wasn’t on it, I didn’t dare sign.” “Huh.” A cold, mocking laugh. The next second, he hauled me off the sofa and threw me back hard against the soft cushions. He lunged onto me, pinning my shoulders down, his eyes bloodshot, feral. “Clementine, do you think I won’t touch you?” “Two lives? You think you can blackmail me with that bastard?” His hand slid down my torso, coming to rest on my lower abdomen. His palm was scorching hot, yet I felt a deeper chill. “Since you’re so attached to this bastard, how about I help you get rid of it?” My eyes widened in terror. I thrashed wildly. “Gabe, you’re crazy! This is—” “What is it?” He clamped down on my jaw, forcing me to meet his furious gaze. “Logan’s? Or some random man’s?” “Clementine. You’re filthy.” The words were three sharp nails hammering into my heart. Tears sprang to my eyes. I stopped fighting, biting my lip hard to stifle a cry. Seeing my defeated stillness, the violence in Gabe’s eyes seemed to recede, replaced by a deeper disgust—and a subtle, almost invisible trace of pain. He released me, stood up, and straightened his clothes, instantly resuming his aloof, dominant posture. “Tomorrow morning, a doctor will be here to perform the procedure.” “After it’s done, take the money and leave this city.” “Don’t let me see you again.” He slammed the door behind him. 4 I stayed awake all night. I touched my belly, still flat, and made a decision. If he wants to play dirty, so will I. The next morning, the doctor arrived as promised. She was a severe-looking, middle-aged woman, accompanied by two nurses and professional equipment. Logan was there too, standing by the door like a silent sentinel. “Ms. Marsh, please cooperate. It’s a simple procedure, it will be over quickly,” the doctor said coolly, pulling on her gloves. I sat on the bed, my hand tightly clutching a small fruit knife I had hidden under my pillow. “Stay back!” I pressed the blade against my neck. The sharp edge broke the skin, and a bead of blood instantly welled up. “Get Gabe here! Or I swear, I will kill myself right now!” The doctor and nurses gasped, frozen in place. Logan rushed in, his face going pale when he saw the knife. “Clem, don’t do this!” “Call Gabe!” I screamed. “I have something to tell him! About what happened back then, about Sierra, and… about this child!” Logan hesitated, then quickly dialed Gabe’s number. Gabe’s impatient voice came through the receiver. “Is it done?” “Sir, Ms. Marsh is threatening suicide. She demands to see you…” Silence. A terrifying, dead silence. After what felt like an eternity, a cold laugh echoed from the phone. “Let her.” Click. Click. Click. The line went dead. The knife clattered to the floor in my numb hand. This was what true heartbreak felt like. To him, I was truly less than nothing. Logan looked at my devastation, sighed, and waved the medical team out of the room. We were alone. “Clem,” Logan suddenly used my first name, his tone complicated. “Gabe… he never actually intended for you to lose the baby.” I looked up at him blankly. Logan offered a wry, bitter smile. “That doctor is a top-tier fertility specialist. The medication they brought is the best treatment for early-term spotting. Gabe was furious yesterday, but he only believes the child is mine.” “He told you to leave because he wanted to protect you. Sierra… she is far more dangerous than she seems.” I stared, feeling like I was listening to an alien language. “What are you saying?” Logan took a deep breath, like he was finally lifting an unbearable weight. “Gabe already knew the truth about everything. He knew you pulled away during the shoe incident because Brooks had smeared itching powder on your shoe, and you were trying to push Brooks away, not insult Gabe.” “He also knew your time with me was because I promised to help you find information about your birth parents.” “As for Sierra… the person who actually saved him was the mute nanny, not Sierra. Sierra simply stole the token and took her place.” My eyes were wide as saucers. “Then why…?” “Because he was setting a trap.” Logan lowered his voice. “The old Donovan board members are still watching him. Sierra has powerful backers. If he didn’t act disgusted with you, they would target you. As for the child… he was genuinely jealous.” Logan threw his hands up in exasperation. “After all, you did try to run away with me once, and he’s never gotten over it. That’s his ego.” I stared at him. “…” The man’s possessiveness was staggering. Just then, a commotion erupted downstairs. Then, the sound of splintering wood and a woman’s shriek. Logan’s face changed instantly. He rushed to the window and looked down. “Damn it! Sierra brought people in!”

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The hospital’s promotion roster had just been posted. I stared at the name filling the coveted Associate Director slot—a position that, by every metric, should have been mine. It was Trevor Wells, a junior attending physician who’d only completed his fellowship six months ago. I walked straight to the office of the Chief of Staff, Dr. Helena Price. She didn’t even look up when I knocked. When I finally pressed her for an answer, she slammed the selection results onto her desk, her voice dripping with irritation. “Rowan Kennedy, you want an Associate Director position? You’re getting ahead of yourself, aren’t you?” “Dr. Price, I’ve been here eight years,” I said, working hard to keep my voice even. “I’ve handled 65 critical trauma cases this year alone, and I’ve secured three major state-level research grants. By the department’s own published metrics, the promotion belongs to me.” She scoffed, a truly ugly sound. “Metrics? That’s the hospital’s platform, Kennedy! You’re nothing without the resources we provide!” She leaned forward, her face a mask of condescension. “You dare to question my decision? Your ambition is obscene. If you can’t handle the pressure, then why don’t you just quit, go home, and focus on getting married and having babies?” The gendered insult hit me like a physical blow. “Bring this up again, and I’ll revoke your standing for the Neurosurgery Fellowship next year.” I stood there for a long moment, the taste of rust and defeat in my mouth. Then, I silently took the form she slid across the desk and signed it. Fine. Let them have their titles. They were about to learn that seniority means nothing when you can’t actually do the job. 1 I walked back to the clinic and found Trevor sitting at my desk, legs propped up, watching some trashy reality show on his tablet and crunching on a bag of gourmet chips. I went to my side of the desk and began quietly organizing patient charts, trying to regain my center. Trevor adjusted the collar of his freshly pressed scrubs and smirked. “Look at some people, acting like the whole floor will collapse if they punch out on time. Small talent, big attitude.” He tossed a clipboard onto my desk. “Since you’ve got nothing to do now, 302 needs the linens changed. Filthy. Go handle it. It’s a doctor’s order.” My hand froze over the charts. I looked up, meeting his eyes. “Trevor, I’m a neurosurgeon, not the housekeeping staff. I am not obligated to handle patient custodial care.” Without another word, I pulled off my white coat. For the first time in eight years, I punched out at five o’clock. As I walked through the sliding glass doors, the reality of the past few minutes settled over me. Eight years. Near-perfect attendance, even when I was sick. The sheer volume of my cases, unmatched in the department. The tears, the sweat, the sleepless nights. All nullified by one corrupt signature. It felt like I was standing on a cliff edge, watching my life’s work dissolve into mist. My devotion to medicine was a sacred vow. I grew up seeing too many lives—including my own father’s—lost to poor, outdated medical care. I swore then that I would be the best. I wasn’t ready to let them erase my commitment. The next morning, I arrived at St. Jude’s on time, dark circles under my eyes, ready to start my rounds. The bed of the patient I was assigned to, Mrs. Miller in Room 302, was empty. My brow furrowed. “Where is the patient in 302?” Trevor turned, a sneer on his face. “Rowan, you’re just a Senior Attending. You don’t get to bark orders at me.” I walked toward him, anger tightening my chest. “Trevor, this is patient safety! Hospital protocol requires a full handover—” “You think you’re still in charge?” He cut me off, his eyes rolling. “This is Dr. Price’s call. Got a problem, take it up with her.” Just then, Mrs. Miller shuffled back into the room, looking pale and unsteady. I quickly rushed over, helped her into bed, and settled her under the covers. Watching her frail condition, my hands curled into fists. “Trevor, you know this delay could compromise her recovery. The hospital is not your private playground!” Trevor, flanked by four interns who hung on his every word, stood at the foot of Mrs. Miller’s bed. He addressed her, completely bypassing me. “Mrs. Miller, you need to decide. Do you want me to continue your care, or should Dr. Kennedy handle it?” Mrs. Miller hesitated, her face strained. She offered me a weak, kindly smile—a small comfort that warmed me for a moment. But her next words plunged me into an ice bath. “I think I’ll stick with Associate Director Wells,” she said, avoiding my gaze and turning toward Trevor with a placating look. “Higher rank means better medicine, right? You always want the best.” Trevor shot me a triumphant smirk. “See, Sloan? Patients know quality when they see it.” The interns muffled their laughter. A nearby visitor in the next bed pointed at me and grumbled loudly, “He’s just trying to hog patients and make more money. Doesn’t know his own skill level.” My face was burning, but my heart felt cold and hollow. Fine. I’d play their game. I turned to leave, but Trevor blocked my path. “You, stick around and observe.” Before I could refuse, he pulled rank. “Obeying your superior is a job requirement, Sloan. Any objections?” I clenched my jaw. For the patient’s sake, I had to stay. “Increase this patient’s medication dosage by double, and order a full-body MRI,” Trevor commanded, nodding toward me. When I didn’t immediately move to write the order, his face darkened. “Did you hear me?” I looked him straight in the eye. “Her diagnosis is confirmed. An extra MRI is a waste of money and resources.” My voice was low and controlled. “And doubling the dosage will significantly increase her renal burden. She won’t tolerate it.” Trevor slapped the patient chart against my chest. “Are you trying to teach me how to practice medicine? I’m the Associate Director here!” He took a step closer. “You’re just jealous of my promotion, aren’t you? You’re deliberately undermining me.” He picked up a folder. “That’s it. You don’t need to shadow anymore. Go to the unit and clean every single bedpan. Now.” I stared at him in disbelief. “The bedpans? You’re asking me to do custodial work?” He jabbed a finger toward me. “It’s a direct order. Obey your leadership, or you can pack your bags and go!” 2 The news of me being ordered to clean bedpans spread like wildfire through the hospital. The next day, as I approached my clinic, I heard the nurses at the triage desk giggling and whispering about the “Bedpan Doctor.” When they saw me, they quickly went silent, faces flushed with embarrassment. I walked into my exam room, my expression blank, and prepared for the day. After seeing only three patients, the screen showed zero waiting. I usually booked out for weeks, and my weekly clinic day was always a frantic rush. Today, however… A knot of suspicion tightened in my stomach. I got up to check the triage desk. As I rounded the corner, I saw it: Trevor’s specialist clinic on the far side of the hallway was packed—a standing-room-only crowd of patients, many of whom were familiar faces I’d treated before. They quickly averted their eyes when they saw me. A wave of profound sadness washed over me. Did the title—just four letters on a plaque—really hold more weight than eight years of life-saving skill? I turned back, the weight of my despair making my footsteps heavy. “Dr. Kennedy, wait up!” A voice called from behind me. It was Noah, one of Trevor’s interns. “The director’s waiting room is completely slammed,” he said, craning his neck to peer into my empty room. He rolled his eyes. “Since you’re not doing anything, Dr. Wells needs a favor. He needs a latte and a slice of Black Forest cake from that new bakery on the West Side. Must be back before ten. Get going.” He spoke with the speed of a machine gun, and before I could respond, he started to walk away. “Wait!” I jogged to catch him. “This is work time. I’m scheduled to see patients. Are you serious?” I felt a surge of indignation. “If he wants food, he can order delivery. I am not his personal courier.” Noah stopped, pushing his glasses up his nose with a frustrated sigh. “Dr. Kennedy, no one is going to come to you when Associate Director Wells is seeing patients.” “Besides,” he added, his voice dropping to a patronizing tone, “this is for the Director’s energy. It falls under supporting and cooperating with leadership. You’re an old employee here. Do I really need to remind you of your basic job duties?” “Obeying your leadership.” That phrase sent a blinding flash of fury straight to my brain. My entire body started to tremble. Seeing my silence, Noah sneered. “Don’t keep the Director waiting.” He turned and strode off. I was so angry I could have shattered my teeth. They were betting on my shame, banking on me quitting to save face because of the financial penalty in my contract. They were wrong. I wouldn’t give them the satisfaction. I wanted to see the bottom of their depravity, and then I wanted to burn it all down. The midday traffic was brutal. To save time, I used my old, battered scooter. An hour in the cold wind, fighting congestion, all for a coffee and a slice of cake. When I returned, breathless and clutching the paper bag, the person waiting for me in the main lobby wasn’t Trevor. It was Dr. Helena Price. Her eyes narrowed as she stared at my exhausted, wind-chapped face. “Rowan Kennedy! Unauthorized departure during working hours! Do you have no respect for that white coat?” She snatched the bag from my hand, tore it open, and her face went dark with fury. “You have time to gorge yourself on cake and coffee?! If you don’t want to work here, then quit!” My eyes stung with sudden tears of humiliation, and I struggled to explain. “It’s for Trevor. He had Noah force me to get it. I refused, but he used his title to pressure me—” “Don’t you dare try to pin this on me, Sloan.” Trevor appeared from nowhere, his face a picture of false innocence, addressing Dr. Price. “Dr. Price, I’ve been diligently seeing patients all morning. I haven’t even had a sip of water. He’s deliberately trying to smear me.” I grabbed Trevor’s arm, pulling him aside. “You know you had Noah force me! We can check the security footage!” Trevor’s composure flickered for a second. “I know you’re upset about the promotion, Sloan,” he said, his voice suddenly thick with fake sympathy. “If this somehow makes you feel better, I’ll take the blame for it.” As he said this, his wrist twisted, and he shoved me hard backward. I wasn’t expecting it. I lost my balance and crashed hard onto the floor. “Oh, Dr. Kennedy, how clumsy!” Trevor cried out, feigning shock, and making a show of reaching down to help me up. I swatted his hand away, the pain in my back fueling my fury. “You have the nerve to blame me? You pushed me!” Trevor immediately turned to Dr. Price, tears welling up in his eyes. “Dr. Price, I didn’t! Please, you have to believe me!” His acting was so magnificent it was almost comical. I opened my mouth to protest, but Dr. Price’s thunderous roar cut me off. “Enough!” The paper bag hit me next, slammed down by her hand. Hot coffee and sticky cake splattered everywhere, covering me head-to-toe. I was a pathetic, disgusting clown, and the crowd of onlookers erupted in hushed laughter. Dr. Price’s face was black with contempt. “Such small-minded, malicious pettiness! You are a disgrace to this hospital!” “If you had half the maturity of Associate Director Wells, you wouldn’t be stuck as a Senior Attending after eight years!” “You are off the clinic schedule immediately. Go back to your office and write the final surgical protocol for Mr. Prescott. You have three days. Fail to deliver, and I won’t hesitate to terminate your contract.” 3 I became the hospital’s favorite piece of gossip. Some employees even started a betting pool on how long it would take for me to finally quit. I ignored them all and focused on the protocol. My ten-year contract was only in its eighth year; quitting now meant facing a ruinous financial penalty. I would not let them win that way. The surgery for Mr. Graham Prescott, the CEO of the Prescott Group, was high-stakes. If I succeeded here, I would have undeniable leverage. After two consecutive all-nighters, I delivered the final surgical plan to Dr. Price. She didn’t say anything after reading it, but the satisfied smile playing on her lips told me everything I needed to know. The massive stone in my chest rolled away. I picked up my presentation materials and headed for the conference room. The Prescott entourage was due in fifteen minutes. But Dr. Price blocked the doorway. “This is a high-level executive meeting, Dr. Kennedy,” she said. “You are not cleared to attend.” She lowered her voice, the disdain obvious. “Go to the surgical floor and run some errands. Don’t waste time causing trouble.” I knew she was shameless, but her arrogance still stunned me. “This is my surgical plan. Why can’t I present it?” She sneered and waved her hand toward the door behind her. Trevor appeared. Dr. Price smiled and handed my printed plan directly to him. “Familiarize yourself with this quickly, Trevor. You will be chairing the meeting. Make us proud.” “Thank you for your faith in me, Dr. Price!” Trevor bowed, shot me a gleeful, mocking glance, and started to walk away. “No!” I cried out, lunging forward to grab his arm. “Give me back my plan!” “Help! Dr. Kennedy is assaulting me!” he screamed. He suddenly lost his balance and fell backward, crashing onto the floor. I froze. I hadn’t even pushed him, yet he was down. Slap! A sharp, stinging blow landed across my face, snapping my head to the side. My cheek instantly felt hot. I instinctively reached up to cover my face, tears of humiliation burning my eyes. “I didn’t push him…” Dr. Price’s hand was still raised. Her face was menacing. “Still lying!” “Security! Get this lunatic restrained and locked up!” I was hauled away by security guards and taken to the dark, moldy supply closet in the basement. They confiscated my phone before locking the door. I screamed and pounded on the door until my knuckles were bruised, but no one came. Exhausted, I slumped to the floor, wrapping my arms around my knees and burying my face. I finally let go of the pressure, sobbing uncontrollably. I don’t know how long I was down there. The door finally opened, and Dr. Price and Trevor stood over me, looking down. “The protocol was well-written,” Dr. Price said, a predatory smile on her face. “The hospital’s investment in you wasn’t wasted.” “Get ready,” she continued. “In three days, you will assist Associate Director Wells with the Prescott surgery.” Assist Trevor? My eyes were red and swollen, but I managed a cold laugh. “He just finished his fellowship. You want him to be the lead surgeon on a case of this magnitude? You are gambling with a patient’s life!” “I will not assist!” My refusal ignited her temper. “Still haven’t learned your lesson!” She charged at me, face contorted with rage. She gripped my neck with one hand and repeatedly slapped my face with the other—left, right, left, right. “You deliberately cross me! I’m going to teach you a lesson for your backstabbing insolence!” “You want to be a Director? I’ll make sure you’re a pariah—a lowlife that every clinic blacklists!” I was dizzy, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. I bit down hard on my lower lip, tightly hugging my arms to my chest, refusing to use them to defend my face. Trevor stood nearby, savoring the moment. “Dr. Price, don’t hurt your hand!” He pretended to console her, then suddenly lunged toward me. “You tried to hit a leader!” he shouted, grabbing the hem of my thin surgical scrubs and yanking hard. Riiip. The fabric tore instantly. My top fell away, leaving my chest bare. The violation sent a fresh, blinding wave of tears down my cheeks. I couldn’t fight back. Not yet. I lost count of the number of slaps. Dr. Price finally let go, her breath heaving, and threw me onto the cold concrete floor like a used dish rag. I curled into a ball, desperately covering my bare chest. Thank God. My hands are safe. “You think this is over because you didn’t fight back?” Dr. Price spat, her voice thick with disgust. “Dream on!” “Insubordination, dereliction of duty, gross misconduct. Any one of these is enough to terminate your contract immediately.” She looked down at me and let loose a hacking, thick spit of phlegm that landed near my shoulder. Trevor rushed to her side, solicitously taking her hand. “Let me get you an ice pack, Dr. Price. Don’t waste your energy on this ungrateful snake. I’m here now. I’ll make sure the Prescott surgery is flawless.” Dr. Price smiled, a look of warm approval replacing the rage. She turned back to me, her face hardening again. “You are suspended without pay. Go home and reflect on your poor choices.” They turned and walked out, leaving me shivering and exposed. A moment later, a dark jacket was gently draped over my shoulders. It was Ben Carter, the Chief of Security. His eyes were red-rimmed. He helped me to my feet. “I’m sorry I was late. Are you okay?” I managed a weak, comforting smile and nodded, though the tears continued to flow, silent and unstoppable. He pulled me into a brief, tight hug. “If you need anything—anything at all—you tell me. You saved my mother’s life on your table a few years ago. I won’t forget that.” After days of relentless humiliation, Ben’s quiet support was a stream of warmth that solidified my fractured resolve. I had done the right thing. I had chosen to be an honorable doctor. And now, I would fight. On the fourth day of my suspension, Dr. Price’s number appeared on my screen. For the first time, she sounded genuinely panicked. “Rowan, get here now! Mr. Prescott’s condition has deteriorated!”

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My mother-in-law, Mrs. Lockwood, was desperate for a grandchild, but my husband, Preston, was keeping himself pure for his One True Love. Then, he had the audacity to bring her home to our penthouse, warning me to never, ever make life difficult for his ‘Innocent Ideal.’ I had no choice but to adjust the playing field. The only reasonable solution was to invite my current boyfriend and my two most devoted—and highly useful—admirers to move into the house, too. This way, I could not only focus on giving Mrs. Lockwood the required heir but also keep myself too preoccupied to even notice Preston’s ‘Madonna.’ So, when Preston cornered me, demanding to know why I had pushed his precious Penelope down the stairs last night, his two best friends immediately stepped up as my alibi. “Aria was with us all night, Pres. She wouldn’t have had time to stage a crime.” Preston froze. 1 Preston and I were a standard-issue business merger in the form of a marriage. Before we exchanged vows, every one of our mandated meetings was a study in glacial contempt. He looked at me as if I owed him eight figures, minimum. On our wedding night, his tone was dry ice. “Sloane,” he told me, using my first name like a reprimand, “this marriage is a simple corporate alliance. My heart belongs to Penelope Davis. I will not touch you. In a few years, we will divorce.” I was genuinely stunned. My only reason for agreeing to the alliance in the first place was that he was gorgeous. I figured I’d at least get a good lay out of the deal. Instead, he was reserving the most coveted seat in the house and refusing to use it. Why couldn’t he have mentioned this little vow of chastity before I signed the prenup? Preston was constantly traveling, immersed in his business, and lost in the distant memory of Penelope. He treated me like expensive, ornamental furniture. Luckily, I had my own businesses, and, more importantly, I had Kian. 2 Kian Reynolds, my college boyfriend, had been a beautiful, broke artist when we met. Loads of socialite daughters and bored heiresses wanted to put him on retainer, but I was the only one who got to keep him for free for years. Now, he’d successfully launched his own tech company and was absolutely new money—a high-flying success, but still nowhere near the entrenched wealth of the Lockwoods. He was well outside my approved marriage bracket, but we had never truly cut ties. We’d had one messy, dramatic breakup right after the wedding, but I won him back with a classic ‘damsel in distress’ routine, and he had agreed to maintain our mutually beneficial arrangement. Preston’s neglect only cleared my calendar, so I continued to see Kian. Since our offices were close in the City, we usually met during the workday. If we needed a longer block of time, we’d tag along on each other’s business trips. After all, the boss gets to choose the destination. 3 It was during one such “business trip” to the Amalfi Coast that Preston’s friend spotted us. His friend was a doctor, Dr. Miles Shaw. Miles was suave, impeccably dressed, and possessed that kind of long-limbed, elegant grace that screamed Old Money, even in a linen shirt. I tracked down Dr. Shaw immediately. Tearing up, I pleaded, “It’s not what it looks like, Miles. There is absolutely nothing going on between me and that man. Please, don’t misunderstand.” Miles adjusted his sleek, rimless glasses, a picture of polite confusion. “I saw you holding hands. And then I saw the kissing. A full-on French kiss, Sloane. That’s nothing?” Even in the upper echelons of old wealth, where marriages were often transactional dumpster fires, maintaining appearances was paramount. We all had to preserve a certain decorum. So, I had to double down on the absurd explanation. “He… he’s actually a professional mime, and he’s completely blind. I was merely guiding him. And the kissing? He was terribly parched, and we couldn’t find a clean source of water.” Miles merely nodded, a slight, knowing smirk playing on his lips. Then, he leaned in and pressed his mouth to mine—a deep, lingering, unmistakably French kiss. When he finally pulled back, he straightened his glasses and murmured, “Thank you. I found that quite thirst-quenching, too.” I hadn’t expected him to be that kind of man. 4 Cheating is a slippery slope. You either do it zero times or you find yourself on a fast track to infinity. Next thing I knew, Miles was saying he was fascinated by human anatomy and asked me to model for him. He also felt it was only fair to reciprocate, offering to demonstrate his own understanding of human aesthetics for me. We thoroughly explored the texture and taste of various parts of the human body. We conducted intense field research into the mechanics of physical connection. He even taught me a surprising amount of medical knowledge. We were truly bathing in the ocean of knowledge, achieving mutual advancement. We quickly became very close friends, and he was now my personal physician. I made sure to schedule a check-up every few weeks. 5 One day, while we were in his private office, deeply engrossed in a discussion using aggressive, non-verbal body language, the door burst open. The intruder was stunningly handsome, with a dangerous, untamed quality. It was Zane Maverick, the A-list rock star. He took in our state of undress and, instead of retreating, leaned against the doorframe, a cigarette dangling from his lip. “Well, well. What have we here?” Miles launched a stethoscope at him, sending the star flying backward, slamming the door shut. Zane was also one of Preston’s best friends. The Top Star needed no other title. “He won’t tell Preston, will he?” I asked, suddenly nervous. I didn’t feel any actual guilt, but the thrill of doing it in secret was part of the fun. Miles assured me, “I’ll make sure he keeps quiet. Don’t worry, they both come to me whenever they have a medical ’emergency.’” I accepted this. Miles and I quickly straightened our clothes. When we emerged, Zane was draped across Miles’s massive desk, his feet up, taking a long drag on his cigarette. He blew a perfect smoke ring and waved a hand at me. “Sloane, long time no see.” I managed a weak, awkward smile. He continued, his eyes sparkling with mischief. “I never imagined our reunion would be on Dr. Shaw’s examination table. Does Xander know you’re this… sick?” He used Preston’s casual nickname. 6 Miles cleared his throat. “Don’t be an idiot, Zane. We were engaged in a diagnostic procedure. To a doctor, there’s no distinction between male and female.” Zane laughed, a deep, resonant sound. “Right, right. Sloane, did your treatment work? If Miles can’t cure you, you could always try an exorcism. I happen to be an expert in the black arts.” I was so flustered I bolted immediately. But just as I reached my car, Zane caught up to me. He cornered me against the door, his body trapping me, making me utterly helpless. He was intimidatingly close, and I couldn’t deny his face was a masterpiece of aggressive male beauty. Okay, I admitted it: part of the reason I kept accepting Preston’s early dinner invitations was the vague hope of meeting his entourage. My dream had apparently materialized. I felt heat rush into my face, and I lowered my gaze. Zane tilted my chin up forcefully. “Sloane, why can’t you look at me? Are you under a spell? Let me suck the demon right out of you.” He asked a question, but his actions were anything but hesitant. He kissed me with the ferocity of someone trying to pull a spirit from my soul, and I genuinely felt like my consciousness was being drawn right out of my body. 7 The next thing I knew, he was driving my car, and we were heading to his massive, industrial-chic loft downtown. He tied me up and used a silk scarf to punish the demon possessing my body. He was convinced I was ridden with evil and needed to be thoroughly cleansed—if one session wasn’t enough, there would be many more. I decided he was a dedicated Samaritan whose techniques were profoundly effective and trustworthy. We cemented a deep and serious revolutionary friendship. So, while Preston was busy preserving his virtue for Penelope, I was constantly flying out of town, getting medical check-ups, and scheduling exorcism appointments. Kian’s tech company often brought in nine-figure returns, and since I had a hefty stake, I was quite satisfied. Miles’s parents were such heavy hitters that a collective cough from them made the entire City banking sector tremor. Thanks to Miles, my various development projects were not only moving forward smoothly but I was also effortlessly securing new ones. Zane became the face of one of my key luxury lines. His endorsement fees were minimal, but his fan base’s buying power was astronomical. Soon enough, I also invested in his new record label. Besides emotion, the one thing I valued most was money. Conveniently, I enjoyed talking money in my relationships and finding emotional connections in my business dealings. I don’t involve myself with “broke artists” unless they are potential goldmines, like Kian. Life was effortless. Then, Preston’s One True Love decided to come home. 8 On the weekend, Preston and I performed our standard marital duty, attending a family dinner at the estate. I happened to see the text pop up on his phone: Penelope had sent him her flight details. Meanwhile, Mrs. Lockwood was, as always, pressuring me about children. “Sloane, darling, you and Pres have been married for three years now. Why no baby yet? You need to start early. A boy, ideally.” I glanced at my husband, who was now a pillar of selective deafness, and sighed internally. I gave my mother-in-law my most sincere, dutiful smile. “I’ll try my best, Mother.” Honestly, I agreed with her. It was time for a child. There was far too much family wealth to risk letting it fall into the hands of an outsider. On the drive back to the penthouse, Preston broke the news. “Penelope is moving back from Europe. She needs a place to stay, so I’m letting her move in with us.” He looked at me, a subtle, implicit threat in his eyes. “I expect you to be civil to her.” I gave him the look of a perfectly accommodating wife. “Of course. Let her move in. The place is enormous. It’s dreadfully lonely with just the two of us.” 9 My emotional complexity, I realized, still lagged behind that of a man. Look at Preston—he simply brought his ‘Innocent Ideal’ right to our shared front door. And what was I doing? I was driving all over town. An hour to Kian’s office, another hour to Miles’s private clinic, then driving cross-town when Zane was free for a ‘spiritual consultation.’ It was such a colossal waste of time. Manhattan traffic was a nightmare. A two-mile drive could take forty-five minutes on a bad day. And when you meet someone for a rendezvous, you can’t just jump straight into the… revolutionary friendship. We were people, not animals. So, I’d grab dinner first, then drive to the secret location, then sit in traffic again. It was exhausting. But if my three closest business partners/friends/confidants all lived under my roof, I could simply drive straight home from the office. Our chef prepared meals that weren’t pre-packaged, and the dining was guaranteed. We would all eat well and save a ton of time. It was a quadruple win. I called up my two co-conspirators. 10 Miles and Zane knew about each other. Kian, however, still held a special, elevated status in my life. I wasn’t quite brazen enough to introduce him to his two new competitors just yet. To save time, I broke the news about Penelope moving in to our trio’s group chat. Miles: Isn’t your place too cramped? You should come stay with me. Pres will be busy with his… guest. Naturally, I must step in to look after Sloane. Zane: Babe, you want me to kick his ass? Divorce him and marry me. The biggest demon in your life is that lowlife husband of yours. Marriage is not a game. One doesn’t just casually divorce. Who was he trying to challenge? I quickly typed: I think the best solution is for both of you to move in with me. You can handle Xander; just come up with your own reasons. He already warned me not to be mean to his White Moonlight. I need two witnesses to confirm that I did absolutely nothing. They spent the next hour alternating between reassuring me and thoroughly roasting my husband. I felt a profound sense of shared purpose. 11 The day Preston’s ‘Innocent Ideal’ moved in, Miles arrived shortly after with his own custom leather luggage and rang the bell. Preston stared at him in disbelief. “Miles? What are you doing here?” Miles adopted a look of weary resignation. “Penelope is back, Xander. Remember how you used to call me in the middle of the night to examine one of you when she was here before? I fear a return to those late-night emergencies.” He paused, then added, “So, I decided to move in. Call me the live-in medical concierge. If anything comes up, I’m already here.” Miles shot a quick, triumphant look at me. His eyes were clearly saying, Applaud me. Preston was speechless and simply let him move in. I quickly turned to my husband. “You handle Penelope’s arrangements. I’ll get Miles settled.” Preston and I occupied separate master suites on the second floor. The second floor also housed two studies and two enormous closets but no extra bedrooms. Preston had already assigned Penelope the guest suite on the third floor. For convenience, I put Miles on the fourth floor. The moment we were through the door, Miles grabbed me and pushed me against the wall. “Miss me?” He pressed his lips to mine, and my heart hammered against my ribs. This was already too much fun. We stayed tangled up on the bed for a very long time, thoroughly enjoying ourselves. 12 At dinner, Penelope spoke to me, all wide-eyed gratitude. “Sloane, thank you so much for taking me in.” I gave her a magnanimous wave. “Don’t worry about it, Penny. Make yourself at home.” There were four people at the table. Penelope and Preston were deep in conversation about her ‘struggles’ abroad. Miles and I sat in silence, utterly unable to join the conversation. If I had been alone, I would have been completely isolated. Now, Miles and I were allies. Suddenly, the doorbell rang. The housekeeper answered, and Zane Maverick strode in, pulling a battered, monogrammed suitcase. Preston’s jaw dropped again. “Zane? Why are you here, too?” Zane surveyed the four of us, lit a cigarette, and exhaled a long plume of smoke. “Did I interrupt something? If I’m not welcome, I can leave.” He said this, but he dropped his suitcase and pulled up a chair at my table, already planning to eat. As the housekeeper brought him a place setting, he explained, “Xander, my psycho fans tracked me down again. It’s too dangerous to go back to my place right now. I’m crashing here for a bit.” Preston merely grunted. Zane then turned his full charm on me. “Sloane, I hope I’m not too much of an inconvenience.” I curved my lips into a pleased smile. Watching handsome men fight over me always improved my mood. 13 The dinner table instantly became two distinct camps: me, Miles, and Zane in one chat group, and Preston and Penelope in the other. Miles and I were mid-story, laughing about how Zane was almost force-kissed by a crazed fan, when Penelope suddenly apologized. “Sloane, are you upset that I’ve moved in? Are you deliberately ignoring me?” Her voice was laced with artificial vulnerability. “I’m so sorry, I can’t afford a hotel, and my parents aren’t here. I know I’m not a rich socialite like you…” Zane snorted with laughter. “Sloane, she just called you ‘Sister Sloane,’ and she’s older than you. Hahaha.” Miles chimed in, “Penelope, I can vouch for Sloane. She’s not ignoring you. Zane is the one who’s ignoring you.” Zane immediately agreed. “I can also vouch. Sloane isn’t ignoring you. Miles is the one who’s ignoring you.” Miles leaned back, utterly at ease. “I’m just afraid Xander will get jealous.” Zane emphatically agreed, throwing his hands up. “Me, too. It’s better if we three stick together. We wouldn’t want to get dirty looks.” Preston shot me an icy, reproving glare, as if I had somehow orchestrated this triple alliance to bully his darling Penelope. Zane calmly spooned some mashed potatoes onto my plate and then addressed Preston. “Xander, you brought your mistress home and warned your wife not to lift a finger against her. How much more do you plan to abuse Sloane?” Miles, ever the picture of lazy elegance, draped an arm over the back of his chair. “Xander, harassing women? That’s not a good look for a businessman.” Preston was so enraged he pushed his chair back. “I’ve lost my appetite. Enjoy your meal.” He stormed upstairs. Penelope immediately followed, trying to grab his arm. “I’m so sorry, Xander. I just don’t want there to be conflict between you and your wife because of me.” Zane instantly turned to me. “Sloane, I’m so sorry, I spoke up too loudly. I just don’t want there to be conflict between you and your husband because of me.” Miles and I burst into laughter. 14 Later, after I’d finished my nighttime routine, there was a knock on my door. I opened it, and Zane slipped inside, immediately wrapping me in a bear hug. “Sloane, my little devil, want to play with my big toy?” I laughed, and we tumbled onto the bed. Just as he reached for my belt, another, more insistent knock sounded. I quickly opened the door. It was Miles. Miles slipped in, slamming the door shut, and pinned me to the bed. “Did you miss me?” Then he kissed me deep and hard. Zane cleared his throat. “Dr. Shaw, it’s late. Don’t you have to operate tomorrow?” Miles looked up, unbothered. “What are you doing here?” “Doing what I do best, of course.” “I have to treat Sloane’s condition. You need to leave.” Zane laughed. “I have to exorcise the demon. You need to leave. Sloane, who are you choosing tonight? Treatment or Exorcism?” I gave them an apologetic shrug. “I think I’ll work late.” I opened my laptop and started reviewing my Q3 project proposal. 15 An hour later, they were still there, lying on either side of my King-sized bed, scrolling through their phones. The scene was strangely harmonious. Neither was willing to give ground. With them both there, I felt like the house had finally acquired a kind of warmth. I didn’t want them to leave. Just then, there was another, softer knock. I tensed up. Was it Preston? It wasn’t. I opened the door to see Penelope. “Sloane, I came to apologize. I shouldn’t have questioned you so suddenly at dinner. Please, forgive me.” I gave her a gentle, practiced smile. “It’s nothing, Penny. Don’t worry about it. Get some rest. Good night.” I closed the door immediately. 16 The next morning, we all gathered at the breakfast table, yawning and bleary-eyed. Preston suddenly erupted. “Sloane, why did you push Penelope down the stairs last night? She says she fell, and you know she had to wait there all night because she couldn’t get up!” “Wait, what?” I said, genuinely taken aback. I hadn’t realized there was a sequel to the night’s drama. Zane jumped in immediately. “Xander, you’re mistaken. Penny came to apologize to Sloane last night. She was fine when we saw her.” Miles agreed. “Yes, Penelope was fine when she apologized. How can you say Sloane pushed her?” Preston cut him off. “She must have pushed her later.” Zane shook his head, a look of utter conviction on his face. “That’s impossible. Sloane was with me all night. She didn’t leave my sight. She had no time to commit a crime.” Preston’s expression froze. He looked at the three of us with incomprehension.

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