When Grandpa Howard received my message, he was likely turning that old jade seal over in his hands—the one that had stamped the wardship-to-marriage contract twenty years ago. The text was brief: She doesn’t need me anymore. Per our agreement, it’s time for me to go. Today was our fourth wedding anniversary. When Gemma handed me the hotel key card earlier that evening, the glint in her eyes was like honey laced with arsenic. “Jamie, I have a surprise for you,” she’d said. There was a lilt in her voice, a spark of life I hadn’t heard in the two decades I’d spent by her side. The moment I pushed the door open, I heard it—that rhythmic, familiar hitch in breath that I knew better than my own. The two figures were tangled on the bed. The man pinned beneath her, his hands buried in her hair, was Dillon. My best friend. The brother I’d grown up with, the one I thought would take a bullet for me. Gemma didn’t scramble. She didn’t scream. She simply pulled her silk robe closed with the clinical precision of a surgeon. Her voice was colder than a scalpel. “My emotional apathy didn’t just vanish because of you, Jamie. You weren’t the cure.” She let out a soft, jagged laugh. “Dillon was the one who taught me what desire actually feels like. He doesn’t want to ruin your ‘brotherhood,’ and I’m not leaving you. If you can just accept us, we can keep this marriage going.” Nobody knew how many times I had laid on a sterile operating table, undergoing invasive, experimental fertility treatments just so she could have the child she claimed she wanted. And nobody knew that from the day I was brought into the Whitaker estate as her “companion”—a boy groomed to be the anchor for the heiress—my life had been nothing but a long-term rescue mission with an expiration date. 1 Gemma leisurely pulled the duvet over Dillon’s bare chest before walking toward me barefoot. “Why are you crying?” she asked, tilting her head. “Shouldn’t you be happy for me? I finally feel something. Someone else is finally reaching me.” I tried to speak, but my throat felt like it was filled with powdered glass. Silence was the only thing that came out, followed by the heavy thud of tears hitting the hardwood floor. Dillon sat up, the bruising marks on his neck stark against his skin. His eyes were rimmed with red, his voice a raspy whisper. “Jamie, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean for it to go this far.” “You can hit me, you can hate me,” he continued, his voice trembling with a rehearsed kind of guilt. “Just don’t blame Gemma. It’s all on me.” Gemma frowned, pulling Dillon into her arms. She looked at me with a flicker of impatience. “Stop scaring him, Jamie. I know this is a lot to take in, but there’s no point in a scene.” “Dillon isn’t asking for your title. And I’m not discarding you. Can’t you just be sensible for once?” I stared at her hand—the hand I had held through her night terrors, the hand that had remained limp and cold for years—as it stroked Dillon’s hair with genuine tenderness. It was almost funny. During her years of treatment, when she’d go into fits of rage and shatter everything in sight, I was the one who swept up the glass in silence. When she retreated into weeks of catatonic silence, I was the one who kept the house running, hovering nearby like a ghost just so she wouldn’t be alone. I had swallowed every bit of resentment, every lonely night, and every ounce of pain just to keep her stable. I didn’t even let her see me cry, fearing it would trigger her. And this was the reward for my “sensibility.” I took a shaky breath, the bitterness coating my tongue. “How long?” Gemma picked up her phone, tapped the screen a few times, and held it out to me. “See for yourself.” I scrolled through the photos with numb fingers. A year ago: they were at a concert, Dillon leaning on her shoulder, Gemma laughing—a real, vibrant laugh I’d never seen. Two months ago: at a carnival, her face smeared with cotton candy as she made a silly face at the camera. Last week: while I was at the clinic alone, recovering from another round of hormone injections, they were watching the sunrise on a mountain peak. I had known her since I was five years old. I had been her shadow through the darkest parts of her adolescence. When she first started showing signs of recovery, she told me, “Jamie, I feel like I can ignore the whole world, but you’re the only one who makes me feel like being alive has a purpose.” I thought I was the one who had finally cracked the ice. Now I realized I was just the ferryman who had carried her across the dark river. I was never the destination. I threw the phone to the floor. The screen shattered, echoing the mess inside my chest. “You lied to me for a year!” I screamed, the sound raw and ugly. “Gemma, do you remember what you told me? You said you’d learn how to love for me. You said as long as I was there, it was enough!” There was no guilt in her eyes. Only a flat, terrifying indifference. “People change, Jamie. You can’t hold me to things I said when I was sick.” “And stop crying,” she added, her lip curling in a slight sneer. “You look pathetic. I’m not trying to hurt you; I’m just tired of lying. You gave me habit and dependency. You spent twenty years failing to make my heart race. Dillon did it in one.” While I was curled in a ball on a cold clinic bed, weeping from the physical toll of trying to give her a family, she was out discovering “excitement” with my best friend. Twenty years of devotion. Dozens of procedures. All of it rendered worthless in the face of a “spark.” “Are you done?” Gemma’s voice snapped me back to the room. Dillon buried his face in her neck. “Gemma, stop. He’s allowed to be angry. Maybe I should go… let you guys talk…” Gemma held him down, her grip firm. “You aren’t going anywhere.” She turned to me, her gaze turning icy. “If you can’t handle this, then leave. But let me remind you—you’ve been under my wing for your entire life. If you walk out that door, who else is ever going to want you?” I didn’t answer. I turned and walked out. Behind me, I heard Dillon’s weak, performative voice: “Jamie, wait! Don’t leave like this!” And then Gemma’s low, soothing murmur: “Let him go. He just needs to throw his tantrum.” 2 After leaving the house, I received a call from Grandpa Howard. “Jamie, you’ve done enough,” he said, his voice heavy with a fatigue that matched mine. “I’ve heard. We’ll handle the divorce when I’m back in the country.” I checked into a hotel he arranged and spent two days in a catatonic fog. Then, Dillon called. “Jamie, please come home,” he begged, sounding like the brother I used to know. “Let’s just talk. I promise I’ll never see her again. I’ll leave the city. Just come back.” Before the Whitakers took me in, Dillon and I had grown up in the same foster home. When he found out I was being “sold” to a wealthy family to be a companion for a sick girl, he had held me and cried for two hours. He had even given up his dreams of pro sports to study psychology, claiming he wanted to help me fix my marriage, to ensure I had a “normal” life. “Our Jamie deserves the best,” he’d said back then. “I’m going to make sure you’re the happiest man alive.” I had believed him. I thought having a brother like him was the greatest blessing of my life. He became Gemma’s therapist, just as he said he would. But it turned out he didn’t just cure her; he cured himself right into her bed. I hesitated, then agreed to meet him. Not because I forgave him, but because some things needed to be finished face-to-face. When I arrived at the house, Dillon ushered me in. He sat me down on the sofa and handed me a bowl of warm peach cobbler—the comfort food he used to make for me whenever I was down. “Jamie, I just lost control of my heart. Please, just take a bite. Let me feel like I’m doing one thing right.” I didn’t want to argue. I took a few bites just to get it over with. Minutes later, the world began to tilt. My vision blurred into a hazy gray. Dillon helped me into the master bedroom, where Gemma was already asleep. My head was spinning, my body burning with a sudden, localized fever. Through the fog, I saw Dillon standing at the door. He wasn’t crying anymore. He was wearing a cold, triumphant smile. The drug hit like a freight train. Every inch of my skin screamed for contact. My body, acting on a chemical impulse I couldn’t control, began to thrash, seeking the coldness of Gemma’s skin. A sudden, sharp pain jolted me into a moment of horrifying clarity. My voice was a broken rasp. “No… please, stop…” But Gemma didn’t stop. I was too weak to push her away, trapped in a nightmare where pleasure was indistinguishable from agony. Then, a sickening cramp seized my abdomen. A warmth began to spread beneath me, soaking the sheets. Gemma finally pulled away, her brow furrowing for a second before a sneer twisted her features. “Really, Jamie? You’re going this low now? Drugging yourself to trap me? You’re disgusting.” There was no pity in her eyes. Only revulsion, as if she were looking at something rotting. I tried to tell her. I tried to say it was Dillon. I tried to beg for help. But Gemma just slammed the door, leaving me in the dark. I couldn’t utter a single word. When I woke up, the housekeeper had already called an ambulance. The nurse in the recovery room sighed, her eyes full of pity. “You lost a lot of blood, honey. You’re lucky to be alive.” “Rest now. Your body needs to heal. You… you can try again for children later.” My eyes felt like they had been scorched dry. I couldn’t even cry. My mind was a slideshow of the last twenty years. Gemma at seven years old, witnessing her mother’s affair and her father’s subsequent suicide. She had stopped speaking that day. The doctors called it a trauma-induced apathy—a defensive wall so thick she couldn’t feel or express a thing. Grandpa Howard had brought me in as a “fiancé” in a desperate bid to give her a reason to connect. He told me when I got older that he would respect my choice; once she was better, I could leave. But I had fallen in love with her. I threw my choice away. I spent twenty years smiling at her stone-cold face. I studied every psychological text I could find. I put in every ounce of effort to make her “normal.” On our wedding day, she had looked me in the eye and promised, “If we ever have a child, I’ll make sure they are the happiest baby in the world.” But she had spent her life hating her mother, only to grow into the exact same woman. 3 I spent three days in the hospital. Gemma didn’t send a single text. As I was signing my discharge papers, my phone rang. It was the police. “Is this the husband of Gemma Whitaker? She’s been brought in on a sexual assault allegation. We need you down at the station.” When I arrived, a young officer pulled me aside. “The complainant is a man named Dillon. He claims that after a heated argument yesterday, Mrs. Whitaker forced herself on him.” “We brought her in for a statement, but now Dillon’s phone is off. We can’t reach him. If he doesn’t drop the charges, we have to proceed.” Gemma walked out of the interrogation room, her face livid. “Are you happy now? If you hadn’t played the ‘wronged husband’ and run away, Dillon wouldn’t be acting out like this!” “He didn’t even want to replace you, Jamie! But you pushed him!” The young officer taking notes froze, staring at us in pure disbelief. I felt the heat rise to my face. Looking at her—so self-righteous, so utterly delusional—I realized that words were a waste of breath. “You called me here… so I could convince Dillon to drop the charges?” Gemma shrugged as if it were obvious. “I’m telling you to go apologize to him. Fix whatever you broke so he stops being dramatic.” She truly believed it was my fault. That my “lack of grace” was the reason she was in a precinct. I didn’t want any more drama. I just wanted to be gone. I contacted Dillon and met him at a quiet cafe he’d pinned. He was leaning back in his chair, a smug, careless grin on his face. “Recovered already? That was fast.” I didn’t play the game. “The drugs, the police report… what are you doing, Dillon?” He leaned in, his voice a low purr. “I want to see you crawl, Jamie. I want to see you on your knees, begging me.” I didn’t scream. I didn’t cry. I just looked at him and asked one thing. “Dillon… was any of it real? When we were kids?” “In the group home, you always gave me the bigger half of the bread. You took the beatings for me. The day I left for the Whitakers, you gave me that bag of candy you’d saved for months and told me to never look back.” A tear escaped, rolling down my cheek. “I thought you were my brother. I thought you wanted me to be happy.” He flinched. His chest began to heave. “I did, at first,” he spat. “But then I watched you get everything. And I started to hate you.” “Jamie, I was stronger than you. Smarter. But the Whitakers didn’t choose me!” “When I finally got fostered, my ‘mother’ abused me for years. While you were living in a mansion, eating five-star meals, and driving luxury cars. Gemma was a statue, sure, but you had a bottomless credit card. Do you know how much it killed me every time I saw you?” I stared at him, speechless. He had been nursing this venom for over a decade. Dillon laughed bitterly. “I didn’t study psychology for you. I studied it because if the Whitakers wanted a ‘good, obedient boy’ like you, I knew I could play that part better. If the family wouldn’t pick me, I’d make the heiress pick me herself.” He sat back, waiting for me to break. Waiting for me to beg for Gemma’s freedom. I felt my nails bite into my palms. I forced myself to stand, then, with a heavy heart, I lowered myself to the floor. I knelt. The other patrons whispered, their eyes full of judgment, but Dillon just reached out and patted my cheek. “I’ll drop the charges. I wouldn’t want her behind bars, after all. But I don’t want to see your face in that house ever again.” I got back to the estate late that evening. Gemma was already there, looking as composed and elegant as ever. When she saw me, she didn’t ask how I was. She just said, “Dillon told me. He said you were the one who told him to call the police.” 4 I stood rooted to the spot. “Gemma, I have never played games like that. He drugged me, I was hospitalized, and then he turned on you!” Gemma lit a cigarette, her eyes full of mocking disdain. “I never realized how manipulative you were, Jamie.” “You’re getting quite good at fiction. You expect me to believe you were pregnant with my child and didn’t tell me? Do I look like a fool?” Before I could answer, the front door burst open. Dillon stumbled in, looking like a wreck. His hair was a mess, his shirt torn, his face streaked with tears. Gemma’s expression shifted instantly. “Dillon? What happened?” He looked at me with a gaze full of practiced terror. He pointed a trembling finger. “He… he hired people. Women. They cornered me in the alley… I barely got away.” I stood there, my mind blank. It was so brazen, so absurd, that I couldn’t even find the words to deny it. Gemma didn’t wait for an explanation. She crossed the room and slapped me across the face so hard my head snapped back. I fell, the metallic taste of blood filling my mouth. Gemma looked down at me with pure disgust. “You make me sick, Jamie.” “You like playing these little games? Fine. Let’s play.” A few minutes later, the housekeepers brought in several rough-looking women from the local dive bars—women who smelled of stale beer and desperation. They circled me. They tore at my clothes, pinning my wrists to the floor. I fought. I kicked. But it only made them more aggressive. Gemma was already gone, cradling Dillon, whispering that she’d take him to the hospital to get checked out. As the heavy oak door slammed shut, a familiar, agonizing cramp ripped through my gut. Blood began to pool beneath me, dark and hot, spreading across the white rug. The women finally stopped, their eyes wide with sudden panic. “Wait, why is he bleeding like that? Is he dying?” Without a word, they turned and fled, leaving the door wide open. I lay there in the cold, red mess, unable to even lift a finger. I don’t know how long I was there before Mr. Bradley, Grandpa Howard’s longtime butler, rushed in with two security guards. “Mr. Whitaker… oh, heavens. Master Howard sent me to get you out. You’ve suffered enough.” … At the hospital, while Dillon was getting a few scratches treated, Gemma’s phone rang. “Grandpa? You’re back?” Grandpa Howard’s voice was like stone. “Get to the estate. Now.” Gemma let out a dry laugh. “Did Jamie tattle? He brought this on himself, Grandpa. I just gave him a little scare to teach him a lesson.” The silence on the other end lasted for an eternity. Then, the old man spoke. “I’ve already sent him away. You’re coming here to sign the divorce papers.”

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When my eyes flew open, the scent hit me first—stale tobacco layered beneath a suffocating, synthetic pine air freshener. I was back in the backseat of the rideshare, and my three roommates were in the middle of their favorite game: playing at being filthy rich. The phantom pains of my past life violently crashed into me. In that previous timeline, I had scrambled to de-escalate the situation, warning the driver that they were just joking, knowing full well that you never flaunt wealth in front of a desperate stranger. My roommates, feeling humiliated and stripped of their manufactured glamour, had stormed out of the car in a rage. But the driver hadn’t let me leave. He locked the doors, a sickening grin spreading across his face as he told me that since I had saved them, I would have to pay their toll. The assault was brutal. I fought with every ounce of my being, barely escaping with my life. I went straight to the police. Yet, when the detectives questioned my roommates, they formed a united front of lies. They claimed I had intentionally sat in the front seat to seduce him, that I refused to get out of the car because I “wanted a thrill.” The driver’s wife caught wind of this, dragged me by my hair through the street, branded me a homewrecker, and plastered my battered face all over the internet. The digital mob tore me apart. The final nail in the coffin was when the driver sent photos of my violated body to my mother. The shock triggered a massive heart attack. She died before the ambulance even arrived. Shattered, hollowed out, and utterly alone, I took my own life. And my roommates? They used the “trauma” of my tragic suicide to secure full-ride fellowships to graduate school, smiling for the cameras as they accepted their offers. … 1. “God, what is this, an early two-thousands Chevy? My family’s housekeeper wouldn’t even be caught dead driving this piece of junk to the grocery store.” The moment I blinked the disorientation away, Kendall’s sickeningly sweet, nasal voice pierced the heavy air of the car. “And what is up with these seat covers? Polyester?” On the other side of me, Jocelyn pinched the fabric of the seat cover, her face contorting in exaggerated disgust as she shoved it down toward the floor mats. “My golden retriever sleeps on higher thread counts.” “Seriously. I wouldn’t even wipe my shoes on it.” My phone vibrated in my palm. It was our dorm group chat. Kendall was texting beneath the sightline of the rearview mirror, egging them on. Look at this guy in the rearview. He looks like a total creep. Bet he folds the second someone stands up to him. We are whoever we say we are outside of campus. Keep acting rich, let’s freak him out! The absurdity of the scene playing out in front of me perfectly overlapped with the nightmare of my past life. Back then, terrified that their reckless roleplaying would invite a tragedy, I had tried to smooth things over. Their reward for my kindness was leaving me trapped in a moving vehicle, completely deaf to my screams for help. This time, I wouldn’t lift a finger to stop them from digging their own graves. In the driver’s seat, the man’s face visibly darkened. The muscles in his jaw locked as he let out a dry, chilling chuckle. “You ruin those mats, little girl, and you’re paying for them.” “How much could a cheap piece of fabric possibly cost?” Jocelyn scoffed, rolling her eyes. “Do you have any idea how much the Persian rug in my foyer is worth? Forty thousand dollars.” “Exactly. Only people from your… tax bracket obsess over pennies.” Phoebe, sitting in the middle, offered a careless shrug. Suddenly, she pointed a manicured finger at the generic, plastic water bottle resting in the driver’s cupholder. “Oh my god, how do you drink that tap water garbage? Aren’t you afraid of getting parasites?” Watching their theatrical performance, I slowly shifted my gaze out the window, my mind racing. The sun was dipping below the horizon, bleeding the sky into a bruised purple. I needed to find a way out of this car, and fast. I absolutely refused to be dragged down to hell by these idiots again. The driver’s knuckles turned white around the steering wheel. He grabbed the water bottle, his neck stiffening as he kept his eyes on the road. “Well, when your life isn’t worth anything to begin with, I guess you just drink whatever’s cheap,” Kendall smirked, practically preening with self-satisfaction. “Unlike us. I literally can’t hydrate with anything except Voss, shipped straight from the aquifer.” Phoebe giggled, her eyes curving into cruel crescents. “Kendall, stop. The guy probably doesn’t even know what Voss is.” “True. It’s a socioeconomic thing. He couldn’t grasp it in a lifetime.” The three of them dissolved into high-pitched, grating laughter. Outside, the wind whipping against the windows began to howl, growing sharper, colder. I gripped my seatbelt tightly. A dangerous, desperate plan began to take shape in my mind. Before the driver could snap back at them, I turned my head and cut through the noise. “Can you guys just stop? You’re going too far.” The three girls in the back stopped laughing, turning to stare at me in stunned silence for a fraction of a second. Kendall recovered first, shooting me a venomous side-eye. “Giselle? You’re taking his side? Oh, wait, that makes sense. You’re from some trailer park in the rust belt, aren’t you?” “I heard your mom cleans out diners for a living,” Phoebe sneered, looking down at me with an air of aristocratic pity. Even when they weren’t pretending to be heiresses, their upper-middle-class backgrounds eclipsed my reality by miles. “No wonder you always smell like cheap bleach and old grease.” “God, you and the driver really are from the same gutter. You guys must have so much in common,” Kendall chimed in. “What do you talk about? Food stamps?” As their insults rained down on me, I bit my lower lip, feigning deep hurt. “You can say whatever you want about me, but leave the driver alone. He’s just trying to make an honest living for his family.” Jocelyn raised an eyebrow, letting out a sharp scoff. “Family?” Kendall lazily kicked the back of the driver’s seat with her designer sneaker. “Hey, old man. Someone as broke as you actually has a wife and kids?” The driver let out a low, breathy laugh. His foot slammed down on the gas pedal. I whipped my head toward the windshield. The car violently jerked into another lane. In my palm, my phone began to vibrate incessantly, the rideshare app flashing a glaring warning. He had deviated from the route. 2. My breath hitched, my heart hammering so violently it felt like it might crack my ribs. Time was up. I immediately leaned forward, grabbing the driver’s phone from the dashboard mount and waking the screen. I turned to the girls, raising my voice. “What are you talking about? Look, here’s his family right here!” The cracked screen illuminated a faded, happy photo of a family of three. The driver looked years younger, a testament to how old the picture was. The little boy in the photo was strikingly pale, his skin translucent, his head completely bald from intensive treatments. In my past life, I had learned the truth much later. The driver’s intense hatred for the wealthy stemmed from a broken medical system. His son had battled severe leukemia, and because he couldn’t afford the exorbitant experimental treatments that rich families could easily buy, the boy died at only six years old. His son was the absolute line you did not cross. Kendall snatched the phone from my hand, her face immediately twisting into open disgust. “What kind of knock-off trash phone is this? The pixels are huge.” She squinted at the lock screen. “Ew. Why does that kid look like a ghost? It’s genuinely creepy.” The driver whipped his head around, his face contorted into something demonic. “What did you just say!?” The car swerved wildly, the tires screeching as we narrowly missed a concrete divider. Kendall shrieked, tossing the phone carelessly onto the console. “Watch the road, you psycho!” Phoebe gripped the headrest, her chest heaving as she glared at the man. “You almost killed us! Over a stupid lock screen?!” “Seriously. If you’re that defensive over a picture, maybe the kid isn’t even yours,” Jocelyn sneered, raking a hand through her messy hair. “Wife probably cheated on you.” The phone had slipped into the crack between the seats. Moving faster than the driver, I dove for it, retrieved it, and glared righteously at my roommates. “Just because you have money doesn’t give you the right to strip away someone’s dignity!” Jocelyn looked me up and down, deeply annoyed. “Giselle, look at yourself. You really think you’re in a position to play savior?” “We let you be the roommate coordinator out of pity, don’t let it go to your head!” Hearing that, my fists clenched so tight my nails dug into my palms. I almost laughed at the sheer audacity. Freshman year, the three of them had bullied and manipulated me into being the “roommate coordinator” simply because they couldn’t be bothered to pick up after themselves. I was the one scrubbing the toilets. I was the one mopping the floors. When the drain clogged with their hair, or when they were too hungover to get their own food, it was always me fetching and cleaning. In my previous life, I genuinely believed that because I had poured my heart out serving them, they would at least have the decency to tell the police the truth. Instead, they framed me as a slut who threw herself at a predator. This time around, I was going to make sure they tasted every single drop of the agony I endured. The driver retrieved his phone, his thumb brushing over the cracked screen. The shadow over his face briefly receded, replaced by a haunting, hollow smile. “I apologize,” he said, his voice eerily calm. “That is the last photo taken of my son before he passed away. I lost my temper.” Kendall shrieked, frantically pulling a bottle of hand sanitizer from her purse and scrubbing her hands. “Dead? Oh my god, that is such bad energy. I literally touched it.” Phoebe pulled out a pack of wet wipes, handing one to Kendall with a worried frown. “Ken, you’re totally going to have nightmares tonight.” Jocelyn shrugged, thoroughly unbothered. “Just drink it off. I brought a bottle of Dom we can pop when we get to the rental.” “Ugh, thank god for you.” They chatted back and forth, entirely ignoring the man in the front seat, acting as if the death of a child was a minor inconvenience compared to Kendall potentially having a bad dream. I watched the driver’s face in the rearview mirror. For a split second, his expression completely fractured. In my last life, mere wealth-flaunting had planted a seed of violent hatred in him. This time, they had crossed lines so deeply depraved I couldn’t even fathom the horrors this broken man was dreaming up for them. The notifications on my phone multiplied. Rerouting. Rerouting. Rerouting. The vibration in my hand matched the frantic tempo of my pulse. I took shallow, quiet breaths. In my calculated panic, I intentionally flipped the mute switch off. Instantly, the loud, rhythmic pinging of the GPS warnings echoed through the suffocating cabin. 3. The driver slowly turned his head to look at me. His eyes were completely dead. A terrifying pool of eerie calm. They were the eyes that had haunted my nightmares, night after agonizing night. I looked away instantly, a physical shudder ripping through my spine. Hearing the chimes, Phoebe peered out the dark window, her perfectly plucked eyebrows knitting together. “Why are there no streetlights out here? Do you even know how to use a GPS?” The driver let out two dry, rhythmic laughs. He kept his hands casually draped over the steering wheel. “There’s a massive pile-up on the interstate. I’m taking a shortcut to get you girls there.” I thought that after the screaming match, they would at least have a baseline level of situational awareness. But I severely overestimated their survival instincts. Jocelyn crossed her arms, letting out a haughty huff. “At least you’re marginally useful.” The other two nodded in agreement. “Well, this car smells like a dumpster, so we aren’t paying extra for the detour,” Kendall complained, waving a hand in front of her nose. The driver remained perfectly placid. Not a single muscle in his face twitched in anger. “Just go into your app and change the drop-off location to wherever we are now. The rest of the ride is on the house.” The three of them paused at the mention of a free ride. They exchanged a look, then collectively turned to me, snapping their fingers. “Cancel the ride, Giselle. Quick.” I clutched my phone tightly. Watching their faces soften at the prospect of saving a few bucks, I knew my window had finally opened. “No.” I sat rigidly in my seat, staring straight ahead. “I’m not cancelling it.” Jocelyn’s eyes bulged. “Giselle, what the hell is wrong with you? If you need a therapist, go find one, but stop dragging us into your weird complexes!” “Seriously. You’re broke and you’re obnoxious. Just do it!” They fired off insults, their faces flushed with irritation. Jocelyn started spamming my phone with texts in the group chat. Do you have money to burn or something?! Do you know how expensive a ride from the airport to the estate is?! The driver caught my eye in the mirror and offered a warm, almost grandfatherly smile. “Are you worried about safety, sweetheart? There are cameras everywhere these days. Who’d be stupid enough to try anything?” He paused, his gaze slowly dragging across the three girls in the back. “Besides… you ladies are clearly very important people. I wouldn’t dare offend you.” “Exactly!” “Why would he do anything to us? He’s not an idiot.” Jocelyn, her ego sufficiently stroked by the driver’s feigned submission, looked at me like I was something scraped off the bottom of a shoe. Listening to their absolute delusion, a cold, bitter laugh bubbled up in my chest. This man drove these roads for a living. He knew exactly where the city’s cameras stopped and the dark country roads began. And the fake billionaire identities these girls were parading around? They didn’t intimidate him. They only fueled his desire to watch them bleed. But this time, I wasn’t going to be the voice of reason. “I don’t care what you say. I am not changing the destination.” I crossed my arms, immovable. My stubbornness was the spark that blew Kendall’s notoriously volatile temper wide open. “Fine. If you won’t change it, get the hell out.” She glared at me with pure venom, pointing toward the desolate, fog-covered bridge rolling past the windows. “It’s pitch black out here. Good luck walking back to civilization.” “And if you get jumped by some local meth heads, don’t bother calling us to save you!” I let the insults wash over me, refusing to touch the app. My phone chimed with the third major route deviation warning. Kendall let out a bark of bitter laughter. “Giselle, you asked for this.” She delivered a brutal kick to the back of the driver’s seat. “Pull over!” The driver didn’t hit the brakes. “Ladies, why don’t you just take her phone and do it yourselves? It’s awfully dangerous for a young girl to be out here alone at night.” But Kendall wasn’t the type to be reasoned with. In my past life, it was her blinding rage that caused them to abandon the car in the first place. She kicked the seat again, harder, her voice turning shrill and violent. “I said pull the car over! Are you deaf!?” Jocelyn and Phoebe leaned forward, aggressively shoving the driver’s shoulder. Between the blaring GPS alarms, Kendall’s screaming, and the physical struggle, the cabin erupted into absolute chaos. The car slammed to a violent halt. “Get out!” Kendall threw her door open, stomped around to the other side, ripped my door open, and grabbed my arm, yanking me toward the asphalt. “You want to play the martyr? Let’s see how you like it out here, you ungrateful bitch!” I didn’t fight back. I stumbled out of the car, my knees slamming into the loose gravel of the shoulder. The sharp pain brought hot tears to my eyes—but not from sadness. I was alive. The loop was broken. I had survived the car ride. Jocelyn slid out right behind me and snatched the phone from my unresisting hands. She tapped the screen a few times, altered the destination, and finalized the drop-off. Then, she looked down at me, holding my phone over the guardrail of the bridge. She flashed me a radiant, wicked smile. “Want it back?” Before I could even open my mouth, she opened her fingers. My phone plummeted into the dark, rushing river below. “Oops. Butterfingers.” She shrugged, her laugh a nasty, metallic sound. I sat slumped on the wet gravel, watching as the two of them triumphantly climbed back into the vehicle. Kendall, wanting more legroom, had even taken the passenger seat in the front. Through the glass, I caught the driver’s eyes. They were fixed on me, dark and seething with a twisted sense of disappointment that his first prey had slipped away. Jocelyn slammed her door shut and, with the haughty command of a queen, ordered him to drive. The driver tore his eyes away from me and hit the gas. I sat there, utterly still, watching the red taillights bleed into the impenetrable darkness of the tree line ahead. Beyond that point, there were no cameras. No cell towers. Nothing but miles of dense, unforgiving woods. Under the cover of the night, a slow, deep smile spread across my face. Welcome to your personal hell, girls.

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The sounds that shattered the peace of our home, the phantom echoes that made the walls feel like they were bleeding—those were all my mother’s designs. She scripted them before she died, a parting gift to ensure he would never know a moment of silence. I remember when she died. She bled out on an operating table while my father stood outside the door, screaming at her. He told her he had been more than generous by coming back to her at all. He told her she needed to “cool off” and stop being so dramatic. He didn’t know that behind that door, my mother had already stopped hearing him. She had stopped hearing everything. When he finally came home that night, his face was a mask of calculated conflict. He told me that Melanie’s children were still so young; he couldn’t bear to see them separated from their mother. It turned out that after the company’s core secrets were leaked and the capital chain snapped, the Clark family had offered a lifeline. The price? A business marriage between a daughter of our house and their eldest son, a man left paralyzed after an accident. It took three years for the truth to settle. Melanie and her twins—the ones my father pampered like royalty—weren’t enough to stop his empire from crumbling. He had even fired the security guard who dared to joke about my mother’s “ghost,” even though every man on the night shift claimed they could hear a woman sobbing in the dark. When Melanie gave birth to the twins a year later, my father simply frowned and suppressed the rumors. Their wedding had been a grander affair than his first, a spit in the face of my mother’s memory. That night, a priceless Ming vase was smashed to pieces in the foyer. When my father heard the news, a small, twisted smile touched his lips. That was the first year he had officially declared his divorce and given Melanie a “real” home. He never stepped foot in our old wing after that. My mother had thrown her wedding ring at him, screaming through her breakdown that he was never to cross the threshold again. But even that didn’t save the child she was carrying. I remember her eyes, wet with tears, fighting him with every ounce of her strength. But my father had listened to some hack spiritualist who claimed the baby in my mother’s womb was a curse upon Melanie’s future. “Melanie is upset again because of you,” he had told my mother, his voice cold as a winter grave. “I’ve already dealt with her, but you… you need to learn.” After the third time Melanie “accidentally” lost an expensive handbag, my father did the unthinkable. He had my mother bound and driven to the clinic for a forced termination. … 1 Less than ten minutes later, a driver arrived to take me to Melanie’s estate. On the way, he stole a pitiful glance at me through the rearview mirror. “Are they really sending you to marry a cripple, Miss?” Before I even crossed the threshold, I heard Melanie’s high-pitched laughter. My father was staring at a contract on the mahogany table, his silence heavy and suffocating. I sat down calmly, watching the smile on Melanie’s face slowly turn brittle under my gaze. “Franklin,” she prompted, her voice a soft, manipulative purr. “The company is your life’s work. I’m sure Wren and her mother will understand. It’s for the family.” My father didn’t move. I knew what he was doing. He was waiting for my mother to storm in, to scream, to put up a fight. But the dead don’t show up for arguments. At dusk, I took the engagement ring provided by the Clarks and returned to the other house alone. My father had flown into a rage. He cursed my mother’s “stubbornness” and froze her bank accounts. He even sent men to burn every flower in her garden, using the ashes as fertilizer for the roses he bought for Melanie. That night, I performed the final task my mother had set for me. I took the heirloom jade bracelet—the one meant for the matriarch of our family—and dropped it into the trash. For three years, Melanie had been the “Mrs. Clark” in the eyes of the world. But she had never even laid a finger on that bracelet. It was the one symbol of status she couldn’t steal. “No matter how angry she is, she shouldn’t have thrown it away,” Melanie sobbed later, tears welling perfectly in her eyes. “I don’t mind the disrespect to me, but that bracelet has been in your family for generations. Think of how heartbroken your parents would be.” She took a jagged breath, her voice trembling with practiced grace. “About the baby… I know your mother blames me. Franklin, maybe it’s better if you just let Wren go. Let her marry into the Clark family and be done with it.” My father’s eyes turned a violent shade of red. He ordered the maid to unlock the door and kicked my mother’s bedroom door off its hinges. Every word he spoke felt like it was being dragged through gravel. “Evelyn! I’ve made my decision! In seven days, Wren is getting married. And you? You will stay in this empty house. You won’t see her. Not for the wedding, not ever!” My mother had loved me more than life itself. Before she died, she had looked at me, her eyes struggling to stay open, whispering, “If I could do it again, I’d take you away, Wren. We’d go somewhere he could never find us.” She didn’t want to leave me. But when she refused to “cooperate” with the termination, my father had ordered the doctors to sedate her. He forced her onto that table. He cut off her only way out. Now, looking at the empty room, I was suddenly grateful she was in the ground. At least there, he couldn’t hurt her anymore. On the bed, the duvet was bunched up into a shape that looked like a sleeping body. Melanie glanced at it, a flicker of a triumphant smile crossing her lips before she masked it with worry. “Franklin, the Clarks are a top-tier family. Evelyn… well, everyone knows she’s your ex-wife now. I’m worried Wren will be looked down upon if she comes from a ‘broken’ home.” She had stolen my mother’s husband, her home, and her dignity. Now, she wanted to erase her motherhood too. A cold stone of defiance settled in my chest. But my father didn’t hesitate. He nodded, following Melanie’s lead perfectly. “I’ll have Wren’s legal records updated immediately. She’ll be listed as your daughter. It’s better for her future.” Seven days from now, I would be married. It was also my mother’s birthday. Melanie was right about one thing: my mother wanted revenge. She and my father had been “the” couple for decades. Then Melanie appeared, and he treated twenty years of love like a piece of scrap paper. My mother couldn’t swallow that insult. “Evelyn, Wren is grown now, and you’ve taught her nothing! Melanie is the one who does everything, who looks after her!” my father screamed at the empty bed. “You weren’t the only victim back then. Melanie suffered too! She battled depression in silence while you made everyone’s life a living hell with your tantrums! How long are you going to keep being this selfish?” Three years ago, he took me away and forbade me from seeing her. Now, he blamed her for our distance. The bed remained still. My father’s brow furrowed, and he instinctively moved toward the bedside. 2 But Melanie’s eyes darted quickly, and she suddenly doubled over, clutching her stomach. “Franklin… I have a sharp pain. The baby…” He forgot all about the bed. He scooped her up and rushed her to the hospital. Before they left, Melanie cast a gloating, razor-sharp smile back at the room. I followed them, silently counting down the final seven days. “Congratulations, Mr. Clark. She’s pregnant!” The doctor’s words hit the room like a physical weight. Melanie’s eyes went wide as she stared at the flickering grey image on the ultrasound monitor. “Franklin, we’re having another baby,” she whispered, her voice thick with joy. My father laughed, a sound of pure, unadulterated happiness. He threw my mother out of his mind instantly. For three days, he never left Melanie’s side. The servants were given massive bonuses, and everyone whispered about how much he adored her—how she was the true love of his life. But I remembered. When my mother was pregnant with me, my father started dozens of charitable foundations just to “earn blessings” for her. He spent money without blinking. He was so careful at night that he wouldn’t even sleep in the bed, terrified he might roll over and hurt her. He spent his days in cathedrals and temples, kneeling until his knees bled, praying for her safety. He used to sit on a stool by her feet at night, just watching her sleep with a look of terrifyingly intense devotion. “Franklin,” Melanie murmured, her voice soft as silk. “It’s been so long since the last time. And right after we visited Evelyn’s house… Do you think the baby we lost finally found its way back to us? I’m so happy.” My father froze for a second. And just like that, because of a few sweet words, he gave the name my mother had picked for her lost child to Melanie’s unborn baby. I remember my mother holding my hand, her eyes shining as she told me, “When you were born, your father cried all night. He was so obsessed with finding the perfect name. This second one… I have to think carefully. I won’t let him outdo me this time.” She had spent months agonized over the perfect name. Now, it was being used as a trophy for another woman. “Tell Evelyn to come to the hospital,” my father said, his fingers stroking Melanie’s belly. “And tell her to bring that heirloom silver locket she made for the baby.” The driver returned, trembling. “Everything… it was all burned, sir. And she… she refused to come.” The air in the room turned arctic. With a violent crash, my father kicked over a table. The veins in his neck were bulging. “I arranged the tests myself back then! That fetus wasn’t viable! If she were smart, she’d realize the baby left her because she was so full of malice and jealousy! The child knew Melanie had a kind heart and chose her instead. And she still refuses to repent? She’s still nursing her grudges?” Not viable. That was the lie Melanie and the doctor had crafted together. I saw them exchange a quick, triumphant look. “She’s just hurting, Franklin,” Melanie said, playing the martyr. “She misses the baby as much as we do. Don’t be angry. I’ll take the children and visit her more often. We’ll keep her company.” My father’s face softened. He pulled her into his arms, his gaze melting with tenderness. He would do anything for her now. When Melanie asked to personally prepare my dowry, he agreed. When Melanie suggested digging up the small memorial marker my mother had placed for the lost baby, he agreed to that too. “The child is back with us now,” he said. “That grave is just a morbid reminder of a bad time.” The guards went into my mother’s garden. They kicked and trampled the flowerbeds and tore the small headstone from the earth. My mother and the baby had died together. I had buried her long ago in a place he would never find. This grave was just an empty shell I had built for the performance. Melanie watched the destruction with a satisfied smile. My father looked at the house—the house that had been silent for three years—and sneered. “This place has been a tomb for three years. It’s time to move on.” 3 “She burned the baby’s clothes? Fine. Burn the whole wing. Leave nothing behind!” Melanie looked like she had won the lottery. I, too, felt a strange surge of joy for my mother. He had killed her. He was selling me off. And now, he was erasing every physical trace of our existence. Soon, he would realize that when he wanted to find her again, there wouldn’t even be a shadow left to grasp. “Franklin, what about that cherry blossom tree behind Wren?” Melanie asked, her voice laced with poison. When Melanie first met my father, she had seen my mother painting under that tree many times. The falling petals, the elegant silhouette—it was an image that had once captivated my father so much he couldn’t breathe. Melanie hated it. My father’s gaze shifted to me and locked. My face is seventy percent my mother’s. For a heartbeat, he lost himself. He took a step toward me as if he were seeing a ghost. Then he remembered. “I don’t like the smell of cherry blossoms,” Melanie complained, rubbing her stomach. “It makes me nauseous. And think of the baby, Franklin.” The trees would bloom in a few months. My father pressed a hand to the sudden hollow in his chest. Then he turned and kissed Melanie’s forehead. “Whatever you want.” The smell of smoke began to fill the air. He led Melanie away, not even bothering to suggest where my “mother” should sleep tonight. On the final day, the dowry was delivered to my room. But except for the wedding dress, every diamond necklace and gold bar had been replaced with common stones. The guard turned pale and immediately called my father. Within the hour, I was hauled back to Melanie’s villa. Melanie sat beside my father, sobbing as if her heart were breaking. “Where is your mother?” my father roared. “She stole the dowry just to stop you from leaving? Those were the Clark family heirlooms you were supposed to wear at the ceremony!” The money didn’t matter, but the Clarks’ pride was not something to be trifled with. I shook my head. “I don’t know.” Melanie’s wailing grew louder. “I only wanted to show her the jewelry to see if she wanted any changes! I was trying to be kind! And this is how she treats me?” My father swept everything off the coffee table in a fit of rage. The atmospheric pressure in the room dropped. “Search the city. I don’t care if you have to tear up every floorboard in the state. Find her!” Hours passed. Nothing. Melanie began to hyperventilate, clutching her stomach. “She doesn’t want Wren to be happy. She doesn’t want my baby to be born. It’s all my fault. Who am I to upset the Great Evelyn?” She collapsed into his arms, refusing to see a doctor. “If I lose the baby, I lose the baby. If it makes her happy, then maybe Franklin can finally have some peace. I’ll accept it.” My half-sister, Paige, came running in from school, out of breath. “Dad, I’ll go! I’ll marry into the Clark family if I have to. I’m not afraid. I know the company is in trouble. I can handle it.” My father’s face was like frost. After a long, terrifying silence, his cold gaze landed on me. “Take her outside. Fifty lashes with the rod.” Melanie dabbed at her eyes, the corner of her mouth twitching for a fraction of a second. To avoid upsetting Melanie’s “delicate state,” they gagged me before they started. My father told the guards to keep going until my mother “showed herself.” By the time they finished, my back was a mess of blood and torn skin. “Franklin, is this too much? What if something happens to her?” Melanie asked. She had taken her “medicine” and her complexion was perfectly rosy. My father glanced at me through the window and looked away just as quickly. “Evelyn won’t let Wren suffer forever. If she isn’t here in an hour, throw the girl in the basement.” 4 In the haze of pain, I thought I heard my mother’s voice. She was crying for me, telling me to just say it, to stop carrying the burden. I forced my eyes open. The voice was gone. In the brightly lit living room, I saw my father stroking Paige’s hair, smiling at her with a warmth I had never known. “Sir… the girl fainted.” My father paused. He walked out to me, his expression flat. He looked at the empty driveway, the empty gates. “Where is Evelyn?” The guard wiped sweat from his brow. “Sir… we still haven’t found a trace of her.” A flicker of disbelief crossed my father’s eyes. Then, he let out a sharp, angry laugh. I was tossed into the basement. Someone smeared a bit of ointment on my back, but otherwise, I was left in the dark. Late that night, a shadow approached. “Do you know what this is?” my father asked. A guard held out a wooden box. My father opened it. Inside was a severed hand. I froze. In my ears, I could hear my mother’s scream again. “This belongs to your aunt. The only relative your mother has left. She was in a ‘car accident’ half an hour ago.” When my mother died, my aunt had nearly followed her. It was my mother’s final wish that kept her alive. But even my mother’s last hope had been crushed by his cruelty. “Wren, I’ll ask you one last time. Where is she?” My face was ghost-white. I shook my head. My father’s lip curled. “The news of the accident is all over the wires. And she still won’t come out? Does she think hiding will save you?” He turned and vanished into the night. I curled into a ball in the corner, haunted by nightmares. The next morning, Melanie sent people to do my makeup. A long fleet of Clark family cars lined the driveway. I knelt and bowed once toward the direction of my mother’s grave, then got into the back of the Maybach. At the office, my father was staring at the wedding ring my mother had discarded. When his assistant burst in, he stood up abruptly. “Did you find her? Where is she?” He had set the trap. He assumed she would try to see me one last time before I was driven away. But as he prepared to go catch her, a guard trembling with fear handed him a letter. “Sir… the girl gave me this. For you. From her mother.” The guard’s voice cracked. “She said… she’s gone, sir.”

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When my thumb slid across my husband’s unlocked screen, I was only looking to Venmo myself a couple hundred dollars for my weekend poker buy-in. An accidental tap on a muted group chat stopped my heart. The “Wolf Pack” was on fire, buzzing with logistics for a yacht proposal scheduled for Saturday at seven. One guy reminded the group to wear black tie; they wanted to give “the future Mrs.” a surprise she’d never forget. Another voice jumped in, telling Damian to make sure he kept his wife occupied. He joked that I was “too sharp for my own good.” Damian’s reply came with a digital shrug. He’d already cleared the runway, he said. I’d told him I was planning an all-night poker game with the girls, so there was zero chance of me crashing the party. The chat exploded with laughing emojis. Someone joked that once the ring was on her finger, I wouldn’t even have a shoulder left to cry on. Then came the question about the ring. Someone warned the “Big Dog” not to let me find it like I almost did last time. Damian’s response was typed with terrifying confidence: It’s in the office vault. She doesn’t have the code. Once this is a done deal, let’s see her try to make a scene. That sentence hit me like a jagged glass shard to the eye. I scrolled up. The latest message was a voice note from Damian. I could hear the smirk in his voice as he thanked his brothers for the heavy lifting, promising to buy the first five rounds of Macallan once the deed was done. He ended it with a sharp directive: Keep a tail on her. Don’t let her slip away. The cold light of the screen washed over my face. I stared at the interface for a few seconds, the silence of our bedroom suddenly feeling predatory. My fingers began to move again. This time, I didn’t transfer two hundred dollars. I moved twenty thousand. If I was going to play a hand this big, I needed a stack that could actually break the table. 1 The air conditioning in the private club was dialed down to a crisp, biting cold. The rhythmic clack-clack-clack of shuffling chips drowned out the ambient jazz. “Nina, look. Look at this piece of trash.” Beth shoved her phone in front of my face, the screen glowing with a photo that felt like a physical blow. A yacht on the Hudson. Golden hour light. Silk and shadows. Damian was down on one knee, sliding a rock the size of a postage stamp onto Kayla’s finger. The caption read: To the rest of our lives. Forever yours. For a moment, the only sound at the table was the low hum of the HVAC system. “Wait… isn’t that Damian?” Penny, sitting across from me, gasped, her hand flying to her mouth. “And his assistant? Is he… is he proposing?” “Proposing? It’s a goddamn public execution!” Beth’s chest heaved with fury. She pointed at the background of the photo, where our friend Scott was grinning like an idiot. “Look at these men. Every single one of them. They’ve been playing you for a fool, Nina!” “Scott told me he had a ‘corporate retreat’ tonight. Turns out he was just the wingman for his best friend’s betrayal!” Another woman leaned in, letting out a long, slow sigh. “Nina, everyone in the city remembers how hard he chased you back in college. You were the ‘it’ couple. How did it come to this?” “Money turns them into monsters,” Penny muttered. “And let’s not forget, his firm would be a parking lot if your father hadn’t funded his first three rounds.” “I’ve met that Kayla girl. She plays the ‘sweet intern’ act well. I didn’t realize she was a vulture.” “Nina, what are you going to do? You can’t let this slide.” They were vibrating with secondhand rage, already mapping out a hundred ways to ruin him, to tear them both apart. I just listened, my eyes fixed on the card I had just drawn. An Ace of Hearts. I looked up at Beth, who looked like she was about to cry on my behalf. I let the corner of my mouth twitch into the ghost of a smile, and then I slid my entire stack of chips into the center. “I’m all in.” The chatter died instantly. They traded nervous glances, confused by my lack of tears, my lack of screaming. The atmosphere turned heavy, almost surreal. I didn’t say a word. I flipped my cards over one by one. A Royal Flush. As they stared at the table in stunned silence, I stood up and reached for my coat. “I believe the house owes me a payout,” I said softly. 2 I let myself into the penthouse, the weight of my designer bag heavy on my shoulder. The living room lights were dimmed, and Damian was sitting on the sofa, seemingly waiting for me. The moment I stepped in, he stood up, wearing that practiced, gentle smile that used to make me feel safe. “You’re back? How was the game? Did the cards love you tonight?” I didn’t answer. I walked straight to the marble coffee table and dropped the thick envelope of cash I’d collected from the club. It landed with a heavy, satisfying thud. “Card gods were on my side,” I said, looking him dead in the eye. “I guess the old saying is true. Lucky in cards, unlucky in love. Though, looking at my bank account, I’d say I’m doing just fine.” Damian’s smile flickered, then held. “What’s that supposed to mean? You’re acting strange.” “Strange?” I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and pulled up the screenshot I’d taken of his ‘forever’ moment. I turned the screen toward him. The yacht. The diamond. His knee on the deck. Kayla’s staged, virginal surprise. It was all there, vivid and disgusting. “Damian, do you want to explain this ‘game’ to me?” The color drained from his face so fast it was almost cinematic. His eyes darted around the room, looking for an exit that didn’t exist. “Nina, listen, I can explain… it’s… it was a joke. A prank for the guys. The ‘Wolf Pack’ went too far, you know how they are when they drink…” “I don’t want the script, Damian.” I cut him off and tucked my phone away. My voice was a flatline. “Tomorrow morning, bring Kayla here. To our home. We’re going to have a conversation.” Damian froze. He took a tentative step toward me, reaching for my hand. “Nina, honey, don’t do this. I know you’re hurt, but—” I stepped back, avoiding his touch like it was a contagion. I reached into the side pocket of my bag and pulled out a heavy, cream-colored business card. I held it between two fingers, offering it to him. “This is my divorce attorney,” I said. “If you have anything else to say, tell it to her tomorrow. In front of your mistress.” 3 At ten the next morning, the buzzer rang. Damian walked in, followed by a demure, downcast Kayla. The second they reached the living room, Damian grabbed Kayla by the arm and shoved her toward me, his voice harsh and performative. “Apologize to Nina! Right now!” Kayla’s eyes welled with tears instantly. It was impressive. Her voice trembled as she spoke. “Mrs. Cross, I’m so sorry. This is all my fault. I shouldn’t have let things get so close. I didn’t mean for you to get the wrong idea.” “The yacht… it was just a stupid party. Everyone was drinking. It wasn’t real.” “Damian didn’t sleep a wink last night. He was so worried about you being upset. Please don’t blame him. If you have to hate someone, hate me.” She kept calling me “Mrs. Cross,” playing the role of the humble penitent. But that line about him “not sleeping a wink” was a jagged little needle. She was telling me, in code, that they had spent the night together after he stormed out of here. I leaned back against the sofa, watching the performance with clinical detachment. “Are you finished?” Kayla bit her lip and took a step forward, closing the distance. “I know you’re angry. But Damian has such a sensitive stomach. He can only sleep if he has a glass of warm milk, and he was so restless at my place last night…” “He still cares about this home, Nina. Please don’t let me be the reason you break up a marriage.” “Damian.” I ignored her and looked at the man whose face was turning a sickly shade of gray. “Did you bring her here to give me a play-by-play of your sleepover?” “Nina, don’t listen to her! She’s confused!” Damian scrambled toward me, trying to grab my hand again. I pulled away. Seeing the ice in my eyes, he pivoted to the emotional blackmail. “I stayed at the office last night. I swear. Nina, we’ve been together for six years. Don’t you remember the early days? When we were splitting a ten-dollar pizza and dreaming of this life?” “We’ve survived so much together. You’re going to throw it all away over a misunderstanding?” “It was a joke! A stupid, drunken mistake!” He was getting worked up now, playing the part of the misunderstood, devoted husband. Just as he was reaching his crescendo, Kayla spoke up. “Damian…” She didn’t call him ‘Mr. Cross’ this time. Her voice was thin, but it cut through the room like a blade. “I didn’t want to say anything. But I’m scared… I’m scared for the baby to grow up without a father.” The air in the room turned to lead. Damian’s expression shattered. He spun around to look at her, his mouth agape. “What did you say?” “I’m pregnant.” Kayla looked up, her face streaked with tears, but as her gaze flicked to mine, I caught it—a spark of pure, unadulterated triumph. “Nina, I don’t want your money. I just want Damian. You can’t give him a family, but I can. I can give him a real home.” “Shut up!” Damian let out a panicked roar, his face white as a sheet. Kayla flinched as if he’d hit her. She stumbled back half a step, her heel catching on the edge of the rug. She went down hard, landing heavily on the hardwood floor near the coffee table. “Ah—!” A sharp cry of pain escaped her. She clutched her stomach, her forehead instantly breaking into a sweat. “Damian… my stomach… it hurts so much…” Damian had been watching my reaction, but at the sound of that scream, he snapped. He lunged for her, gathering her into his arms. “Kayla! Kayla, talk to me!” His voice was vibrating with a terror I hadn’t seen in years. The “devoted husband” who was just begging for my forgiveness vanished in a heartbeat. “It hurts… the baby…” She gripped his lapels, gasping for air, tears streaming down her face. Damian didn’t even look at me. He scooped her up in his arms and bolted for the door like a man possessed. The heavy front door slammed shut with a boom that echoed through the empty penthouse. Silence rushed back in. I sat there, staring at the spot where they had just been standing. A long moment passed before my phone lit up with a notification. It was a text from Kayla. 4 The photo was a tactical nuke. Tangled silk sheets, limbs intertwined, and a profile I knew better than my own buried in the crook of a woman’s neck. The text beneath it was designed to kill: Nina, Damian is with me now. He said he’s going to take care of me and our child. After all, he’s tired. He’s tired of coming home to a cold, empty woman who can’t even hold onto a pregnancy. Cold? I stared at the word until it blurred. I wanted to laugh. So that was how he described me to the world. It made sense. Three years ago, when I had tripped and tumbled down the stairs, covered in blood and clutching my phone to call him, he’d used the same tone. The background noise on his end had been a thumping bassline and laughter. He’d sounded annoyed when he picked up. “Nina, can you just give me one night of peace? It’s Kayla’s birthday, the whole team is out celebrating. Don’t be a buzzkill.” That was the night we lost the baby. And he was out buying lemon drops for another woman. The panic and raw desperation he’d shown while carrying Kayla out of the house just now… that was a look I had never seen on his face while I was lying in a pool of my own blood. He wasn’t incapable of warmth. He just wasn’t warm for me. I wasn’t “incapable” of having a family. He just didn’t want one with me. The weight I’d been carrying for years—the guilt, the “what-ifs”—suddenly shattered. Good. Let the last of the embers burn out. I took a deep breath and dialed Beth. “Beth, are you awake?” Her voice boomed through the speaker, loud and sharp. “Awake? I’m livid! I saw Scott’s car at the hospital! I’m about to go down there and give those two a piece of my mind. How are you? Don’t you dare sit there alone.” “I’m fine,” I said, and surprisingly, I meant it. “I just wanted to ask… when you want to take out a pair of narcissists with zero mess… what’s the cleanest way to do it?” There was a three-second silence on the other end, followed by a sound that could only be described as predatory glee. “You’re finally ready? Thank God. Hold on, let me get my notebook. Class is in session.” I hung up, opened my laptop, and typed 24-hour white-glove moving service into the search bar. Booked. Paid. Confirmed. Less than an hour later, three men in blue jumpsuits were at my door. I led them to Damian’s walk-in closet and pointed at the rows of bespoke suits and limited-edition sneakers. “Everything,” I said. “Pack it all. Every shoe, every watch, every scrap of paper.” “And the desk in the study. I want it gone.” They were efficient, professional, and silent. In ninety minutes, the penthouse—a place once filled with his ego—was half-empty. As they were maneuvering his massive mahogany desk toward the elevator, the front door swung open. Damian stood there, looking haggard and drained. He froze, eyes widening as he saw the chaos in the hallway, his prized desk hovering mid-air. “What the hell is this? Who authorized this!” He lunged forward, trying to block the movers. The men stopped and looked back at me. I was standing in the center of the living room, calm as a summer lake. Damian’s gaze snapped to mine, his voice shaking. “Nina, have you lost your mind?” I didn’t answer him. I just looked at the movers. “Keep going.” They stepped around him like he was an inconvenient piece of litter. Damian stood paralyzed, glaring at me. I reached for the intercom by the door and signaled the front desk downstairs. “Starting now,” I told the security guard, “this gentleman and his belongings are no longer permitted on the premises. Revoke his key fobs and clear his name from the guest list.”

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In the hierarchy of the Serpent-shifters, a male who has tasted the intimacy of a mate finds it nearly impossible to walk away. It’s a biological tether, a soul-deep obsession. But my mate’s younger brother had been harboring dark, twisted designs on me long before the ink on our contract was dry. I never imagined that after being bought for a staggering price at a high-end auction and brought back to the Serpent’s Reach, I would actually fall for the man who claimed me. Even less expected was that I would bear his children. For our kind, conception is a rare miracle. Yet, in one breath, I defied the odds and laid three healthy eggs, eventually hatching three perfect, tiny serpents. But the man who once looked at me with a possessiveness that bordered on insanity now wore a face carved from ice. “To be honest, I regret it,” Jeffrey said suddenly. His voice held the temperature of a winter grave. I looked up at him, my heart stuttering in my chest. I didn’t understand. His gaze raked over my body—lingering on my breasts, still full from nursing, and the soft, feminine curve of my hips—with a cold, clinical scrutiny that made me feel naked in the worst way. “If I hadn’t been trying to spite Lydia back then, I never would have brought you here. Now that I look at you, you’re just… ordinary. A common female with nothing in her head but the instinct to breed.” “And my Lydia…” His voice softened with a trace of tenderness he never offered me. “She’s suffered so many years of heartache because of my pride.” The blood in my veins felt like it was turning to slush. My eyes burned, the sting of tears threatening to spill over. I forced myself to speak, my voice a mere thimble of sound, reminding him of the bond. I told him he couldn’t leave me—that his nature wouldn’t allow it. Jeffrey didn’t even flinch. Instead, he looked almost manic as he began detailing his plan to bring his “golden girl” back to his side. He spared me one last look of pure Revulsion, as if I were a piece of furniture that no longer fit the decor. “If it weren’t for that body of yours, do you really think I’d have looked at you twice?” “But don’t worry. You gave me heirs, so I won’t throw you to the wolves. My brother doesn’t have a mate yet. When Beau returns, you’ll be moving into his quarters.” … “Are you certain you want to transfer the legal guardianship of your mate to your brother?” The clerk at the Tribal Registry looked at Jeffrey as if he’d grown a second head. He glanced at me—my curves prominent and healthy—and then at the woman shivering in Jeffrey’s arms. Lydia was gaunt, frail, looking like a gust of wind might shatter her. “Once this is filed, you can’t undo it without the consent of the other male. It’s a permanent severance.” Jeffrey didn’t even look at me. He just scowled. “Of course. Just hurry it up. Lydia just got back and she’s overwhelmed. I need to get her home and settled.” The clerk let out a sharp breath of annoyance. He struck Jeffrey’s name from my record and replaced it with a new one. I was now legally bound to a man named Beau. “Fine. When your brother gets back, send him in to provide the blood-seal,” the clerk muttered. Jeffrey was too busy tucking Lydia’s head into his chest to care. “Tomorrow,” he tossed over his shoulder. When we stepped out of the Registry, I stood alone on the pavement. The wind was biting, but it was nothing compared to the void opening in my chest. I watched Lydia pout, her voice a high-pitched whine as she scolded Jeffrey for “abandoning” her years ago and buying “that woman” right in front of her. Jeffrey cooed to her, his heart on his sleeve, before finally remembering I existed. He glanced back. I must have looked pathetic, standing there in the cold with my thin coat wrapped around me. He hesitated for a second, something flickering in his eyes, but it died before it reached his lips. The silence stretched until I broke it. “Do I have to move out today?” Jeffrey’s brow furrowed. “You don’t have to be in such a rush—” “Your name is Ivy, right?” Lydia interrupted, her eyes narrowing as she cataloged every inch of me with blatant envy. “I remember you. The ‘Prize’ of the auction.” She let out a harsh, jagged laugh. “Men are so predictable. They love the tits and the ass. But honestly, aren’t you embarrassed to walk around looking like… that? If I were that top-heavy, I’d never leave the house.” She looked up at Jeffrey, her eyes brimming with fake tears. “Jeffrey, you actually like that kind of thing, don’t you?” Jeffrey panicked instantly, desperate to prove his devotion. “Who told you that? It’s repulsive. It makes my skin crawl.” I went rigid. My eyes went hot. Repulsive? The man who spent every night winding his serpent tail around me, whispering my name into the crook of my neck as he took me again and again? The man who wouldn’t let me go until I was breathless and trembling? That was what he called repulsive. Lydia smirked, tucking her arm through his, looking at me with a sickening kind of pity. “Don’t be upset, Ivy. If Jeffrey hadn’t bought you, you’d still be in a cage. You should thank me. If I hadn’t picked a fight with him back then, there never would have been a vacancy for you to fill.” I looked at Jeffrey. He didn’t defend me. He didn’t even look me in the eye. “Right,” I whispered, the word tasting like ash. Seeing that I was too broken to fight back, Lydia lost interest. She started tugging on Jeffrey’s arm, demanding they go home. He smiled at her—that soft, doting smile that used to be mine—and let her lead him away. After a few steps, he called back over his shoulder, “Ivy, since you’re so eager to go, go ahead. Move your things.” Then, as an afterthought: “Don’t take it to heart. We’re still family.” Family. Yes. We were still family. Except I was no longer his mate. I was a hand-me-down for his brother. The moment we reached the house, Lydia’s facade crumbled. She stormed into the master bedroom—our bedroom—and began tearing through my things. She threw my clothes into the hallway. She found the pair of grass-woven rings I’d made for our anniversary. She found the silk protection charm I’d spent weeks sewing, the one I’d hidden under Jeffrey’s pillow to keep him safe on his hunts. I’d worked so hard on the stitching. Every thread was a prayer for him. Now, it was under her heel, ground into the dirt. I stood there, paralyzed, watching her move like a hurricane through the home I had meticulously built, piece by piece. Jeffrey stood in the doorway, watching. He didn’t stop her. He just gave a helpless, weary smile. He caught my eye and said casually, “Just let her have her moment. I owe her this. She’s had a hard time. If she breaks anything, I’ll buy you a replacement.” My throat felt like it was closing. I shook my head. “No… it’s fine. It wasn’t anything important anyway.” Jeffrey paused, a flash of irritation crossing his face, but he said nothing. Outside in the yard, there was a row of vegetables I’d planted. Jeffrey used to complain about the dirt, saying we could just buy whatever we needed. But I wanted something of our own. He’d grumbled, but one night, I caught him secretly building a small cedar fence around the sprouts to keep the rabbits out. Now, Lydia marched right over the seedlings. She ripped my lingerie off the drying line, shaking it with disgust. “You actually hang these outside? Are you trying to advertise?” She dropped the lace to the muddy ground and stepped on it. Jeffrey let out a short, surprised laugh. His eyes were fixed on Lydia’s fiery spirit, completely oblivious to how pale my face had become. I instinctively hunched my shoulders, feeling a crushing sense of shame for my own body for the first time in my life. Lydia wasn’t done. She scouted the yard until her eyes landed on the wicker basket in the corner. It was a beautiful day. I’d brought the basket out so the hatchlings could sleep in the sun instead of the stuffy nursery. Panic spiked in my chest. “The babies are in there! Don’t—” Before I could finish, she reached for the handle, intending to hurl it over the fence. I didn’t think. I lunged forward. But I was too late. Lydia, startled by my sudden movement, stumbled back. She let out a sharp cry as she lost her balance. In a blur of motion, a dark shadow streaked past me. Jeffrey caught her, pulling her securely into his arms. The basket tumbled. The three tiny serpents, curled together in their fleece blankets, rolled out like fallen fruit. They were so small. Too small to even make a sound when they hit the grass. Only the eldest, slightly larger than the others, let out a thin, pained hiss as he woke. “My babies!” I dropped to my knees, frantically scooping the three of them into my arms. They were trembling, their tiny tails lashing out to wrap around my fingers for safety. The eldest had a scrape on his tiny head, a bead of pale blood welling up. I couldn’t breathe. The pain in my chest was physical. Jeffrey had been closer to the basket. If he had wanted to, he could have caught it. He could have saved his children. But he chose Lydia. He watched his own flesh and blood hit the ground and didn’t even blink. In the quiet hours of the night, when we were tangled together, I used to wonder if this was love. I told myself his possessiveness, his intensity, his constant need for me… that it had to mean something. In this moment, I finally realized how wrong I was. I looked up at him, my eyes red and my voice shaking. “Jeffrey, please. I’m begging you. Don’t let her touch anything else. I’ll pack. I’ll go now. I’ll take everything and I won’t leave a single trace that I was ever here.” Jeffrey went still. He slowly released Lydia. The hatchlings were still hissing at their father, their tiny voices full of hurt. They wanted him to tuck them into his scales like he used to. But before Jeffrey could speak, Lydia burst into tears. “Jeffrey! Do you feel sorry for her? You do! You care about her and those… those things she produced!” “I knew it! You say she’s repulsive, but you can’t let go!” Jeffrey’s jaw tightened. “Lydia, I didn’t—” “You promised you’d take me away!” she shrieked, tears streaming down her face. “And instead, you bought her at an auction for a record price. Everyone laughed at me for six months. They said I was delusional, that a man like you would never want someone like me.” “No one would buy me after that. I had to wash clothes, chop wood… I did the filthiest work. One winter I had a fever for seven days. I laid in the dark thinking of you, waiting for you to come for me.” “And you? Were you busy holding her? Had you already forgotten me?” She collapsed against his chest, her fists thumping weakly against his heart. “Jeffrey… we can have babies too. I’ll give you so many… just stop looking at her. Please.” I watched Jeffrey’s rigid body slowly melt. He looked away from me, away from his bleeding son, and gently wiped the tears from Lydia’s face. “Don’t cry. I’ll do whatever you want, okay?” The hatchlings watched their father, their cries growing weaker. They nudged my fingers with their small snouts, their black, obsidian eyes reflecting my own shattered face. They seemed to be asking: Why doesn’t he see us? We’re hurt. Why won’t he look? I couldn’t give them an answer. My face felt frozen. I stroked their tiny heads, forcing a bitter, broken smile. “It’s okay, my loves. Mama’s got you.” I lowered my head and started picking up my ruined belongings. Things fell out of my trembling hands as fast as I could grab them. I kept picking them up. I kept dropping them. Scalding tears hit the dirt and vanished. In the background, I heard Lydia’s voice, sweet and demanding. “I want you to build me a new bed! I won’t sleep where you laid with her.” “And dig up those vegetables. I want flowers there. And that fence? It’s hideous. Tear it down.” Jeffrey looked toward the garden. His gaze lingered on the green sprouts for a heartbeat. He looked at me, then turned back to Lydia, resting his chin on the top of her head. “Anything you want, Lydia. Anything.” Over the next few days, I moved into Beau’s quarters. He had been away for so long that the place was thick with dampness and dust. I managed to clear a small corner, layering my old clothes over some dry straw to make a nest for the babies. The humid night wind drifted through the window, carrying the cloying scent of flowers. Jeffrey had dug up my garden and replaced it with Lydia’s favorites. The hatchlings were restless, huddling against my chest. They were heartbroken. Since the day they hatched, their father had never ignored them like this. I leaned down, pressing my lips to their cool foreheads, my eyes stinging. Outside, the sound of Lydia’s muffled giggles and Jeffrey’s low voice drifted through the walls. I rolled over, pressing my hands over my ears. Then, a sudden, violent crash echoed from the main house. “Jeffrey, no! Stop! Don’t touch me! I’m scared, please!” Footsteps thundered across the porch. My body went taut. A second later, my door was kicked open. Jeffrey stood in the doorway. His eyes were a glowing, predatory green, fixed on me with a terrifying intensity. His gaze slid from my face down to the swell of my breasts, partially exposed by my loose tunic. I knew that look. It was the look of a male in his heat. In the dark of our old room, he would pull me into his lap, his tail coiling around my waist, claiming me over and over until the sun rose. He was in his cycle. I instinctively scrambled back toward the corner. Seeing me recoil, Jeffrey’s teeth ground together with an audible snap. He looked furious, though he probably didn’t even know why. The primal urge of the beast was screaming in his blood, drowning out reason. To his lizard brain, there was only one truth: I was his mate. And no one else could have me. As Jeffrey lunged forward, I shook my head violently. “No! Jeffrey, stop!” My rejection seemed to burn him. He stopped in his tracks, looking at me with a wounded, confused expression. Don’t look at me like that, I thought. You’re the one who threw me away. “I won’t do this…” Before I could finish the sentence, he had me. He pinned my wrists above my head with one hand, his strength effortless and suffocating. Suddenly, a sharp hiss cut through the air. The eldest hatchling was struggling to stand. He used his tiny tail to prop himself up, putting his miniature body between me and Jeffrey. I could feel him shaking. His eyes were wide with terror at the sight of his father’s half-shifted, monstrous form, but he didn’t back down. He bared his tiny, undeveloped fangs, letting out a fierce, desperate hiss of warning. The other two woke up and scrambled to join him, three tiny creatures no bigger than my palm, standing in a row to protect their mother. Tears flooded my eyes. “Babies, no… get back…” I tried to reach for them, but Jeffrey held me fast. His mind was gone, lost to the fog of the heat. He reached out to swat them away, his large hand catching the eldest. The little snake thrashed, lashing his tail. “No! Jeffrey, let him go! You’re hurting him!” I screamed, my nails raking across his forearm, drawing blood. Jeffrey growled, an animal sound, and tossed the hatchling aside. The tiny body hit the far wall with a sickening thud and slid to the floor. “My baby!” I felt like my soul had been ripped out. My eyes went bloodshot with rage. “You’re a monster! He’s your son! How could you throw him?!” Jeffrey blinked, a momentary flicker of clarity returning to his eyes. He looked at his hand, then at the huddle of shivering scales in the corner. But the heat was a tide that wouldn’t be stayed. His gaze locked onto me again, his hand moving to my throat, his voice a slurred, guttural mess. “Ivy…” Just then, a scream pierced the room from the doorway. “What are you doing?!”

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I will never forget that high school reunion three years ago. It was there that her ex—the guy everyone called the “Golden Boy” back in the day—proposed a bet so twisted it felt like a fever dream. He wanted to test if our marriage was “the real thing.” He convinced her to fake her own death, cut off every cent of my inheritance, and seize our home. If I remained unmarried after three years, we would “win.” She had laughed with a chilling confidence, telling him that my love for her was written in my marrow. She said I wouldn’t just wait three years; I’d wait thirty. And then, she simply vanished. The bank accounts were frozen. The locks on our house were changed. I was left on the street with nothing but our young son, Sammy, and the clothes on our backs. Today, while I was scavenging through a dumpster behind a diner for scraps of food, a black Rolls-Royce pulled up to the curb. She stepped out, looking as radiant and untouched as the day she left, looking down at me with a mixture of triumph and pity. “You didn’t let me down, honey,” she said, a smile playing on her lips. “You passed the test.” She glanced back at the passenger seat where her “Golden Boy” sat, arching a manicured eyebrow in victory. In my hand, the moldy crust of bread I’d just found crumbled into dust. My heart didn’t race; it went ice-cold. She seemed to remember something then, a brief flicker of maternal instinct crossing her face. “Where’s Sammy? I’ve come to take you both home.” I looked up at her, my voice reaching a level of stillness that was terrifying even to me. “He’s dead.” The world seemed to sharpen around us. “Three years ago, when you cut off the insurance and the accounts, he needed surgery. We couldn’t pay. He’s gone.” … Lindsay froze. She began to scan the desolate alleyway and the trash-strewn lot, as if expecting a six-year-old boy to jump out from behind a dumpster. All she found was the stench of rot and me, clutching my ruined scraps of bread. I had loved that boy with every fiber of my being. We were a shadow and its light; I never went anywhere without him. “Stop it,” Lindsay said, her voice trembling for a fraction of a second before she regained her composure. “I’m being serious. I’m here to take you home.” “Home?” I looked up, my eyes stinging with a heat that felt like acid. “Three years ago, when you staged your death, the lawyers said you owed a mountain of debt. They took the house to settle the estate. Sammy and I have been breathing the exhaust of this city for three years. We don’t have a home.” She hesitated, her mouth working as she searched for a script that hadn’t been written yet. “That… that was part of the simulation. The house has always been in my name through a holding company. It’s still there. Look, just tell Sammy to stop playing hide-and-seek. Tell him Mommy is sorry, okay?” “Then go tell him yourself!” I reached into my tattered jacket and flung a piece of paper at her. It slapped against her expensive silk blouse before fluttering to the pavement. “Go down to the cemetery and apologize to him there!” Her hands shook as she picked up the death certificate. “Sammy…” She stared at the clinical words: Acute Cardiac Arrest. Her eyes welled up instantly. “I was only gone for three years. How can he be gone? You’re lying to me, aren’t you?” She lunged forward, grabbing my shoulders. “I know I messed up! Don’t use a child to punish me. Call him out here, now!” I just stared at her. My lips curled into a silent, jagged smirk. Her grip on me faltered. She began to sob, the reality—or the fear of it—finally puncturing her bubble. “Lindsay, come on. You really can’t see through this?” Dorian stepped out of the car, his movements fluid and arrogant. He snatched the death certificate from her hand. “Look at this,” he said, pointing to the paper. “Does this look familiar? It’s almost an exact replica of the one I forged for you three years ago.” He let out a sharp, mocking laugh. “Honestly, it’s not even a good forgery. This seal here? It’s all wrong. We’re professionals at this, man. You’re trying to play the master at his own game?” Lindsay blinked, the tears drying as she listened to Dorian’s smooth, persuasive tone. “Look at the signature,” Dorian continued, showing her the lines. “It’s stiff. The paper has been artificially aged. He probably knew you were coming back today and staged this whole ‘homeless’ act to guilt-trip you into a bigger settlement.” “You’re a lying son of a bitch!” I lunged for him, my vision blurring red. Lindsay’s expression shifted. The grief was replaced by a cold, sharp disdain. “I almost fell for it,” she whispered. She threw the death certificate back at me like it was trash. “Dorian was right. You’re far more calculating than you look.” “Lindsay!” “Bring Sammy home by the end of the day,” she snapped, turning her back on me. “He’s six years old. He shouldn’t be learning these sick games from a father like you.” I scrambled to my feet, desperate to stop her, but Dorian blocked my path. “Hey, man,” he whispered, his voice low enough that only I could hear. “I know the kid is dead.” I froze, the air leaving my lungs. “You want to know why Lindsay doesn’t know?” He smiled, a slow, predatory thing. “Because I made sure every piece of mail, every hospital alert, and every bit of news about that boy never reached her. I scrubbed him from her world.” I clinched my fists so hard my knuckles popped. “Poor little Sammy,” Dorian mused, admiring his own reflection in the car window. “Born with a bum heart just as his mom ‘died.’ There was a donor match, wasn’t there? But you… you were just a delivery guy working four jobs. You couldn’t even afford the deposit to hold the organ. You let that heart slip through your fingers while you were out delivering cold pizza.” My vision went white. “But don’t worry,” Dorian chuckled. “He didn’t go to waste. His marrow, his kidneys, his corneas… I made sure the paperwork was signed while you were out on a shift. He was crying for his daddy, you know. Right until the end.” “You monster!” I threw myself at him, my fingers locking around his throat. “Give him back! Give me back my son!” “Enough!” A sharp sting exploded across my face. Lindsay had slapped me with enough force to send me spiraling into the pile of trash. She pulled Dorian into her arms, shielding him. He began to cough, his eyes watering as he put on a show of frailty. “I was just… I was just asking where Sammy was,” Dorian choked out, his voice thick with fake tears. “I told him the kid shouldn’t be living in a dump… and he tried to kill me!” “You’re lying! Lindsay, he just told me—” “Shut up!” Lindsay’s voice was like a blade. “If you have a single shred of decency left as a father, you’ll bring our son home. If you don’t, I’m filing for divorce and I’ll make sure you never see the light of day again.” She helped Dorian into the car and slammed the door. Divorce? I started to laugh, a jagged, broken sound that echoed in the alley. Fine. But before we get to that, I have one last thing to do. The next morning, an anonymous whistleblower report landed on the desk of the CEO at Lindsay’s tech firm. At the same time, a massive banner appeared across the street from the corporate entrance: [TECH STAR DIANA JONATHAN STAGED HER DEATH WHILE HER SON PERISHED] I stood there, right in the middle of the morning rush, holding a framed photograph of Sammy. I didn’t say a word. I just knelt on the sidewalk. I had printed hundreds of pamphlets detailing what Lindsay and Dorian had done—the bet, the frozen accounts, the medical neglect. People started to gather. I saw women reading the flyers, their eyes turning red. “Is this the boy? He was so small. How could she just leave them like that for a game?” “It wasn’t just a game, it was an execution. She cut off the money for his heart surgery?” “The company needs to answer for this! Is this the kind of person they have in the C-suite?” Within the hour, the Head of Human Resources came down personally to escort me upstairs. Lindsay was standing outside her office, her face unreadable, her eyes like flint. Once the door was closed, the CEO poured me a cup of tea, his voice smooth and conciliatory. “Mr. Miller, I think we can all agree that things have gotten a bit… out of hand. Let’s find a way to move past this.” I stared at the tea, my hands shaking. “Move past it? They killed my son.” “Now, let’s not use such heavy words. I know Lindsay was a bit extreme, and Dorian was… well, impulsive. But Lindsay is the backbone of this company. Our investors are here for her name.” I couldn’t find my voice. The CEO leaned in, smiling. “Here’s what I’m prepared to do. I’ll issue a formal reprimand to both of them. And for you… we can discuss a very generous ‘hardship’ settlement. As for the boy… it’s a tragedy, truly. But you and Lindsay are young. You can have more children. You’re a couple. You should be enjoying the life her success provides.” I let out a laugh that sounded more like a sob. “You’ll protect her because she’s an asset. But why are you protecting Dorian?” The CEO paused. “You don’t know? Dorian was hired on her personal recommendation. He’s her protégé.” My grip on the tea cup tightened until my knuckles turned white. I had applied to this company three times over the last three years. Every time, my resume disappeared into a black hole. I had begged Lindsay once, before all this started, just for an interview. I didn’t want a handout; I just wanted a chance. She had told me no. She said it was “unprofessional.” She said she had to “avoid the appearance of favoritism.” She had to avoid favoritism for her husband, but she could hand-walk her “Golden Boy” into a senior position. “What if I refuse your settlement?” I asked, staring him down. The CEO’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “I strongly suggest you don’t try to fight the machine, Mr. Miller.” By the time I left the building, the narrative online had already shifted. The bots were working overtime. “Mentally unstable husband uses son’s death to blackmail tech executive.” “The tragic downfall of Diana Jonathan’s marriage.” “Did the husband’s neglect cause the child’s illness? Is he using the boy as a pawn?” The public, who had been sympathetic an hour ago, was now sharpened into a mob. The comments sections were filled with praise for Lindsay’s resilience and Dorian’s “professionalism.” I went back to the apartment—the one we’d finally been allowed back into, the one that felt like a tomb. I stroked the glass of Sammy’s urn. “I’m sorry, Sammy. Daddy couldn’t protect you.” I placed the divorce papers on the table. Before I could even pick up the urn to leave, the front door was kicked open. Lindsay marched in, her face contorted with rage, holding Dorian, who had a fresh bandage wrapped around his head. “Where is he?” she screamed. “Where is Sammy?” I wiped a tear from my eye. “What do you want?” “What do I want?” Lindsay spat. “Dorian was attacked this afternoon. You told Sammy to do it, didn’t you?” “Lindsay, listen to yourself!” I yelled. “What are you talking about?” Dorian cowered behind her, playing the victim perfectly. “Ewan, why lie? I saw him. The kid hit me with a tire iron in the parking lot. He said he was doing it for you. If Lindsay hadn’t shown up when she did, he might have killed me!” I grit my teeth so hard I thought they’d shatter. Lindsay looked at me with pure loathing. “I knew it. He’s been with you so long he’s learned how to be a liar and a thug. I should have taken him three years ago. Where is he? I’m taking him. Dorian and I will raise him properly. We won’t let you ruin his life.” “Fine!” I pulled the urn out from behind the photo. My eyes were burning. “Then go ahead. Take him. Teach him whatever the hell you want!” Lindsay stared at the urn, then at the photo of Sammy. I was shaking. That urn contained everything I had left of him. It was the only home I could give him. And a second later, she knocked it out of my hands. “Enough with the theatrics!” she screamed as the ceramic shattered against the floor. I let out a strangled cry and dropped to my knees, trying to gather the ashes. “How many times are you going to play this card?” Lindsay grabbed me by the hair, forcing me to look at her. She reached down and grabbed a handful of the grey dust. “It’s charcoal and bone-mold mix. You really think I don’t know the tricks? I’m a scientist, Ewan. I staged a death three years ago; I know what fake remains look like. You’re so desperate for attention you’d hex your own son?” “No… no…” She shoved a handful of the ash into my mouth. I gagged, retretching as the grit coated my throat. “Eat it! If it’s your little prop, why are you acting like it’s poison?” She held my mouth shut until my face turned purple, then threw me aside. I collapsed on the floor, coughing violently, my tears mixing with the dust and blood in my mouth. I tried to scoop the remains back together with trembling hands, sobbing uncontrollably. Lindsay stood over me, disgusted. “Think about Sammy. When he grows up and realizes his father used his ‘death’ and fake ashes to win an argument… he’s going to hate you. He’ll never forgive you.” I couldn’t even speak. She knelt down, her voice dropping to a chillingly calm tone. “Tell me where he is. If you have any soul left, give him to me so I can undo the damage you’ve done.” I looked at her through blurred vision and forced a smile. “Fine,” I whispered. “I’ll take you to him.” Dorian flickered with a moment of hesitation. Lindsay, however, looked relieved. She reached out and touched my hand. “I knew you’d come to your senses.” We drove to the cliffs overlooking the Pacific. Lindsay saw a small figure standing near the edge, wearing Sammy’s favorite hooded jacket. “Sammy!” she cried, jumping out of the car. But as she ran forward, she heard Dorian’s panicked voice from behind her. “Lindsay… wait…” She turned around. I had a hunting knife pressed against Dorian’s throat. … The police arrived within minutes, sirens wailing, lights flashing against the dark sea. I held Dorian tight, my arm locked around his neck, standing inches from the drop. The figure in the hoodie stood silently beside me. Lindsay was hyperventilating, the wind whipping her hair across her face. “Ewan, put the knife down. I won’t take him away. I won’t fight you for custody. Just let Dorian go. You don’t want Sammy to see his father become a murderer!” The news helicopters were hovering now, their spotlights pinning us to the cliffside. The negotiators were screaming through megaphones. I felt Dorian shaking in my arms. He was whimpering, a pathetic sound. I looked down at the “child” beside me. The figure looked up at me. I smiled at Lindsay. “No,” I said. “Sammy is going to be my witness.” I tightened my grip on Dorian. “Sammy! Help Daddy push this man over the edge!” “EWAN, NO!” “Sir, stop!” In the chaos, Lindsay did the unthinkable. She lunged forward and snatched a service weapon from an officer’s holster. She pointed it straight at my chest. “Drop the knife, Ewan! I won’t let you destroy him!” BANG. The bullet bloomed like a red carnation on my shirt. I stumbled back. I let go of Dorian. As I fell toward the abyss, I looked at Lindsay one last time and smiled. Then, I vanished into the dark. Lindsay stood frozen, the smoking gun in her hand. In front of the live cameras, the figure in the hoodie reached up and pulled back the hood. It wasn’t Sammy. It was a young girl. “Congratulations,” the girl said, her voice trembling but clear. “Now you’ve killed your husband, too.” The police swarmed Lindsay, disarming her. The lead detective looked at the girl, then at Lindsay. “Kid… what the hell is going on here?”

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The notification pinged on my phone: New photos added to the family album. I tapped it idly, and there it was—a group photo from a corporate gala. I was sitting dead-center at the head table. The nameplate pinned to my chest was unmistakable: Beckett Pierce, Co-Founder. In my living room, several suitcases stood by the door, already packed and zipped shut. Less than three seconds after the photo uploaded, my mother-in-law’s name flashed on the screen. I answered. “Beckett! What the hell is this photo?!” Erica’s voice was a jagged blade of interrogation. I couldn’t help but smile. I’d kept this secret for five years. Five years of playing a role, all undone because I forgot to turn off the auto-sync on a shared cloud account. The truth was out, stripped bare by a single digital upload. Honestly? It was a relief. It saved me the breath of an explanation. The moving truck was ten minutes away. 1 My name is Beckett Pierce. I’ve been married for five years. In the eyes of my wife, Mallory, and her entire family, I am a low-level administrative assistant at a mid-sized firm, pulling in fifty grand a year. That “fact” was the foundation of our marriage. Every rule we lived by was built on that lie. “We do a proportional split,” Mallory had declared before we even walked down the aisle. “I make $180,000. You make $50,000. It’s only fair we split expenses based on our income. I’ll cover seventy percent; you cover thirty.” On paper, it sounded progressive. Logical. In practice, it was a slow-motion execution. The mortgage on our Brooklyn condo was $6,000. She paid $4,200; I paid $1,800. The car lease was $800. She paid $560; I paid $240. Groceries? Every man for himself. Dining out? Separate checks. I wasn’t allowed to touch her credit cards. She wouldn’t dream of touching mine. “With your credit limit? What could you even buy?” she’d say, her voice laced with a casual, devastating pity. Our first anniversary trip to Miami: she booked a suite at the Edition, $1,200 a night. “Your share is $360 a night,” she told me. I Venmoed her the money without a word. At dinner, she ordered the Wagyu and the lobster. “I’ll get the check this time,” she’d say, her tone less like a partner and more like a philanthropist donating to a soup kitchen. I stayed silent. Our second year, her mother’s birthday dinner was at a high-end steakhouse. Twelve people at the table. When the bill came, Erica looked directly at me. “Beckett, we’re doing the proportional split for this, too. Pay your share.” The total was $2,400. My “share” for the table was $200. Mallory didn’t even look up from her phone. Two hundred dollars. For my mother-in-law’s birthday. Later, I found out Erica told the rest of the family: “The poor guy can’t even afford to take us to dinner. We have to let him pay in installments basically.” She didn’t mention it was her rule. She only mentioned I was “too broke” to be a man. For five years, the chorus of my life was: You don’t earn enough. Those four words were the yardstick Mallory used to measure my worth in this house. You earn less, so you do the chores. You earn less, so you listen when your mother-in-law belittles you. You earn less, so the cooking, the dishes, the vacuuming, and the laundry are your domain. “A cleaning service? Do you have any idea what a housekeeper costs in the city?” Mallory would roll her eyes. “Just do it yourself. You’re home by five anyway.” I was home by five. That part was true. What she didn’t know was that before I walked through the door at five, I had chaired three board meetings, signed two multi-million dollar contracts, and greenlit four global projects. There was so much she didn’t know. Like the fact that my monthly income wasn’t four thousand dollars. It was closer to eighty thousand. 2 Eighty thousand. To be precise, my base salary was twenty thousand, but with my founder’s equity and quarterly dividends, it averaged out to nearly a million a year. In a good month, it was more. In a bad month, it never dipped below forty. Why did I hide it? It started as a test. The year I met Mallory, I had just been named co-founder of my tech firm. We met through friends. she was polished, sharp, a rising star in a state-owned utility firm making good money. On our third date, she took me to meet her mother. Over coffee, Erica asked three questions: “What do your parents do?” “Do you own property?” “What’s your current salary?” I told her my parents ran a small hardware store in a small town, that I was renting, and that my salary was… “Fifty thousand,” I said. I had intended to tell the truth. But as I was about to speak, Mallory went to the restroom, and Erica took a call from her sister in the kitchen. She didn’t close the door. “The specs are average, but he’s handsome, tall, and seems easy to handle,” I heard Erica whisper. “The family has nothing. He won’t have any leverage. It’s better this way—my daughter needs someone who’ll listen, not someone with too much money and an ego.” Easy to handle. Those three words stayed with me. So, I stuck with the fifty thousand. I wanted to see what would happen if I was only “worth” that much. I watched for five years. The answer was crystal clear. The “fifty-thousand-dollar” Beckett was a second-class citizen in the Pierce-Vane household. At Christmas, Erica would give Mallory’s sister’s husband a Rolex and then turn to me with a $50 Amazon gift card: “I know things are tight for you. Don’t feel like you have to reciprocate.” When Mallory went to galas or industry mixers, she never invited me. “Why would you go? You wouldn’t even understand what they’re talking about.” I spent my holidays cooking for three, cleaning up after three, and listening to Erica complain about my seasoning. “Look at Mark—Mallory’s colleague’s husband—he’s an MD at Goldman, makes half a million, and he still manages to be a gourmet cook. What’s your excuse?” Mark. I’d hear that name a lot. But not because of his cooking. Every month, my actual pay—the real money—went into an account Mallory didn’t know existed. Over five years, I used that money to buy three properties in cash. A condo on the Upper West Side. A townhouse in Brooklyn Heights. A penthouse in Long Island City. All of them were registered under my pre-marital holding company. Clean. Untouchable. Mallory didn’t know. Erica didn’t know. They only knew the man who “managed” to pay his thirty percent on time. They only knew the man they had “graciously” allowed into their lives. 3 By the third year, it wasn’t the “proportional split” that hurt. It was the way Mallory looked at me. It was the look you give a coat you bought on clearance—functional, but not something you’re proud to wear. When people asked what I did, she’d say, “He’s in admin. You know, nine-to-five stability.” Then she’d give a tight little smile that meant don’t ask follow-up questions. She was ashamed of me. Once, her company had a retreat that allowed spouses. She didn’t take me. “The VPs’ husbands are all hedge fund guys or partners at law firms. What are you going to talk to them about?” I just looked at her. She didn’t even see the insult. To her, it was just a fact. In the fourth year, Mallory got a promotion. Her salary jumped to $220,000. Her ego followed suit. “I’m making nearly a quarter-mil now,” she’d boast on the phone to her friends. “In this economy, that puts me in the top tier.” She’d hang up and see me chopping vegetables in the kitchen. “Keep at it, Beckett. Maybe you’ll hit sixty grand by the time you’re forty,” she’d say, patting my shoulder like I was a slow student who’d finally learned to tie his shoes. I kept my head down. That month, my dividend check was $110,000. That was also the year Mallory’s performance skyrocketed. She landed a massive account: Skyline Tech. That one deal secured her bonus for the year. She was ecstatic. “Skyline Tech! Do you have any idea who they are? They’re a two-billion-dollar company. Their Director of Procurement reached out to me personally.” “Impressive,” I said. She didn’t catch the dryness in my voice. The Director of Procurement at Skyline was Jack Kerwin. My college roommate. I was the one who told Jack to throw her the bone. Mallory thought it was her brilliance. She used that “success” to take up even more space in our marriage. “This family runs on my back,” she’d say. “But don’t feel bad. Some people are just earners, and some are… supporters. I don’t hold it against you.” I don’t hold it against you. That was the moment I started planning my exit. Not because of the money. Not because of her mother. But because of that phrase. When a wife describes her husband as something she “tolerates,” the marriage is already a ghost. 4 In the fifth year, I found the other thing. It wasn’t a grand detective moment. It was a push notification on her iPad while I was paying the utility bills. I knew her passcode—her birthday plus 123. She never bothered to change it because she didn’t think I was smart enough to be curious. The credit card statements were normal at first. Gas, SoulCycle, salads. But then I saw it. On the 15th of every month: a $5,000 Zelle transfer. The recipient’s nickname: Babe. At first, I thought maybe it was for her mother. But Mallory called her mother “Erica” or “Mom.” Never “Babe.” I scrolled back. January. February. March. April. Eight months in a row. Forty thousand dollars. I didn’t recognize the account number. I took a screenshot and stayed quiet. That night, Mallory came home in a radiant mood. “Had dinner with the Skyline team. Tyler was there.” “Tyler?” “I’ve mentioned him. Tyler Stone. The new project manager at Skyline. He’s… brilliant.” She didn’t look at me when she said it. She was staring at her phone, a tiny, ghost of a smile playing on her lips. “What’s he like?” I asked. “Oh, nothing special. Just very competent. It’s nice to work with someone on my level for a change.” She went to shower. I picked up her phone. Passcode: same. Pinned at the top of her iMessage: Tyler. The last message was a selfie. Not of Mallory. It was a man—square-jawed, gym-shredded, wearing a heavy silver chain. The text: Missing you. Mallory’s reply: A kissing emoji. Sent at 3:17 PM. Three hours ago. I put the phone down. I went back to the kitchen. The soup was simmering. I turned off the burner. I stood there in the silence of the kitchen for a long time. Then I pulled out my own phone and texted Jack: Check on a guy named Tyler Stone at Skyline. I want everything. Background, finances, the works. Jack replied instantly: On it. Give me forty-eight hours. I sent another: That contract renewal for next month? Stall it. Copy that. The soup went cold on the stove. I wasn’t in a hurry. 5 Two days later, Jack sent me the file. Tyler Stone. 28 years old. Hired last September. Education: A degree from a generic online university. Background: Parents are blue-collar. No family money. I paused. Mallory had told me a different version of Tyler Stone. “Tyler comes from a very wealthy family,” she’d offhandedly remarked a month ago. “His father owns a private equity firm, I think.” His father worked at a textile mill in the Midwest for thirty years. Jack included screenshots of Tyler’s Instagram. The persona was a masterpiece of “New Money” fiction. Designer watches, afternoon teas at the Baccarat Hotel, photos at exclusive golf clubs. Everything screamed wealth. But Jack added a note: His salary account balance as of last Friday? Twelve hundred dollars. The watches are high-end fakes. The afternoon tea photos are from “split-the-bill” influencer meetups. He doesn’t even have a membership at that golf club—he sneaks in as a guest of a guest. Twelve hundred dollars. With a fifteen-thousand-dollar monthly salary, after NYC rent and maintaining a fake lifestyle, he was barely scraping by. The five thousand Mallory sent him every month wasn’t “pocket change.” It was his rent. Then came the internal Slack and text leaks Jack pulled from company devices. Tyler and his buddy. Tyler: She’s decent. A little stingy with the cash sometimes. Buddy: She got money? Tyler: Makes about two-fifty. Married. Buddy: So what’s the play? Tyler: She says her husband is a loser. Some admin guy. She’s going to dump him soon. Once she divorces him, the condo and the car are hers. She’s already promised to put my name on the deed. Buddy: Lol, you’re just waiting for the seat to open up. Tyler: I told her my dad owns a firm. She swallowed it whole. She thinks we’re “social equals.” Buddy: Women are so easy. Tyler: Once she clears the dead weight, we’re golden. I put the phone down. I poured a glass of water. Five years of marriage. To her, I was “dead weight.” I was the “admin guy” she had to “tolerate.” Tyler was the “social equal.” The “rich guy” she deserved. The irony was delicious. She looked down on the man with the actual millions to chase a man who couldn’t afford his own shoes. I wasn’t angry anymore. I was beyond that. I made a call. “Sandra, it’s Beckett. I need the divorce papers ready.” Sandra was another college friend, a top-tier matrimonial attorney. “Assets?” she asked. “She keeps what’s hers. She doesn’t touch what’s mine.” “The three properties are under the pre-marital corp, right?” “Yes.” “Then she has no claim. Do you have proof of the affair?” “Everything. Bank records, Zelle transfers, texts, and hotel receipts. Jack helped.” Sandra whistled. “You’ve been thorough.” “I’ve had five years to watch her. I’m just finishing the job.” “Alright. I’ll have the draft in three days. How do you want to play this?” I looked out the window at the Brooklyn skyline. “I’m going to wait for her to ask. I want her to think she’s winning until the very second she loses everything.”

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The truth is, I’ve always been a bit of a vacancy. Those glowing credentials—the Ivy League degree, the classical piano trophies, the ballet awards—were all carefully curated illusions. My parents spent a fortune to build a gilded cage of a life that my slow, wandering mind could never have built for itself. While traveling abroad with my boyfriend, Toby, his personal assistant, Lena, insisted on sleeping in the same bed as us. She claimed the hotel was overbooked, her voice a fragile trill of anxiety. In the dead of night, she suddenly clutched her chest, turning to Toby with a pained whisper. She told him her cat, Lilly, was pregnant back home, and through some mystical “soul bond,” she was experiencing sympathetic engorgement. She was in pain, she said. She needed relief. Without a second thought, Toby disappeared under the duvet. I heard the wet, rhythmic sounds of him “relieving” her. I watched, paralyzed by my own slowness, and asked why a cat’s pregnancy would make her chest hurt. Toby popped his head out from under the covers, his expression intensely earnest. He explained that Lena had raised Lilly since she was a kitten, that their bond was so deep it manifested as a psychosomatic resonance. It was science, he claimed. Lena chimed in, her voice breathless, telling me he was just being a supportive boss and that I shouldn’t overthink it. I nodded, a dull, obedient motion. My mother always told me: When you don’t understand, just nod. That night, I heard Lena whispering to something she called “The System.” she wanted to trade her IQ for mine. She said with my “genius” and her ambition, she would finally become the goddess everyone envied. The System’s voice was a cold, metallic hum in the dark. It said the transfer would be permanent in seven days. She actually thought she was stealing brilliance. She had no idea she was trading her cleverness for a void. … 1 The chime signaling the completed transfer echoed in the back of my skull. Suddenly, the fog that had blanketed my mind for twenty-four years began to thin. The world felt sharper, the edges of the room less blurred. Beside me, Lena moans grew louder, more theatrical. “Oh… Toby… that feels so good…” She caught her breath, letting out a sharp, jagged laugh. “Janice really does love you. Look at her. She isn’t even angry.” Toby’s voice came from the depths of the blankets, heavy with a lazy, post-coital satisfaction. “Everyone thinks I’m the one who slaved away to win her over. Hah. They don’t know shit.” “From the start, she’s been nothing but a dog. Throw a bone, and she’ll fetch. If I tell her to move East, she wouldn’t dare look West.” “I don’t believe you,” Lena teased, her tone lengthening into a dare. Toby raised his voice, an edge of command cutting through the air. “Janice. Get me a glass of warm water.” I stood up. I walked to the table. I poured the water, tested the temperature against the side of my thumb, and handed it to him. Toby took a sip, looking at Lena. “See?” “Try something else,” Lena urged, her eyes gleaming with malice. Toby poked his head out again. “My underwear fell on your side of the floor. Pick it up and bring it here.” I nodded. I knelt on the floor, fumbling in the dark. Once I found it, I handed it over. Toby smirked. “Told you. A well-trained pet.” Lena voice was a cocktail of shock and pure, unadulterated disdain. “She looks so cold and untouchable, but she’s really just your little slave, isn’t she?” I wasn’t “cold.” Since I was a child, my parents had one rule for me: Speak less. They said that if I opened my mouth, I’d lose everything. They told me I wasn’t bright, and that silence was my only armor. Every time we went out, I stood there like a beautiful, hollow statue. Before this trip, Toby had reminded me: “Just follow me, keep your mouth shut, and don’t embarrass me.” When they told me to sleep on the sofa that night, I did so without a word. I stayed far away from that bed. I didn’t want to be near them. They made my skin crawl. The next morning. Toby leaned against the headboard, sticking his bare foot out from under the duvet. He shook it slightly. “Put my shoes on for me.” I stared at his foot. Suddenly, my brain felt like a dam breaking. Memories flooded in—vivid, stinging, and nauseating. I saw myself kneeling on the floor, massaging Toby’s feet while he laughed, rubbing his toes against my face like I was a common rag. A wave of visceral disgust washed over me. What a pathetic piece of trash. Seeing me frozen on the sofa, Toby’s voice dropped an octave, turning threatening. “Get over here. On your knees. Change them.” “Don’t make me lose my temper, Janice.” I set my face into a mask, staring at him. Toby lifted his chin, his expression darkening, his eyes full of a cruel, predatory hunger. I picked up his leather loafer from the floor. Then, I slammed it directly into his open mouth. “Mmph!” His eyes went wide, bulging as he tried to spit it out. Before he could move, I lunged forward. I put every ounce of strength I possessed into a kick aimed squarely at his groin. “AAAAAGH—!!!” Toby curled into a fetal ball, clutching himself. His face contorted, a high-pitched, pig-like squeal ripping from his throat. “You! You stupid bitch! How dare you hit me!” I stood there, watching his agony. I let out a soft, vacant giggle. “Toby, I saw a new cartoon recently. Was that funny? Did I play right?” Lena woke up then, rubbing her eyes. “What is all this noise so early?” Toby’s body went rigid. He threw a poisonous look at me, then took a ragged breath, forcing his voice into something resembling a normal tone for Lena sake. “Nothing. She’s just throwing a tantrum. She wants to go home.” His face was ghostly pale, but he didn’t say more. He couldn’t risk the world knowing he was tethered to a “slow” girl just for her inheritance. Toby reached out, trying to pull me into a forced embrace, his voice shaking with suppressed rage. “Going home early is a good idea. We need to get the wedding back on track anyway.” 2 After we returned to the States, Toby said he wanted to take me to meet his “inner circle” at the country club. Before we left, he grabbed my arm, his fingers digging into my skin. “Remember: shut up. Don’t humiliate me.” Toby was wearing a bespoke suit my mother had paid for, driving my limited-edition supercar. When we arrived at the golf club, the usual crowd swarmed us. “Wickham! Look at you!” A guy in a loud Hawaiian shirt whistled, his eyes raking over me. “This the fiancée? She’s even more stunning than the photos!” “Stunning? She’s a work of art. Toby, you lucky bastard!” I saw Lena in the crowd. She was wearing a delicate white sundress, standing on the periphery, her eyes locked on me. “If you guys ever want to relax here, just give them Janice’s name,” Toby bragged, slapping his friends on the back. “She’s an SVIP. Membership was nearly two hundred grand. Open bar, everything’s on the house.” “Damn! Two hundred grand? You’re really bleeding her dry, aren’t you, Toby?” “Bleeding her? No, he’s just a world-class gold-digger!” The guy in the Hawaiian shirt laughed, elbowing Toby. The laughter exploded around us. “Toby isn’t the gold-digger.” Lena voice wasn’t loud, but it cut through the noise like a blade. The laughter died down. She took a step forward, her eyes fixed on mine, her voice dropping into a slow, deliberate honey. “Janice is the one who’s desperate.” “Really?” Hawaiian shirt leaned in, looking from Toby to me. “So, is it true, Janice? Toby says ‘jump’ and you ask ‘how high’?” Toby’s smile flickered, but he recovered quickly. He turned to me, gesturing toward Lena. “Janice, that bag you’re carrying is new, isn’t it? A limited edition?” He paused, his tone casual, almost bored. “It’s Lena birthday today. Why don’t you give it to her as a gift?” I blinked, looking at Lena. “Is it really your birthday today?” Lena froze. Her brow furrowed suddenly. “Wait… when is my birthday? I… I can’t remember.” She shook her head, her fingers pressing hard against her temples. “My head. It hurts. It hurts so much.” I watched her struggle, then asked with a look of pure, innocent concern: “Lena, is it happening again? Is it the sympathetic engorgement?” “Maybe Toby should help you ‘clear the blockage’ again. He’s so good at it. He really knows how to use his mouth to make the pain go away.” “Holy shit, what?” Hawaiian shirt’s eyes nearly popped out of his skull. He whirled toward Lena. “You’re pregnant?!” “I am not!” Lena face went translucent. She denied it with a shriek. I stepped in to clarify. “No, no. Lena cat is pregnant. They have a soul bond. She gets congested when the cat does.” “Toby is such a kind boss. He climbed right under the covers to help her out so she wouldn’t suffer. Right, Toby?” “What the hell are you babbling about?!” Toby lunged, cutting me off. “It was a joke! Can’t you tell when someone’s joking? We were just messing with you! Jesus, you’re so dense.” “Yeah, Janice, it’s a misunderstanding! Totally a joke!” “Toby’s a saint to his staff, but it’s purely professional!” The others rushed in to smooth things over, patting Toby’s shoulder and throwing me wary glances. I nodded slowly. “Oh. Okay. I’m not mad.” Toby didn’t let go of my arm. He squinted at me, his eyes searching my face. “Janice, you’re acting… different today.” Before I could answer, Lena snapped. She lunged forward, snatching the bag off my shoulder with a violent tug. I stumbled back as she gripped the leather like a lifeline. She whirled toward Toby, stood on her tiptoes, and planted a heavy, desperate kiss right on his mouth. “Toby! I love you!” Her voice was high and manic. She clutched the bag, her eyes wild. “Thank you for the birthday gift! I love it so much!” The silence was absolute. Toby’s face turned a bruised shade of purple. He shoved Lena away so hard she nearly hit the grass. “Lena! Are you insane? What the hell is wrong with you!” Lena stumbled back, clutching the bag, her expression dazed, as if she didn’t quite know what had just possessed her. Then, the tears started. She turned and fled. Toby shot me one last murderous look before chasing after her. The rest of the crowd exchanged awkward glances and began to dissipate. I stood there, feeling the fog in my head clear a little more. It was like a window that had been caked in grime for years finally having a small corner wiped clean. I walked into the clubhouse, heading for the private suite my parents kept on retainer. Inside the bedroom, Lena was huddled against Toby’s chest, completely unclothed, a look of pure, delirious ecstasy on her face. They saw me. But they didn’t care. To them, I was just a dog that didn’t know how to bark. I took out my phone. I recorded the video. I uploaded it to the cloud. My brain was still a bit fuzzy, but one thought was crystal clear: This will be useful later. 3 My parents sat Toby down to talk about the wedding. “Toby, let’s be blunt,” my father said, leaning back in his leather chair. “Janice is our only child. One day, everything the Emerson family owns will belong to the two of you.” Toby’s fingers twitched, but his face remained a mask of humble sincerity. “Sir, I promise you, my feelings for Janice are genuine.” My father raised a hand, cutting him off. “We want to believe that. But rules are rules, for everyone’s protection.” “Before the wedding, you’ll need to sign a voluntary waiver of marital property. You will have a management role in the Emerson Group, but ownership and final authority will remain solely in Janice’s name.” “We will provide you with a generous salary and an allowance—let’s say, a hundred thousand a month—as a gesture of our trust.” Toby’s knuckles turned white. Then, he looked up, his eyes glistening with faux emotion. “Sir, Ma’am… I can’t accept that.” “I didn’t pursue Janice for her money. My family might not have what yours does, but I have my own two hands. I love her for who she is—simple, pure, and kind. I don’t want the management rights. I don’t want the allowance. I just want her.” He spoke with such conviction, his eyes clear and honest. I saw my father’s stern expression begin to melt. “Good lad! You’ve got spine. I feel better knowing Janice will be in your hands.” As soon as we were upstairs, Toby’s face went cold. He spent an hour furiously typing on his phone. When he went to shower, I opened his laptop. To “prove” his love, he had set all his passwords to my birthday. I saw the pinned chat at the top. [Did you see that movie about the guy who killed his wife? Men are so brutal. You wouldn’t do that to me, would you?] [When those old fossils kick the bucket, the idiot gets everything. And she’s so obsessed with you, it’s basically yours anyway.] [Haha. Killing her would be a waste. Much easier to just get rid of the two old ones first.] I never imagined he was the one orchestrating the long game. 4 Today is the seventh day. The day of our engagement gala. In the mirror, I am a vision in white—a custom couture gown, my hair pinned up, crowned by a shimmering diamond tiara. The face in the mirror is beautiful, certainly. Perfectly arched brows, a delicate nose, rose-red lips. But the eyes were still vacant, lacking that vital spark. The fog had thinned significantly over the last few days, but everything still felt slightly muffled, like I was watching the world through a veil of silk. But I remembered one thing: I cannot marry Toby Wickham. My mother came in, smoothing my hair. “My beautiful girl.” I grabbed her hand, and tears began to spill. “Mom, I don’t want to get married.” She froze, then pulled me into a hug. “Oh, sweetheart. It’s just nerves. Toby is so good to you. He’ll look after you when we can’t.” “We checked everything, Janice. His family is respectable—both parents were teachers. He’s a good man.” “You’ll have a peaceful, safe life. That’s all we want.” I marveled at how well Toby had fabricated his “wholesome” background to win them over. I cried harder. I didn’t know how to explain it. The thoughts in my head were like small fish—darting close, then scattering into the deep. I couldn’t catch the words. My mother just assumed I was scared and continued to soothe me. The gala was spectacular. The ballroom was a sea of glittering lights and expensive perfume. Toby, looking sharp in his tuxedo, stepped toward me. He dropped to one knee and produced a ring. “Janice Emerson, marry me. I promise to cherish you for the rest of my life.” The crowd erupted in applause, chanting, “Say yes! Say yes!” I looked at the sparkling diamond, then at Toby’s smiling face. Suddenly, I remembered his voice in the dark hotel room. “…she’s nothing but a dog.” I took a step back. I shook my head. “No.” It wasn’t loud, but in the sudden hush, everyone heard it. The smile on Toby’s face curdled. “Don’t be silly, Janice. Everyone is watching. Be a good girl.” I looked up at the massive LED screen at the front of the hall. “Look there,” I whispered. I had intended to play the video of him and Lena. But that wasn’t what appeared. The screen showed photos of Toby bringing me water, Toby draping his jacket over my shoulders, Toby smiling at me with “devotion.” The MC’s voice boomed over the speakers. “Ladies and gentlemen, look at these precious moments—a testament to the unwavering love Toby Wickham has for Miss Emerson.” Toby leaned in close, a cold, mocking smirk playing on his lips. His voice was a low hiss, meant only for me. “I knew you were up to something. I swapped the files hours ago.” He looked at me as if I were a disobedient pet that had failed a simple trick. “Once we’re married, no more cartoons. No more trying these pathetic little stunts you learn online.” “And no more phone. Do you understand?” I stared at his smug, triumphant face. Suddenly, there was a literal thrum in my brain. The fog that had muffled my world for eighteen years vanished in a heartbeat. It was as if someone had shattered the glass. Everything became blindingly, piercingly clear. I opened my mouth to speak. But a scream from the crowd beat me to it. “AHHHH—!!” A woman in a low-cut cocktail dress burst onto the stage. At the same time, a family of four stood up from the VIP table, their faces twisted with frantic energy.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “452004”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

On our third wedding anniversary, he stayed at the hospital with his first love and only sent me a text message. “Serena’s depression relapsed. I won’t be coming home tonight.” No apology, no explanation. For three years, it had always been like this. For his first love, he trampled on my dignity again and again. She stole my aromatherapy formulas to launch her brand. She shattered my late professor’s legacy on the floor. When I asked him why, he frowned. “She needs this success to overcome her depression.” “Can’t you just behave and stop acting like a difficult woman?” My love for him had already died. I left the signed divorce agreement in the villa and flew to France. The sunlight in Provence was blinding. I picked up a male college student. He looked just like my deceased first love. His features, his outline, even the way he wore a white shirt was identical. I took him walking through the small town and kissed him right in front of Damian. Damian came chasing after me and knelt down, saying he’d get plastic surgery to look like Sebastian, begging me to stay. I laughed. “Damian, you’re not even qualified to be a substitute.”

Natalie’s POV On our third wedding anniversary, Damian stood me up. I sat in my aromatherapy boutique, staring at the French dinner on the table that had long gone cold, sitting motionless for a long time. My phone screen lit up. It was a brief message from Damian. “Serena’s depression relapsed. I’m at the hospital with her. I won’t be coming home tonight.” No apology, no explanation, just a matter-of-fact notification. I stared at those words for a few seconds, then pressed the lock button. I stood up and dumped the carefully prepared steak and red wine into the trash can without the slightest hesitation. A year ago, I might have called him in tears, demanding to know whose husband he really was, or even hysterically rushed to the hospital to try to win him back from Serena. But now, I couldn’t even be bothered to sigh. Because the death of a heart is a long and irreversible process. At two in the morning, the door lock of the villa clicked softly. Damian pushed the door open, bringing in a wave of cold air, and took off his coat that reeked of hospital disinfectant and some sickeningly sweet commercial perfume. I was familiar with that perfume smell. It was Serena’s favorite Sweet Bomb, cheap and pungent. As a professional aromatherapist, I was extremely sensitive to scents. In the past, I had fought with Damian countless times over this smell, only to be met with the man’s impatient rebuke. “Serena is sick. Can’t you stop being so unreasonable?” Now, when I smelled this scent, I only felt a wave of physical nausea rising in my stomach, but no longer had any desire to argue. “Why aren’t you asleep yet?” Seeing me sitting on the sofa, Damian frowned slightly, his tone carrying a hint of habitual wariness. He probably thought I was going to throw a tantrum again because he came home late. “I was waiting for you.” I stood up, walked to the table, and handed him a small bottle of sleep-aid essential oil I had just formulated. “You’ve been having serious insomnia lately. This is a new formula. Just put a few drops on your pillow.” Damian froze for a moment, clearly not expecting me to be so calm. He took the essential oil. “Serena was very emotionally unstable today. She kept holding onto my hand and wouldn’t let go. I couldn’t leave.” For once, he offered an explanation, seemingly making excuses for breaking our date. “Mm, I understand.” I responded coolly and turned toward the bedroom. “Get some rest early.” Damian stood there, gripping the bottle of oil, his frown deepening. Damian irritably tugged at his tie. Back in the bedroom, I was already lying down with my back to him. After showering, Damian lay on the other side. Between us was a distance that could fit an iceberg. He habitually applied the essential oil to his pillow. This was a scent I had custom-made exclusively for him, one of a kind in the entire world. Soothed by the fragrance, Damian quickly fell asleep. And I slowly opened my eyes in the darkness. Listening to the man’s steady breathing, I exhaled softly. I gently lifted the covers and got out of bed, walked to the study, and opened an encrypted folder at the bottom of a drawer. Inside lay a prepared Divorce Agreement. In the lower right corner, at the wife’s signature line, my name was already written neatly. There were thirty days left until I completely left. I took a deep breath and locked the drawer again. Damian, the debt I owed you for the past three years, I’ve already repaid with countless nights of companionship. From now on, we owe each other nothing.

Natalie’s POV The next morning, I prepared breakfast as usual. When Damian came downstairs, he looked more relaxed than the night before. He sat down at the dining table, picked up his coffee and took a sip, then spoke in a seemingly casual manner. “The water pipes burst in Serena’s apartment, and the landlord can’t fix them right away. She’s scared to stay in a hotel alone. It might trigger her depression. I told her she could stay in our guest room for a while.” His tone wasn’t asking. it was informing. Even as he said this, his body tensed slightly, bracing himself for my outburst. After all, no wife would accept having her husband’s “good friend” move into their home. However, I only paused in cutting the bread, looked at him for a second, then calmly nodded. “Okay, I understand. I’ll have the housekeeper prepare the guest room.” The knife and fork cutting Damian’s sausage suddenly halted, making a harsh scraping sound in the quiet dining room. He looked at me in disbelief. “You don’t mind?” Damian couldn’t help but ask, his brow furrowed tightly. I asked back: “If I minded, would you tell her not to come?” Damian choked, then said in a low voice: “Serena’s mental state is very fragile right now. As her friend, I can’t ignore her.” “So, since the result won’t change, what’s the point of me minding?” I smiled faintly. “The house has plenty of rooms. As long as she doesn’t mind.” That afternoon, Serena moved in with large and small pieces of luggage. She wore a pure white knit dress, her long hair draped softly over her shoulders, her eyes slightly red, looking pitiful and delicate. “Natalie, I’m sorry to intrude on you both.” Serena stood in the living room, nervously clutching the hem of her dress. “I promise, as soon as the apartment is fixed, I’ll move out immediately.” I watched her performance without responding. Seeing this, Damian immediately shielded Serena behind him, his tone carrying a hint of reproach. “Natalie, Serena is a guest. Show some courtesy.” How interesting. I hadn’t said anything, yet somehow my attitude was bad? “The guest room is on the second floor, first door on the left. The housekeeper has already changed the bedding.” Too lazy to deal with them, I turned to leave for my shop. “Wait!” Serena suddenly covered her nose, her brow furrowed tightly, looking very uncomfortable. “Damian, what’s that smell in this house? It’s so pungent. I’m getting dizzy and my chest feels tight…” Damian immediately supported her anxiously. “What’s wrong? Is your depression causing somatic symptoms again?” He turned to look around, his gaze landing on the diffuser operating in the corner of the living room. It was a top-grade neroli essential oil I had specially formulated to purify the air. “Natalie, get rid of all this aromatherapy nonsense!” Damian ordered sharply. “Don’t you know Serena is sensitive to scents?” I stopped in my tracks. That so-called “aromatherapy nonsense.” It came from precious raw materials I’d spent countless nights collecting from around the world. Once, Damian said he loved having this calming scent in the house. Now, because of Serena’s one word, “pungent,” it had become trash. “Fine.” I didn’t argue. I walked over and unplugged the diffuser directly. Not only that, I called the housekeeper and had all the aromatherapy equipment and essential oil bottles from the living room, hallway, and even Damian’s study packed into boxes. “What are you doing? I only said to remove the one in the living room. I didn’t tell you to take away the ones in my study too.” He said in a low voice. “Since we’re removing them, might as well do it thoroughly, so Miss Serena won’t feel dizzy from catching even a whiff.” I sealed the last box with tape. I removed the aromatherapy, and with it, the last trace of myself in this house. Damian opened his mouth to say something, but Serena timely leaned into his embrace, weakly calling out. “Damian, my head hurts so much…” Damian’s attention was instantly diverted. He immediately lifted Serena in his arms and carried her upstairs. I stood there, watching their intimate figures disappear, and couldn’t help but laugh. I took out my phone and called the real estate agent. “Mr. Wilson, my aromatherapy shop. You can put it on the market now. Yes, the sooner the better.”

Natalie’s POV A week later, the annual business gala was held at a five-star hotel in the city center. As the wife of the CEO of Harrison Group, I was supposed to accompany Damian. I wore a black evening gown with minimalist tailoring, my long hair pinned up, without any excessive embellishment. When Damian saw me, a flash of amazement crossed his eyes, but it was quickly concealed. We had just arrived at the banquet hall and hadn’t yet had a chance to greet several important business partners when a soft voice called from behind. “Damian…” I turned around to see Serena standing not far away in an extremely flamboyant pink strapless gown. Around her neck, she wore a dazzling pink diamond necklace. It was the piece Damian had purchased at auction last month for a high price. At the time, the media had widely reported that he spent so much money to give me a surprise for our anniversary. Turns out, the surprise went to Serena. “Why are you here?” Damian frowned and quickly walked over. “Didn’t I tell you to rest at home?” “Being alone at home was too stifling. I wanted to get some fresh air. A friend had an extra invitation, so I came.” Serena looked at him timidly, then glanced at me. “Natalie, you don’t mind, do you?” I didn’t spare her even a glance. “This is a public venue. What’s there for me to mind?” The gala officially began, and Damian was surrounded by a group of business tycoons offering toasts. Serena stayed close by his side the entire time, as if she were the rightful Mrs. Harrison. And Damian naturally blocked drinks for her, quietly reminding her to avoid cold beverages. Their intimate gestures drew whispers from the socialites and wealthy ladies around. “Mr. Harrison treats that Miss Serena so well. In contrast, Mrs. Harrison is left ignored.” “It’s a business marriage, after all. Where’s the real affection? She’s just a placeholder.” “I heard Mr. Harrison gave that pink diamond necklace to Miss Serena too. What a humiliating position for the wife.” These gossips floated into my ears without any attempt at discretion. In the past, I would have felt embarrassed, humiliated, even cried. But now, I simply picked up a glass of champagne and walked to the quiet terrace alone, enjoying the city’s night view. Just then, a voice with a heavy French accent spoke beside me. “Beautiful lady, you have a very special scent about you.” I turned to see a blonde, blue-eyed foreign man looking at me intently. I recognized him as the internationally renowned master perfumer, Laurent. “It’s vetiver mixed with cedar and just a touch of oud, isn’t it? This ratio is extremely bold, yet surprisingly harmonious, like a forest after a rainstorm.” Laurent didn’t hold back his praise. I smiled faintly and responded in fluent French. “You’re too kind. This is a personal fragrance I formulated myself. I call it Ashes.” “Ashes?” A flash of surprise crossed Laurent’s eyes. “A very fitting name. After everything burns away, what remains is the purest essence. Miss Natalie, your talent is astonishing. I’m currently setting up a perfume laboratory in Grasse, France. Would you be interested in joining my team?” This was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, the holy grail every perfumer dreamed of. Without the slightest hesitation, I smiled and extended my hand. “I’d be delighted.” Damian suddenly strode over, grabbed my wrist, and pulled me to his side, his eyes coldly sweeping over Laurent. “Sorry, my wife can’t hold her liquor. I need to take her away now.” Without regard for my struggles, he forcibly pulled me out of the banquet hall. “What are you doing? Let go!” He was gripping my wrist so hard it hurt. I snapped at him coldly. Damian shoved me against the corridor wall, hands planted on either side of me, his eyes dark. “Natalie, have you no shame? Flirting with another man on the terrace right in front of me?” I found this absurd. “We were discussing perfume, talking about work. Damian, do you think everyone is like you, with nothing but filthy thoughts in their head?” “Does talking about work require smiling so happily?” Damian said through gritted teeth. Just as we were at an impasse, a cry came from the end of the corridor. “Something’s wrong! Miss Serena has fainted!” Damian’s body stiffened. Almost reflexively, he released me and ran toward the voice. I leaned against the cold wall, watching the man’s unhesitating departure, and looked down at my reddened wrist. Damian, your possessiveness is disgustingly cheap.

Natalie’s POV Serena’s “fainting” was just a case of low blood sugar, yet Damian treated it like a crisis, not only rushing her to a private hospital overnight but also staying by her side for two whole days. I didn’t ask a single question, because I was busy handling the transfer of the aromatherapy shop. The shop had found a suitable buyer, and the price negotiations went smoothly. Today was my last time at the shop to pack my personal belongings. On the shelves were many rare essential oils and antique perfume bottles I had collected. The most precious was a small bottle of ultra-pure Bulgarian rose absolute. A legacy from my late professor. Worth a fortune. And more than that, my spiritual anchor. I carefully packed it into a shock-proof box. The wind chimes on the shop door suddenly rang. I looked up to see Serena, wearing sunglasses and a mask, walk in surrounded by a group of bodyguards. “Natalie, so you’re here.” Serena removed her sunglasses and surveyed the aromatherapy shop, a flash of undisguised jealousy in her eyes. “Can I help you?” I didn’t stop what I was doing, my tone indifferent. “Damian said he’s been having insomnia lately. I want to personally pick out a calming aromatherapy for him.” Serena walked to the shelf and casually picked up a bottle of essential oil to examine. “Natalie, you won’t mind me choosing something from your shop to give him, will you?” “Pick whatever you want. Pay at the counter when you’re done.” I didn’t even look up. Serena’s gaze scanned around the shop and finally landed on the exquisite shock-proof box beside me. “What’s this? It’s packaged so nicely, it must be something special, right?” Serena suddenly reached out and grabbed the box. “Don’t touch it!” I shouted sharply. But it was too late. Serena deliberately let it slip. “Oops,” she said, and the box crashed heavily onto the hard marble floor. The crisp sound of shattering glass was especially piercing in the quiet shop. The rich, pure scent of roses instantly permeated the air. It was my professor’s life’s work, my most treasured possession, now reduced to a sticky mess of shards on the floor. I froze in place, my mind blank for a moment. Looking at the fragments, my hands trembled uncontrollably. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” Serena put on a panicked expression, her eyes instantly reddening. “Natalie, please don’t be angry. I’ll pay you back however much it costs…” Just then, Damian strode into the shop. As soon as he entered, he saw Serena with red-rimmed eyes standing to one side while I stared at the broken glass on the floor, the atmosphere tense. “What happened?” Damian pulled Serena into his arms, frowning. “Damian, I accidentally broke something of Natalie’s. She seems really angry…” Serena leaned into his embrace pitifully, tears falling on cue. Damian glanced at the glass shards on the floor and looked at me impatiently. “It’s just a perfume bottle. Serena didn’t do it on purpose. Do you really need to look like you want to kill someone?” I slowly raised my head, looking at this man I’d shared a bed with for three years. He didn’t even ask what she broke before rushing to take Serena’s side. “Just a perfume bottle?” I softly repeated his words. I didn’t scream hysterically, nor did I lunge at them like a shrew. I simply walked to the counter, took out an invoice, quickly wrote down a string of numbers, then walked up to Damian and slapped the invoice against his chest. “This is my professor’s rare legacy piece, with a market value of three million dollars, but to me, it’s priceless.” I said, “Since Serena says she’ll compensate, then please settle the bill for her, Mr. Harrison. Three million dollars. Not a penny less.” Damian froze. “Natalie, are you insane? How could something in this dump be worth three million? You’re extorting me!” Damian said through clenched teeth. “You can choose not to pay. I’ll call the police right now and check the security footage.” I held up my phone, unyielding. Damian looked at me, his chest heaving violently. He suddenly pulled out his checkbook, scrawled three million on it, and slammed it on the table. “Natalie, you’ve really fallen into the money pit! I was so wrong about you!” With that, he pulled Serena away and left the aromatherapy shop without looking back. I stood there, looking at the three-million-dollar check. I crouched down and picked up the glass shards soaked in essential oil with my bare hands, piece by piece. The sharp edges cut my fingers, blood mixing with the scent of roses dripping onto the floor. I didn’t cry. Because this three million was exactly enough to cover the admission fee for the Grasse laboratory. Damian, this debt between us. We’re even.

Natalie’s POV The shop transfer procedures were completed within three days. Watching the sign being taken down from the storefront, I felt little attachment. I cashed the check, transferred it to the French laboratory’s account, and booked a one-way ticket to Paris for two weeks later. Damian knew nothing about any of this. I heard he’d been busy helping Serena launch a new lifestyle brand, leaving early and returning late, rarely even coming home. Until one night, late, Damian returned to the villa. He irritably loosened his tie and pushed open the bedroom door. I was sitting at the desk, writing intently under a small lamp. Hearing the sound, I didn’t look up. Damian walked behind me, suppressing the anger in his heart, and said in a low voice. “I have a terrible headache. Go make me a bottle of that sleep-aid oil like before.” “There isn’t any.” My tone was flat, my pen never pausing. “If there isn’t any, then make some! You have all those materials in your shop. Can’t you even make one bottle of essential oil?” Damian’s tone grew heavier, carrying the commanding tone of someone in authority. I stopped writing and turned to look at him. “I’m out of materials, and the shop is closed. If Mr. Harrison is really having insomnia, you can go to the hospital for sleeping pills.” Damian froze, his brow instantly knotting into a tight frown. “The shop is closed? When did this happen? Why didn’t you tell me?” “No need to.” I turned back and continued organizing my materials. Damian suddenly reached out and slammed my notebook shut, forcing me to look at him. “Natalie, what exactly are you throwing a tantrum about? Is it because Serena broke your thing, or because I haven’t been spending time with you? You weren’t like this before. Why have you become so unreasonable?” “Unreasonable?” I laughed lightly. “Damian, in your eyes, as long as I don’t go along with what you and Serena want, I’m being unreasonable, right?” He took a deep breath, trying to soften his tone. “Fine, I won’t argue with you. Serena’s brand is launching next week, but the signature fragrance she’s been working on isn’t quite right. You’re a professional. Tomorrow, bring out your formula book and help her adjust it. Consider it a favor to me.” I looked at him, feeling like I was watching an utterly absurd joke. He actually wanted me to hand over my life’s work to the woman who destroyed my professor’s legacy? “Impossible.” I refused flatly. “Natalie!” Damian’s patience completely ran out. “Can you stop being so selfish? Serena’s depression is just starting to improve. This brand is very important to her! You’re just sharing one formula. What’s the big deal?” “Since it’s no big deal, let her formulate it herself.” I stood up, looking directly into his angry eyes. “Damian, I’d rather destroy my work, throw it away, than let Serena use even a drop of it.” Damian laughed bitterly, his eyes cold. “Fine, very good. Natalie, don’t forget. When you opened that shabby shop, Harrison Group invested money too. If you won’t help, I’ll immediately withdraw the investment and make sure your shop can never open in this city again!” He thought this threat would be enough to make me comply. After all, that was my life’s work. I just looked at him calmly and smiled. “Do whatever you want.” After saying that, I walked past him straight into the bathroom. Damian stood frozen in place, his fists clenched so tightly they cracked. What he didn’t know was that the shop no longer belonged to me. The leverage he used to threaten me was nothing but a ridiculous empty shell.

Natalie’s POV A week later, Serena’s personal lifestyle brand “Serena’s Time” held a grand launch event at the city’s most luxurious hotel. Not only did Damian personally appear in support, but he also mobilized all of Harrison Group’s PR resources to promote it for her. The core highlight of the launch was a custom fragrance called “First Love.” When the big screen displayed the composition and the top, heart, and base notes of this fragrance, I clenched my fists. Cedar, white tea, mixed with an extremely minute amount of bitter orange leaf. This was the competition piece I had spent half a year preparing for the International Perfumery Competition. “Rebirth.” The formula ratios were precise to the milligram. Besides myself, only one other person could have accessed my formula book. I stood up, pushed through the crowd, and walked straight to the VIP lounge backstage. The moment I opened the door, Damian was bent down adjusting Serena’s dress, the two looking at each other with smiles, a painfully warm scene. Hearing the noise, Damian looked up and saw me standing in the doorway, his brow instinctively furrowing. “What are you doing here?” I ignored him, walked straight to the table, picked up the bottle of “First Love” fragrance being used as a display piece, and looked at Serena. “Where did you steal this formula from?” Serena’s face went pale. She immediately hid behind Damian, her voice trembling. “Natalie, what are you saying? I formulated this myself…” “You formulated it yourself?” I pressed forward step by step. “What’s the extraction temperature for bitter orange leaf? What’s the fusion ratio of white tea and cedar? Can you tell me?” “Enough!” Damian pushed me away and shielded the swaying Serena, shouting sharply. “Natalie, are you done with your madness!” I was pushed back two steps, my waist hitting the edge of the table, a sharp pain shooting through me. I stared straight at Damian. “You gave it to her, didn’t you? You went through my formula book.” Damian’s eyes flickered, but he quickly regained his cold, righteous composure. “So what if I did?” He admitted it, his tone even carrying a trace of condescending arrogance. “Serena’s brand urgently needs a blockbuster product to break into the market. Your formula was perfect for it. You’re so talented. You can just formulate another one for the competition. But Serena can’t. She needs this success to build confidence and overcome her depression.” A roar echoed in my ears. My world completely collapsed. The man before me was terrifyingly unfamiliar. In Damian’s eyes, my life’s work, my dreams, all those sleepless nights. They meant nothing next to Serena’s so-called “confidence.” My talent had become a cheap gift he used to please another woman. “Damian, that was my competition entry,” I said softly. “In the perfumery world, stealing someone’s formula can ruin your career.” “As long as you don’t say anything, no one will know.” Damian adjusted his cuffs dismissively. “As compensation, Harrison Group will transfer five million to your account. This matter ends here.” Five million. He bought out my life’s work, and with it, the last shred of my feelings for him. I didn’t cry or make a scene. I just quietly looked at Damian, for a long time. “Fine.” I nodded gently. I carefully placed the fragrance bottle on the table and turned toward the door. As my hand gripped the doorknob, I stopped but didn’t turn around. “Damian, the formula is yours to give. I wish you both eternal happiness.” The door closed softly. There were three days left until I left. The atmosphere in the villa became eerily quiet. I sat on the living room carpet, organizing several small cardboard boxes. “What are you packing?” Damian walked over. “Some old things I don’t need anymore. I’m planning to donate them.” I didn’t even look up, placing some old books into a box. Damian didn’t think much of it. He sat down beside me, pulled out a velvet jewelry box from his pocket, and placed it in front of me. “Open it and see.” His tone carried a hint of expectation. I stopped what I was doing and looked at the ring inside the box, sparkling with brilliant light from a pink diamond. Very beautiful, very expensive. But I only found it ironic. He shattered my life’s work, trampled on my dignity, then tried to buy me off with a stone. This was Damian’s love. “Thank you, it’s beautiful.” I didn’t refuse. I took the jewelry box and casually placed it on the table beside me without trying it on. Damian’s brow furrowed. He was getting irritated. “You don’t like it?” “I like it.” I gave a perfunctory response and continued organizing the box. Damian grabbed my wrist and pulled me toward him, trying to kiss my lips. “Natalie, it’s been so long since we…” His voice was low and husky, carrying a hint of suggestion. I turned my head away, avoiding his touch. “I’m very tired today. I don’t want to.” My rejection was undisguised.Damian’s hand froze in mid-air, his expression instantly darkening. He stared at me for a long moment, then finally let out a cold laugh and stood up. “Fine, I won’t force you. Tomorrow is your birthday. I’ve reserved a table at the rooftop restaurant. Seven o’clock in the evening. Don’t be late.” With that, he turned and strode upstairs, his back radiating suppressed anger. I watched him go, my gaze returning to the cardboard box filled with “old items.” Inside wasn’t old books at all, but everything Damian had given me over the past three years. Including the wedding album that had been flipped through countless times. I tossed the pink diamond jewelry box in as well and sealed it with tape. Tomorrow was my birthday, and also the day I flew to Paris. Damian, you’re destined to wait in vain for this birthday dinner. The next day, at the international airport departure hall. I sat by the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking at my phone screen. I calmly powered it off, removed the SIM card, and tossed it into a nearby trash bin. “Attention passengers traveling to Paris, flight AF112 is now boarding…” A gentle female voice came through the speakers. I stood up and pulled my single small suitcase. Without looking back at this city I’d lived in for three years, I strode toward the boarding gate.

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“Natalie, this is the last viable embryo. Without Mr. Sterling’s signature, we cannot proceed with the transfer.” I clutched my phone. The screen showed I’d called him 99 times. No response to any of them. But on TV, Adrian Sterling was in Switzerland rescuing his first love. He held that woman in his arms. “I love you. Even if it costs me these hands, I’m willing to save you.” He’d forgotten. Today was our last chance to become parents. Ninety-nine hormone injections, three years of torture, wounds covering my body. I’d shouldered the family shame of his infertility for him, yet there he was on a cliff’s edge, making passionate declarations to his mistress. Later, when I hemorrhaged from my uterus, he kicked me in the knee and cursed me as vile. “Did you miscarry because you were carrying some bastard’s child?” Love turned to hate. I came to despise Adrian. Two years after I faked my death and escaped, Adrian tracked me down. I pointed to the man beside me and smiled: “Adrian , let me introduce you. This is my husband.”

Natalie POV The private hospital’s air conditioning ran at full blast. The instant the needle pierced my skin, I felt no pain. This was my ninety-ninth ovarian stimulation injection. “Natalie, this is the last viable embryo we have.” The doctor looked at my abdomen, covered in bruises, with sympathy in her eyes. “Is Mr. Sterling still not coming to sign today? Without your spouse present to sign, we cannot transfer this embryo for you.” I lowered my lashes, my fingertips gripping the phone turning an unnatural pale color. On the screen, I’d sent Adrian thirty-six messages and made over a dozen calls. Without exception, all had gone unanswered. “He’s… busy.” I forced out a smile uglier than crying. “Doctor, can we wait a bit longer? He promised he’d definitely come today.” The doctor sighed, about to speak, when the LCD TV on the wall suddenly interrupted with breaking international news. “A major avalanche struck a canyon in Switzerland. Our country’s renowned extreme rock climber Adrian Sterling, three hours ago, free-soloed a sheer cliff face without protection to successfully rescue his former partner, Sophie Lane…” On screen, wind and snow raged. The man I’d been waiting for an entire day and night wore a thin windbreaker, clutching a woman tightly in his arms. His hands, those hands he took such pride in, those hands insured for hundreds of millions, now gripped the rock face. Blood dripped from between his fingers onto the snow, a shocking sight. When the reporter thrust the microphone toward him, Adrian gasped for breath, but his eyes held a fervor and relief I’d never seen before. “As long as she’s safe, I’d be willing even if it cost me these hands.” I stared at the screen, my heart seized by an invisible hand, each breath tasting of blood. He’d sacrifice his hands. Yet he knew full well that today was the most important day of my life. Adrian had azoospermia. Three years ago when we got the diagnosis, this prideful rock climbing genius locked himself in a dark room for an entire week. I was the one who stayed with him, kissing his trembling spine over and over, telling him. “It’s okay if we don’t have children. I only need you.” But Adrian’s soul was too proud. He felt he’d wronged me, even suggested divorce. To soothe his ego, I volunteered to do IVF. Punctures, egg retrievals, failures, trying again. Over three years, I’d put myself through hell, forcing out this one last successfully matched embryo from his body that had been practically sentenced to death. Last night, he’d held me, kissing the needle marks on my abdomen, his voice tender enough to drip water. “Nat, tomorrow I’ll be there with you. We’ll bring our baby home.” But now, he was in Switzerland, holding another woman. Sophie. The first love who’d pursued Adrian for seven years, who once broke her leg saving him. “Natalie?” The doctor called out tentatively. I closed my eyes as tears finally fell onto my hand. I took a deep breath, my voice terribly hoarse. “Never mind. This embryo… destroy it.” “Are you certain? This is your last chance.” “I’m certain.” I stood, didn’t spare the TV screen another glance, and walked out of the examination room. The sunlight outside was blinding. Standing on a New York street, I suddenly felt cold. I remembered five years ago, when Adrian was pursuing me, he carved my name with pitons into a snow-covered mountain at 16,000 feet elevation. He said. “Natalie, I’ve entrusted my life to the mountains, but my heart will forever hang from your carabiner.” However earth-shattering his devotion once was, that’s how heartbreaking his betrayal felt now. I’d endured three years of physical torture for him, while he’d risk his very life for Sophie. My phone suddenly vibrated. A message from Adrian, just one cold sentence. “Emergency situation in Switzerland. Postponing the transfer procedure. We’ll proceed when I get back.” Postpone? He didn’t even ask if today’s injection hurt, didn’t offer a single explanation. Just casually pronounced a death sentence on the procedure. I stared at those words for a long time, my fingers trembling as I typed a reply. “No need to postpone, Adrian. We’re done.” Message failed to send. He’d blocked my messages. I suddenly laughed, laughed until tears came. How absurd. I was here in agony while he found even my messages annoying.

Natalie POV Adrian returned three days later. Not only did he return, he brought Sophie back to our New York townhouse. I was sitting on the living room carpet sorting through discarded hormone medication boxes when the door opened. A wave of Sophie’s signature cold cedarwood perfume aggressively invaded my nostrils. “Nat, I’m home.” Adrian’s voice carried exhaustion. He strode over, habitually moving to kiss my forehead. I turned my head away, dodging. Adrian’s movement froze mid-air, his brow furrowing almost imperceptibly. He glanced at the medication boxes scattered across the floor, his tone taking on a hint of impatience. “Didn’t I say the transfer was postponed? What are you throwing a tantrum about now?” “Throwing a tantrum?” I looked up at him. The man before me was still handsome, though his eyes now held an edge of irritation toward me. Behind him, Sophie sat in a wheelchair, face pale and pitiable. “Adrian, am I disturbing you two?” Sophie bit her lower lip, her voice light as a feather. “Maybe I should stay at a hotel instead. Natalie doesn’t seem to welcome me.” “Your leg’s injured, there’s no need for a hotel.” Adrian immediately turned, his tone gentle in a way completely different from moments ago. “The doctor said you need rest. This environment is best for you.” Then he turned to look at me, his tone nearly commanding. “Nat, Sophie got injured saving me in Switzerland. She has severe high-altitude sickness aftereffects and needs to stay in the room with the best ventilation. Clear out the second-floor master bedroom and move to the guest room for a few days.” I looked at him in disbelief. The second-floor master bedroom was the one Adrian personally designed when we got married. It had an entire wall of floor-to-ceiling windows and an indoor climbing wall he’d built for me himself. He once pressed me against that wall, kissing my earlobe as he said. “Nat, this is our absolute domain. No one can set foot here.” Now, he wanted me to give it up to Sophie. “What if I refuse?” My voice was soft but carried the finality of death. Adrian’s expression darkened. “Natalie, since when did you become so unreasonable? Sophie got injured because of me. She’s a patient! Can you stop taking out whatever grievances you suffered at the hospital on her?” Whatever grievances. I felt my heart being sawed back and forth with a dull knife. The torture of ninety-nine injections, countless days and nights of hope, my last chance to become a mother. In his eyes, just “whatever grievances.” “Adrian, have you forgotten that three days ago was my last embryo transfer appointment?” I stared at him, eyes red. “Do you know that because you didn’t show up, that embryo has been destroyed?” Adrian froze, a flash of panic in his eyes, quickly masked by irritation. “If it’s destroyed, it’s destroyed. We can just do it again later.” He tugged at his tie, his tone matter-of-fact. “I’m standing right here in front of you, aren’t I? Lost embryos can be replaced. If Sophie had fallen off that cliff, she’d be dead!” I found it utterly absurd. Do it again later? Did he think this was grocery shopping? Did he know how severely my ovaries had deteriorated from excessive stimulation? “Adrian, don’t blame Natalie.” Sophie timely grabbed Adrian’s sleeve, tears uncontrollably falling. “It’s all my fault. I shouldn’t have come back. I understand she wanting a child to secure her position, especially since… since your condition is special.” That sentence precisely hit Adrian’s sorest spot. Azoospermia was the greatest shame of his life. Adrian’s gaze instantly turned ice cold. Looking at me, he spoke with cruel words. “Natalie, must you push me at a time like this? Do you want a child because you love me, or are you afraid I’ll leave you if I don’t have children, so you’re desperate to create leverage to bind me?” I felt thunderstruck. Looking at this man I’d loved for five years, I only felt he’d become terrifyingly unfamiliar. I’d swallowed all my pain to protect his dignity, only to receive such vicious suspicions in return. “Fine, I’ll move out of the master bedroom.” I closed my eyes, swallowing the taste of blood in my throat. “Adrian, don’t you dare regret this.”

Natalie POV I moved to the cold guest room. New York autumns were bone-chillingly cold. The guest room’s heating was broken. I curled up under thin blankets, sharp pains radiating from my lower abdomen. These were side effects from the ovulation drugs, combined with hormonal withdrawal after the embryo destruction. I started hemorrhaging heavily. Blood stained the sheets. The pain left me drenched in cold sweat, without even the strength to reach for my phone. Outside the door came Sophie’s delicate laughter, mixed with Adrian’s low, indulgent voice. “Adrian, this carabiner is so beautiful. It even has letters engraved on it.” “That was something I casually carved ages ago. If you like it, it’s yours.” I bit my lip until I tasted rust. That carabiner was made of pure titanium, custom-made for me the year Adrian won the world championship. Our initials were engraved on it. He said it was proof that he’d entrusted his life to me. Now, he’d casually given it to Sophie. The severe pain began blurring my consciousness. I struggled to crawl out of bed, wanting to find painkillers in the living room. Just as I pushed open the door, I saw Adrian half-kneeling on the floor, holding Sophie’s ankle, carefully applying ice to it. Hearing the noise, Adrian turned his head. Seeing my ashen face and the bloodstains on the hem of my nightgown, his pupils constricted sharply. He stood abruptly. “What happened to you?” I leaned against the doorframe, lacking even the strength to speak. But Sophie cried out, covering her mouth. “Oh my God, Natalie, you… you didn’t have a miscarriage, did you? But Adrian is…” She deliberately left the sentence half-finished, her eyes full of malicious insinuation. Adrian’s face instantly turned iron-gray. He strode over, grabbing my wrist with force nearly crushing my bones. “Natalie, what’s with the blood? What have you been doing behind my back?!” A man with azoospermia, seeing his wife bleeding from below. His first reaction would always be suspicion. The pain made me gasp. Looking at Adrian’s eyes full of doubt and rage, my heart completely died. “What do you think I’ve been doing?” I laughed weakly, my eyes full of mockery. “Adrian, do you think that to have a child, I went and found some random man?” “What else?!” Adrian’s eyes were bloodshot, like an enraged beast. “I can’t have children! Unless you’re telling me you’re on your period?!” He shouted loud enough for even the servants in the living room to hear clearly. To humiliate me, he didn’t even hesitate to publicly expose his own condition. I felt so tired, too tired to even desire explaining. “Yes, I found someone else.” I looked at him, speaking in despair. “Because you’re worthless, Adrian. Not only is your body worthless, your heart has rotted too.” Crack! Adrian slammed his palm against the wall beside me, his knuckles instantly bloody. He stared at me intently, chest heaving violently. “Natalie, you disgust me. You claim to love me, but you actually despise me! All that IVF was just to satisfy your vanity as Mrs. Sterling!” He released his grip abruptly, flinging me aside like discarded trash. I lost my balance, falling hard to the floor. The cramping in my lower abdomen instantly intensified as another warm flow gushed out. “Adrian, don’t be like this. Natalie might just have hormonal imbalance…” Sophie rolled her wheelchair over with false concern, looking down at me on the floor. “Leave her alone!” Adrian coldly glanced at the blood on the floor, his eyes devoid of any compassion. “Since she wants a child so badly, let her lie here in pain until she dies!” With that, he pushed Sophie’s wheelchair and left the townhouse without looking back. The front door slammed shut with a bang. I curled up on the cold floor, staring at that glaring pool of blood, tears silently falling. Adrian, you’ll never know that this pool of blood represents the last drop of blood I shed for loving you.

Natalie POV I spent an entire week in the hospital. Severe ovarian hyperstimulation syndrome, combined with internal bleeding from extreme emotional distress. I nearly died in that hospital. During that entire week, Adrian never appeared once. On discharge day, I took a cab back to the townhouse alone. As soon as I entered, I heard cheering from the second floor. I dragged my weakened body upstairs and pushed open the master bedroom door. On the indoor climbing wall that once belonged to me, Sophie wore my favorite custom climbing outfit, my titanium carabiner with our initials hanging from her waist, struggling to climb upward under Adrian’s protection. “Adrian, I’m scared!” Sophie called out sweetly. “Don’t be afraid. I’m down here holding the belay rope. You’re absolutely safe.” Adrian looked up, hands gripping the safety rope tightly, his gaze focused and tender. This scene pierced my eyes. This wall was built by Adrian for me. He said that because I was afraid of heights, he wanted to build the safest wall at home so I could overcome my fear under his protection, step by step. But now, he was protecting another woman. “What are you doing?” My voice wasn’t loud, but in the empty room it seemed particularly jarring. Adrian’s hands paused. Turning to see me, his brow immediately furrowed. “You’re discharged? Why didn’t you say something in advance?” His tone was bland, as if I’d merely gone on vacation rather than nearly died. Seeing me, Sophie deliberately slipped, screaming as she fell from the wall. “Sophie!” Adrian’s expression changed drastically. He quickly tightened the belay rope, catching Sophie securely in his arms. “Adrian, I was so scared…” Sophie clung tightly to Adrian’s neck, looking at me through tears. “I’m sorry. I just saw this wall hadn’t been used in so long and wanted to try it. Please don’t be angry with Adrian.” I looked at the carabiner on Sophie’s waist and said coldly. “Take off my things.” Sophie shrank back, burrowing deeper into Adrian’s embrace. Adrian protectively held Sophie, his eyes sharp as he looked at me. “Natalie, haven’t you made enough of a scene? Sophie’s just borrowing your equipment. Do you have to be this petty?” “I’m petty?” I pointed at the carabiner, my finger trembling slightly. “Adrian, do you know what that clip means to me? That was your promise to me!” “Promise?” Adrian laughed coldly, as if hearing the world’s greatest joke. “Natalie, you want to talk to me about promises now? When you were bleeding all over the floor behind my back, why didn’t you think about your promises to me?” He still suspected me. I took a deep breath, suppressing the pain in my heart. “I’ll say it one more time. Return my things.” I walked forward, reaching to unfasten the carabiner from Sophie’s waist. “What are you doing!” Adrian shoved me away. Already weak, his push sent my back crashing hard against the solid rock wall. The pain made my vision go dark. Adrian looked down at me condescendingly, his eyes full of disgust. “Natalie, your emotions are too unstable right now. You’re acting like a lunatic. This carabiner would be wasted on you. Sophie’s doing rehabilitation training now. She needs it more than you.” He personally unfastened the carabiner engraved with our names and, right in front of me, rehung it on Sophie’s waist. “From today on, this wall belongs to Sophie. If you’re dissatisfied, get back to your guest room.” I leaned against the wall, watching Adrian’s back as he protectively escorted Sophie away, suddenly feeling this wall was as cold as ice. I once thought Adrian was the safest rope in my world. But it turned out, when he wanted to leave, I didn’t even have the right to be shattered.

Natalie POV Deep autumn in Los Angeles, the ocean breeze carried bone-chilling cold. The annual top-tier charity gala was held at a hotel in Beverly Hills. Adrian forcibly brought me along to dispel rumors about our marriage falling apart. I wore a black high-necked evening gown to hide the bruises on my neck from IV injections. My face was pale, like a soulless puppet, letting Adrian hold my hand as we walked the red carpet. Camera flashes fired frantically. “Mr. Sterling, we heard you nearly died in Switzerland saving Miss Lane. What does Mrs. Sterling think about this?” “Mrs. Sterling, rumors say you haven’t gotten pregnant in five years of marriage because of Mr. Sterling’s physical condition. Is this true?” The reporters’ questions were like poisoned knives, each one extremely sharp. Adrian’s expression instantly darkened. His grip on my hand tightened sharply, squeezing my knuckles in warning. The pain made me frown, but I lacked even the strength to struggle. Just then, a commotion erupted from behind the crowd. “Miss Lane has fainted!” Adrian’s whole body jolted. Almost reflexively, he released my hand. Wearing four-inch heels, his forceful motion made me stumble several steps, nearly falling on the red carpet. But Adrian didn’t even glance at me, pushing through the crowd and rushing toward the back like a madman. On the red carpet, only I remained, standing alone surrounded by countless cameras. Whispers surged around me like a tide. “See? She’s Adrian’s wife, but she still can’t compare to his first love.” “I heard she goes to the hospital every day trying to have a baby, completely exhausting herself. If I were Mr. Sterling, I’d choose Sophie too.” “A woman who can’t have children still occupying the position of Mrs. Sterling. How embarrassing.” Those socialites and wealthy women covered their mouths with fans, their eyes full of undisguised mockery and contempt. I stood in place, nails digging deep into my palms. I didn’t cry, just felt cold. A cold seeping from the marrow of my bones. After the gala officially began, Adrian returned with Sophie. Sophie had changed into a dazzling red gown, holding Adrian’s arm as if she were the evening’s protagonist. The charity auction segment. A painting appeared on the big screen. A snow-capped mountain with a pair of embracing lovers at its peak. This was painted five years ago by a local artist after Adrian and I were rescued from a mountain emergency. An anonymous buyer later purchased it. I never expected to see it here. “Starting bid, one million.” The auctioneer’s gavel fell. I raised my paddle. “Two million.” This was the last clean memory between Adrian and me. I wanted to buy it, then burn it with my own hands. “Three million.” A sweet voice rang out. I turned to see Sophie leaning against Adrian, smiling as she held up her paddle. “Adrian, this painting is so beautiful. I want to hang it on the master bedroom wall.” Sophie spoke coquettishly. Adrian affectionately stroked her hair. “If you like it, buy it.” My fingers trembled slightly as I raised my paddle again. “Five million.” “Ten million.” Adrian didn’t even lift his eyelids, directly bidding for Sophie. The entire room erupted. Everyone looked at me with eyes watching a show. A husband publicly suppressing his own wife at an auction for another woman. This was the ultimate humiliation. I stared intently at Adrian. “Adrian, that’s my painting.” “Your painting?” Adrian laughed coldly, his eyes full of disdain. “Natalie, get it straight. Every dollar you’re spending right now is mine. I’ll spend my money on whoever I want.” He turned to the auctioneer. “Twenty million. This painting is mine.” The gavel fell. This painting no longer belonged to me. Sophie smugly raised her eyebrow at me, then covered her head and leaned on Adrian’s shoulder. “Adrian, I’m so dizzy. It’s too stuffy inside.” “I’ll take you back.” Adrian immediately stood, carefully protecting Sophie as they walked out. Passing by me, he paused, using a voice only the two of us could hear. “Natalie, stop embarrassing me. When the gala ends, get yourself back to New York.” With that, he escorted Sophie away, never looking back. I sat in my seat, watching their departing backs, suddenly laughing out loud. I laughed until tears fell. Under the stares of people looking at a madwoman, I picked up a glass of red wine from the table and drained it in one gulp. Adrian, you won’t even leave me the last bit of memory. Fine. Just fine.

Natalie POV I returned to the New York townhouse in the rain. On the way back to New York, I was like a puppet without a soul. Pushing open the townhouse door, the living room was in chaos. The locked box I’d left on the table had been forcibly pried open. That was where I stored all my IVF documentation and medical records. Now, those consent forms, stimulation records, and embryo cultivation reports that carried three years of my suffering were torn to shreds, scattered across the floor like snow. Sophie sat on the sofa, holding scissors, slowly cutting up an ultrasound report. “Oh my, Natalie is back.” Sophie looked up, her smile innocent yet vicious. “I’m so sorry. I was looking for something earlier and accidentally knocked over your box. These waste papers looked rather unsightly, so I took the liberty of disposing of them for you.” All the blood in my body instantly rushed to my head. I lunged forward, snatching the scissors from Sophie’s hand, pointing at her with bloodshot eyes. “Do you have a death wish?!” “Ahh! Help!” Sophie screamed, toppling from her wheelchair to the floor, a shallow cut from the scissors appearing on the back of her hand. The front door opened at precisely that moment. Adrian stormed in. Seeing this scene, his eyes nearly split with rage. “Natalie! Have you lost your mind!” He charged forward violently, kicking me in the knee. Already weakened, his kick sent me heavily to my knees on those shredded papers. Broken glass shards pierced my kneecap, blood instantly seeping out. Adrian tenderly lifted Sophie from the floor, looking at the cut on her hand, then turned to roar at me. “Are you sick?! How did Sophie offend you that you’d try to kill her with scissors?!” I knelt on the floor, looking at the shredded papers everywhere. This was proof that for him, I’d endured ninety-nine needle punctures. Now, all of it had become “waste paper” in his eyes. “She tore up my medical records.” My voice was eerily calm, calm in a frightening way. “Adrian, she destroyed all the records from three years of IVF treatments I did for you.” Adrian froze, glancing at the shredded papers on the floor, a flash of embarrassment crossing his eyes. But his expression quickly hardened again. “If they’re torn, they’re torn! What’s the point of keeping those things? To remind me you’re a waste who couldn’t even protect a child?!” Those words were like a rusty knife, viciously stabbing into my heart and twisting violently. Looking at Adrian, I suddenly felt the man before me was as unfamiliar as a monster. “Adrian.” I slowly stood, blood from my knee flowing down my calf, leaving shocking red traces on the carpet. I walked to a nearby cabinet, took out a document I’d prepared long ago, and threw it at Adrian’s feet. “Let’s get divorced.” The document clearly read “Divorce Agreement.” Adrian’s pupils constricted sharply. He stared intently at that agreement. “Divorce?” Adrian laughed coldly, tearing the agreement to shreds right in front of me. “Natalie, what game are you playing now to win me back? You want to divorce me over some torn papers?” “Don’t forget. You were the one who insisted on marrying me! You want to leave now? I don’t allow it!” He pointed at Sophie, speaking with self-righteous indignation. “Sophie saved my life on K2! I owe her a debt I can never repay in this lifetime! As my wife, what’s wrong with you suffering a little? Why can’t you be more magnanimous?!” Looking at his furious face, I suddenly felt unbearably sad. “You owe her a life, so you’ll use mine to repay it?” I pulled at the corner of my mouth, my eyes lifeless. “Adrian, I don’t owe you two anything. These five years, I’ve given you everything I could. Now, I want nothing anymore.” I turned toward the stairs, my figure resolute. Adrian suddenly roared. “Natalie! If you dare walk out that door today, don’t ever come back!” My steps didn’t pause. Never come back? That suits me perfectly.

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