I was just about to slip a McDonald’s bag into the struggling main character’s desk. The barrage of scrolling comments, the comments, flashed across my vision: [The Drama Queen side character is using food she won’t eat to ‘feed’ the hero again. Seriously, does having a little money make her better than us?] [She’s pure evil. She saw the hero only had eyes for our sweet main girl, so she harassed and targeted her until the poor thing had to transfer schools.] [Keep bullying him, side girl! Once your family is broke, the hero will seize your assets, force you into marriage, lock you up, and torture you mentally and physically before you meet your miserable end! ~] I snatched my hand back as if burned. Then, I turned and tossed the McDonald’s right onto the desk of my sworn enemy. Oh, I’d feed the stray dog outside before I’d give anything to that guy! 1 Garrett Blackwood was lounging in his chair, one long leg propped casually over the other. He raised an eyebrow, glancing at the familiar yellow bag on his desk, and let out a chuckle that held no humor. “Princess Hart, are you sure this is for me? The sun must have risen in the west.” He picked up the bag delicately, as if it might be contaminated. “Don’t tell me you’re treating me like your personal trash can, disposing of things your precious Alex didn’t want. That’s just bad karma.” The comments stuttered. Then a wave of question marks filled my screen. [Why did the side character give the McDonald’s to someone else?] [What else? She knows her sad attempts won’t get the hero’s attention, so she’s trying a different angle.] [I’m so sick of this spoiled, drama-obsessed rich girl. She’s the literal opposite of our kind and resilient Finny. I can’t wait for Alex to be reunited with his elite family so this side character can get her comeuppance! Lock her up! Torture her!] The horrific stream of comments, wishing me dead, coupled with Garrett’s usual cryptic passive-aggression, left me feeling frayed. I glared at him, annoyed. “Garrett Blackwood, consider it a gift. If you don’t want it, just say so…” Just then, Alexander “Alex” Donovan walked in. He saw me standing next to his desk, talking to Garrett. His expression instantly froze over. “Stella Hart, what did you just put in my desk?” His voice was low and icy. “I’m going to tell you one more time: I don’t need your high-and-mighty, fake charity. I don’t like you, and please, respect yourself.” The cold misjudgment stung, leaving a hollow ache in my chest. But on the outside, I gave nothing away. I lifted my chin, projecting a false bravado. “Alex, I didn’t put anything in your desk, and I never will again. I don’t like you. Don’t… don’t flatter yourself.” Seraphina “Finny” Cole, who had walked in behind Alex, knitted her delicate brows. She looked at me, her tone soft but laced with disapproval. “Stella, you’re really going too far. You shouldn’t constantly use money to insult and trample on people’s dignity.” She sighed dramatically. “You already caused him a lot of trouble last time, and some truly awful rumors started…” I blinked at her, utterly bewildered, and remained silent. Why does everyone always twist my intentions? Is trying to discretely help someone with their tuition really ‘trampling on their dignity’? Garrett let out a dismissive scoff. He rapped his knuckles sharply on his desk. “Alex Donovan, do you suffer from delusions? And you, Finny, the one who always joins the witch-hunt the second it starts, would you both mind taking a look? Is there anything in Alex’s desk? Why are you creating drama?” 2 Right in front of Alex, Garrett reached into the bag. He pulled out a Mac Spicy. He ripped open the wrapper and took a huge, satisfying bite. He grinned at Alex, his eyes full of meaning. “Free breakfast tastes great. Not everyone is an ungrateful jerk, you know.” He then turned his head to me, drawing out his words. “Thanks, Princess Hart.” My heart hammered against my ribs. I shot Garrett a grateful look. “You’re welcome.” Alex scoffed, walking to his seat. He subtly glanced into his desk drawer. He immediately froze. Finny bit her lip, looking from Alex to me, appearing utterly heartbroken. I ignored both of them. I walked back to my own seat and sat down, feigning composure, though I was completely deflated inside. What a mess. The comments filled the screen with question marks. [Who is this loudmouth guy, and why is he talking to our hero and heroine like that?] [Ugh, our sweet Finny is so upset! Of course, every evil side character has a jerk of a side-guy who defends her unconditionally.] [This venomous witch! She definitely just used this method to get the hero’s attention. She’ll be disappointed, though.] The comments was getting increasingly aggressive, but I managed to piece together the entire backstory. This world was the setting for a decades-old, trope-filled romance novel. It featured the whole spectrum: high school romance, broken hearts, a ‘chase-the-heroine-and-burn-in-hell’ arc, and a lot of emotional abuse. The hero, Alex Donovan, was the long-lost son of an old-money New York elite family. He’d met the heroine, Finny Cole, in an orphanage. They reunited in high school and were deeply in love, secretly pining for each other. I, the villainous side character, wanted Alex because he was the campus hottie. I repeatedly used money to ‘humiliate’ him, trying to force him into a relationship with me. I also secretly targeted and framed Finny, forcing her to transfer schools in disgrace. Alex never forgave me for that. And so, after he was reunited with his elite family, the revenge began. He systematically destroyed my family’s business. But that wasn’t enough. He then forced me to marry him. I was locked in a dark room, abused, physically and mentally, until I became a shivering, broken mess, begging for his attention like a dog. It was at that point that Alex and Finny reunited. Their old flame reignited. But Alex didn’t want Finny to know about my existence, or his dark side. In the end, he burned me alive… I shivered, pulling my eyes away from the screen, a cold dread creeping up my spine. The way the comments described “me” and these events… it felt off. 3 Yes, I had a crush on Alex. I was particularly drawn to his cool, aloof, and ridiculously handsome face. Especially when he wore his wire-rimmed glasses. He looked exactly like a cold, genius scholar from one of my favorite animes. So I started observing him. I wondered why he was so tall yet so skinny. Why he always skipped the cafeteria, eating only a stale roll at his desk. Even though he clearly looked like he was struggling financially, why hadn’t he applied for the school’s financial aid program? I even had my dad’s assistant, Brandon Davies, check with the school to see if there was some administrative oversight. Brandon’s reply was shocking. “Alex Donovan doesn’t meet the school’s need-based requirements, and he hasn’t applied.” “However, his family’s finances aren’t bad, but his parents are inexplicably harsh on him. They make him sleep on the porch, even though they have an extra room, and he works every night at the street market just to earn his tuition.” “The counselors tried a home visit, worried about his stress affecting college applications, but it didn’t help…” I was horrified. Alex was having a genuinely awful life! After a week of surveillance, I dragged my best friend from the next class to the street market to support him. Alex was selling fancy, homemade layered puddings and mochi cakes. When I arrived, his booth was empty. He hadn’t sold a thing. I intended to buy everything he had. But I reached into my bag and realized my phone had been stolen. Just as I started to panic, I made eye contact with Alex. My nerves shot through the roof. I don’t know what came over me, but I whipped out my AmEx Black Card. The words flew out of my mouth: “How much—is the whole booth? I’ll buy you.” Crap. I was so nervous I completely misspoke. I bit my lip, scrambling to explain. “No! Alex, I meant, how much for all of this? I’ll take it all.” Alex’s face grew colder by the second. I felt desperate and my words tumbled out. “I don’t mean anything by it. It’s just, if you’re having financial trouble, I could cover your tuition. That way, you wouldn’t have to work so hard and you’d have more time to study… College applications are really important.” I was being as careful as I possibly could. I’d never been this tentative in my life. But Alex still erupted in anger. He looked at me with cold disgust. “Stella Hart, do you think this is a joke? What do your finances have to do with me?” “You pulled the same stunt with the student body president in ninth grade. Were you following me just for this moment? Did you think I’d be impressed and fall for you? No. You make me sick.” The rapid-fire accusations left me stunned. My friend, seeing the growing crowd, quickly pulled me away. Once we were safely in the car, she finally dared to speak loudly. “My Queen, you can’t offer to sponsor someone by just throwing an AmEx Black Card at them! His face was charcoal gray. Of course, he misunderstood.” I averted my gaze sheepishly. “It was my first time.” “And what was that about buying him? You’re still a student! You can’t just go around talking about—” I quickly clapped a hand over her mouth. “Shh! I told you, I misspoke!” Sigh. The misunderstanding was massive. My crush was officially over. My friend, seeing my glum face, offered a suggestion. Her eyes brightened. “Alex is just super sensitive about his pride, but he is cute. How about this? You help him secretly, but drop subtle clues. That way, you save his pride. That’s how it happens in all the books! The hero eventually falls for the heroine who quietly supports him.” I nodded thoughtfully. Hmm, that makes sense. And so, I started two operations: One: I had my father’s assistant arrange for a scholarship to Alex in the name of the Hart Family Foundation. Two: I started stuffing his desk drawer with expensive breakfasts: Black Truffle Eggs Benedict, Lobster Omelets, Foie Gras Crêpes, etc., inside a discreet, designer-branded lunch tote. Every day was different. I sometimes included a necessity, like a $1,000 Montblanc pen. But Alex remained stone-cold to me, only thawing when he looked at Finny. He threw everything I gave him to his desk-mate. The worst part? His desk-mate actually tried to hit on me yesterday. [Princess, I’ll be your little lapdog. I promise to be way more obedient than Alex, and I’ll do anything you want. I’m the starting player on the basketball team, and I have a six-pack, you can check them out…] The audacity scared me so much I immediately blocked his number. I sighed. Today, I intentionally swapped the gourmet breakfast for McDonald’s—I’d heard from a classmate that Alex secretly loved the Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Good thing I didn’t give it to him. Since Alex hated me and my misguided attempts so much, I decided I was done with the crush. As for the comments calling me the villainess? They were wrong. I was going to be the lead of my own life. 4 After evening study hall, to reward Garrett for his performance earlier, I invited him to the nearby street market for dinner. Garrett was initially reluctant, letting out a soft “Tch.” “Princess, if you’re treating, I expect French or at least steakhouse fare. What’s the meaning of bringing me to the street market?” he challenged. Because the street market is my favorite, and it’s all you deserve. Since we were kids, Garrett had always been a copycat, wearing the same brands and doing the same things. When I tried to bribe the class treasurer to do my homework, he instantly ratted me out to my mom and blamed it on a ‘secret dating pact.’ I’d hold that against him forever! I rolled my eyes and gave a small, haughty snort. “Take it or leave it. Goodbye if you leave it.” Garrett strode ahead, his long legs covering the ground easily. “Who said I wouldn’t eat? I love street tacos. As long as you’re not treating certain people, I’ll eat anything… hurry up, short stuff.” Your entire family is short stuff. I narrowed my eyes, fuming, and lifted my foot to kick his calf. He dodged quickly, as if he had eyes in the back of his head. “What is it now, my Princess?” He turned, arching an eyebrow, his smile wide and provocative. I stared him down with a silent, intense menace. Once we got to the market, I bought him only a small bag of Deep-Fried Oreos. Then I happily bought myself a huge haul: street tacos, cheese fries, a corn dog, a funnel cake, a taro swirl pastry, a chocolate-matcha mochi… so much food I could barely hold it all. Garrett looked at his lone bag of Deep-Fried Oreos. Then he looked at the mountain of food in my hands. He laughed, exasperated. “Fine. Very fine.” “Thank you, Princess Hart. I love Deep-Fried Oreos. But you can’t possibly carry all that. Let me help you…” He reached out to grab some of the bags. “Absolutely not!” I glared at him and quickly side-stepped his attempt to snatch my food. Suddenly, someone blocked my path. Finny Cole stood in front of me, calling out towards the distance. “Alex, slow down! Stella’s been following us for a while now. Why don’t we all go together?” I froze. I pursed my lips. Awful luck. Why did I run into them here? The comments started rolling again. [The inescapable, gold-digging side character is here again to interrupt the hero and heroine’s alone time.] [She failed in the daytime, so she came at night to flash her AmEx Black Card at the hero’s booth? LOL, too bad the hero already has a nice sponsor now and doesn’t need to work for tuition, nor does he need this woman’s high-and-mighty ‘help’!] [Evil side character, get lost! Get lost! Get lost!] My intent was to turn and leave, but the comments stopped me. The comments reminded me: If he thinks I’m humiliating him, why am I still sponsoring him? 5 Finny glanced at the food in my hands, her smile gentle but her eyes devoid of warmth. “Stella.” “These are all Alex’s favorite things to eat. Did you come here to apologize for the scene this morning? That’s very thoughtful of you.” Garrett’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line. His knuckles were white as he gripped his bag of Oreos. Seeing my silence, he stepped in to run interference. “Apologize for what? Besides, this is all for me. It has nothing to do with anyone else.” Alex’s voice was hard and cold as he addressed me. “Stella Hart, how many times do I have to tell you? Can you just stay away from me?” He threw a contemptuous glance at Garrett, who was standing beside me. “Did you try a different trick today to get my attention? Girls need to value themselves more… When you act like this, I only feel disgusted.”

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The moment my boss, Blake, flew out for his European business trip, the new intern, Sasha Bell, declared she was pregnant with his child. Claiming the throne by virtue of her “royal heir,” she was soon sprawled on the velvet sofa in Blake’s luxurious corner office, ready to establish her regime as the self-appointed “First Lady” of the firm. “First,” she announced to the assembled staff, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness, “No one is allowed to eat anything with a strong scent. I get violently ill from the smell of burnt microwave popcorn or takeout.” “Second, you are all to dedicate yourselves entirely to my needs. If I ask for something, it is non-negotiable and must be delivered immediately.” “Third, the AC is to remain completely off. The condenser unit outside is so loud it keeps me from taking my much-needed naps.” “If any of you can’t handle these simple demands, you can pack your desk and get out.” We tiptoed around her like we were walking on eggshells, terrified of provoking her, yet she found ways to make every minute a subtle torture. The breaking point came fast. I finally dialed Blake’s international number, ready to burn the bridge of my career and scream into the phone, “Can you please take your pregnant fiancéé home? She’s running this company into the ground!” But the response from across the Atlantic was not what I expected. Blake’s voice was laced with utter fury. “Pregnant what? Are you high, Ariel? I’m a single, grown-ass man, not a character in a bad soap opera!” 1 I had just dropped Blake off at the airport and was settling in for a much-deserved, greasy takeout lunch when my phone rang. It was Harper, my desk mate, her voice a low, panicked whisper. “Ariel, when are you coming back?” I stuffed a bite of my jumbo bagel into my mouth. “Thirty minutes, tops. What’s going on?” “You need to get back here now! Sasha Bell just announced she’s pregnant with the boss’s baby!” My jaw went slack. The bagel dropped from my hand, splattering cream cheese on the pavement. “Sasha Bell? The intern who started yesterday?” “She’s setting up her new set of office commandments right now!” I threw my car into gear. “Don’t panic. I’m on my way.” Honestly, I thought Blake was just being incredibly private. As his Executive Assistant, I had zero clue he even had a girlfriend. I remember thinking Sasha’s résumé was laughably thin for a position at our firm. Now, it all clicked into place. My only confusion was why he hadn’t given me a head’s up. Ten minutes later, I walked into a scene of corporate chaos. The entire staff, who should have been grinding away, was huddled in the main conference room. They were gathered in a tense semicircle, bent slightly forward, and I could hear a woman’s loud, imperious voice lecturing them. She had more gravitas than Blake ever did. I pushed through the crowd. Sasha was half-reclined on the leather sofa, one hand protectively on her lower abdomen. The moment she saw me, her eyebrows arched in annoyance. “Finally back? Did you know the entire company was waiting on you? Talk about entitled.” I quickly lowered my head, forcing a weak smile. “Sorry, the traffic on the I-95 was brutal.” She cut me off mid-sentence. “Consider your bonus for this month revoked.” I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth, but ultimately, I forced out an apology. Just yesterday, this woman was politely calling me “Ms. Chambers.” Now, our roles were completely reversed. If I messed this up, not only would the bonus be gone, but the job itself was on the line. And for all its ridiculous demands, this was the best-paying, best-benefit gig in the city. I wasn’t ready to let it go. Seeing my compliance, Sasha gave a satisfied smirk. “Since everyone is finally here, let’s go over the new rules.” The colleagues around me visibly tensed, their faces pale. Harper tugged on my sleeve, whispering just loud enough for me to hear. “Her rules… they’re insane.” “Listen up, everyone,” Sasha declared, her voice booming. “I am an expectant mother, and this is the future heir to Blake Carrington’s empire.” She dramatically patted her stomach. “Rule Number One: Lunch is canceled. No one eats in the building, period.” A collective gasp went around the room. I couldn’t stop myself from interjecting. “Sasha, everyone works incredibly hard. If we don’t eat—” I was instantly drenched. A full cup of scalding, fresh-brewed coffee was thrown in my face. “Who the hell are you to use my first name?” she spat. “From now on, you will address me as ‘Mrs. Carrington!’” The pain made my vision swim, and my body shook involuntarily. Sasha scoffed, pointing a finger at me. “Let this be a lesson to all of you. This is what happens when you cross me.” The sight of my burning skin terrified the rest of the staff into absolute silence. “Rule Number Two!” she shouted, puffing out her chest. “You are all here to serve me. If I tell you to go east, you do not even look west.” “Rule Number Three! All AC units must be off. The outside noise gives me migraines.” This time, no one dared to argue—not even me. I could already see a painful, angry red splotch forming on my forearm where the coffee had landed. “Did you hear me?” she demanded. “If you can’t manage it, you can all get out!” She shot me one final, warning glare. My colleagues rapidly nodded their heads, promising compliance. After she dismissed everyone, she kept me back. 2 “I hear you’re my fiancé’s executive assistant?” I managed a strained smile. “I mostly just organize Mr. Carrington’s files and handle logistics.” My answer clearly didn’t satisfy her. “Start by massaging my shoulders.” I went behind the sofa. “Is this pressure okay?” She lay back, eyes closed. “Look, I don’t want to be difficult, but Blake told me I have to assert myself now. If I don’t lay down the law with you working types, I’ll never have any authority.” She smirked. “But you wouldn’t dare object, would you? You all need this job to survive. And honestly, my requests aren’t that bad.” She snapped her eyes open. “Are they excessive?” I immediately shook my head, my face plastered with a fake grin. “Not at all, Mrs. Carrington. Perfectly reasonable.” Watching her tyrannical behavior, I had to seriously question Blake’s taste in women. Had years of high-stakes corporate life finally made him desperate enough to date… this? The rest of the morning was spent running errands like a personal valet. She demanded a fresh cup of coffee, then threw the porcelain mug across the room in disgust. “How did you ever get this job?” she yelled. “I asked for lukewarm! Don’t you know the difference?” I barely registered her complaints because the coffee had splattered all over Blake’s mahogany desk, soaking the critical documents laid out on top. My heart sank. “Mrs. Carrington, those are the Chandler Group merger contracts. They’re due in two days.” Even with my quick reflexes, the high-value paperwork was now stained a mottled brown. Sasha glanced at the mess, her tone utterly detached. “It’s just paper. Nothing is more valuable than the health of the baby in my womb.” She suddenly shouted at me, her eyes blazing. “You are to focus entirely on me, do you understand? You’re not even a good servant!” Stifling a wave of furious indignation, I asked, my voice slightly shaky, “Mrs. Carrington, that contract is genuinely important. Can I please take it out now to see if I can salvage the signatures?” She eventually agreed. But just as my hand reached the doorknob, she called me back. “Find two of the girls. I need a foot and leg rub.” I bit down hard on my lip. “Understood.” Stepping out, I was hit by the oppressive reality of the no-AC rule. The entire floor was a furnace. Every employee, supposedly hard at work, was frantically fanning themselves with notebooks and files. I froze, looking at the central AC unit—it wasn’t just off, someone had even unplugged and removed the power cord. My colleagues looked at me with desperate, pleading eyes. Before I could speak, Sasha emerged, clutching her belly. “Stop that right now!” Her cold gaze swept over us. “I told you I can’t have the noise of the AC unit. So, you’ve decided to make noise with your own petty flapping? Are you trying to deliberately provoke me?” Every single person immediately dropped their makeshift fans, their faces flushed with shame and heat. “You have succeeded in annoying me greatly!” 3 Sasha looked at me, a sneer on her face. “How did you ever become an executive assistant, Ariel? You clearly have zero management skills.” As I prepared to defend myself, she raised her hand and pointed to a handful of my sweat-drenched colleagues, singling them out. “You, you, and you. Stand up.” “Begin. Two hundred squats, right now!” “Excuse me?” The named colleague, a man named Eric, looked shocked, but tried to remain respectful. “Mrs. Carrington, we—” “Make that three hundred!” Seeing Sasha immediately escalate the punishment, they shut their mouths and started squatting. She clapped her hands and turned to me. “They’re being punished because their excessive fanning created noise. That’s your fault.” I looked at the employees, their faces streaming with sweat, groaning in misery as they worked out in the unbearable heat. “And now, you will do five hundred squats!” I pointed at myself, disbelief coloring my voice. “Me?” She scoffed. “Yes, you. You failed to manage the situation. You bear the most responsibility.” She suddenly narrowed her eyes. “Get started. Now.” I didn’t dare hesitate. I clasped my hands behind my head and dropped into a squat. She leisurely addressed the other employees. “Are you hot? Do you all feel so incredibly hot?” “Funny, I don’t feel hot at all.” My inner monologue screamed. Of course, you don’t feel hot! You were just lying on a silk-covered sofa in a climate-controlled office! But the words stayed trapped behind my clenched teeth. Sasha pulled a chair from the conference table and sat down, watching me struggle. “My baby—Blake’s future heir—is hungry!” She drummed her fingers on the chair arm. “What should we eat? Let’s see. I need that organic, hand-pressed green juice from the West Village. And a dozen Artisan Tiramisu bites from the French Patisserie downtown.” She patted my shoulder. “Tough job, Ariel, but my baby wants what it wants.” She then slowly sauntered back into the office. The second the door closed, everyone let out a collective sigh of relief. But she instantly yanked the door open, sticking her head out. “Bring me two girls to rub my legs.” She reconsidered. “No, make it four. Gotta get the feet, too.” The door slammed shut. My colleagues looked at me with miserable expressions. “Ariel… what do we do?” One of the squatting employees was openly crying. “I have a project due to the client at 8 p.m. this evening. I haven’t saved anything yet. What are we going to do?” I gasped for air, checking my watch. Blake was still on the plane—calling him was impossible. “Just hold on, everyone! Blake lands at four o’clock! I’m going to tell him everything!” Right now, I was the biggest victim, and I was going to make sure he knew it. 4 After five hundred squats, I felt like I had lost half my body weight. I had to brace myself against a desk to keep from collapsing. But Sasha’s demands were a clear threat, and I couldn’t risk further delay. I stumbled out, my clothes drenched, and headed for the garage. I drove like a maniac, cursing Sasha out loud, and adding a few choice words for Blake as well. When I finally returned with the expensive, bespoke items, a new set of employees was inside her office being forced into servitude. I carefully set the food in front of her. She pouted, her voice strangely soft. “You look exhausted, Ariel. That was a lot of running around.” She patted the sofa beside her. “Sit down.” The sudden kindness made a knot form in my stomach. The instant I sat, Sasha grabbed the juice bottle and dumped the entire contents over my head. Before I could react, she upended the tiramisu container, letting the mushy, chocolatey cream slide down my face and suit. I shot to my feet. “What the hell are you doing?” She glared at me, her face venomous. “And you are supposed to be my fiancé’s assistant? Didn’t anyone tell you to handle a pregnant woman’s food with extreme care?” “This juice is lukewarm! It’s garbage! Even a dog wouldn’t touch it!” She hurled the empty container at me. “Go buy me new ones. Now!” My body was a disgusting mix of sweat, hot coffee, and now, spoiled gourmet dessert. When I didn’t move, her brow furrowed. “Are you deaf? I asked you a question. Do I need to fire you for you to understand?” I squeezed my hands into tight fists, quickly wiping the sludge from my face. I scooped up a handful of the ruined tiramisu from the floor, marched up to her, grabbed her jaw, and smeared the mess across her face and into her mouth. “You know what? I quit, you psycho!” The satisfaction was immediate and total. Sasha sputtered, choking on the cream. She shoved her hands against the sofa, gagging. Strands of juice-soaked hair stuck to her face, and a glob of cream was actually forced out of her nose. “You! You’re going to regret this! I’m going to have my husband ruin your life!” I adjusted my collar. “I’ll be waiting.” I spun on my heel and left the office. Harper ran up to me, her eyes widening in horror at my appearance. She started picking bits of dessert off my jacket, tears welling up as she pointed to Riley. “Riley’s stomach ulcer just burst. She’s throwing up blood.” I was stunned. “Why didn’t you call an ambulance?” Harper broke down completely. “Sasha wouldn’t let us! She said losing an employee would affect the company’s efficiency!” I rushed to Riley. Her face was ashen, her hair plastered to her forehead. She was curled into a small, tight ball. “Ariel, I’m so sorry…” “Hospital. Now.” Harper and I quickly helped her up, and several other colleagues rushed over to assist. After getting Riley settled in the ambulance, I drove back to the office. The place was a total disaster. The break room had been completely trashed, the microwave smashed into pieces. Harper told me Sasha was currently using Blake’s private shower in his office suite. She was probably getting ready for the next round of retribution. I checked my phone. 4:30 p.m. Blake had landed. Fire me? Not a chance. I’m doing it first. I called him, fury burning through my veins. “What the hell kind of woman did you pick up? Are you blind?” “Get your spoiled princess home! Sasha Bell is a menace who will drive your company into bankruptcy! You’ll be lucky to have a door left to close! And by the way, I QUIT!” There was a long silence on the line. I thought the connection had dropped. Finally, Blake shouted. “Ariel Chambers, are you losing your mind? Stop with the insane talk!” “I told you, I am not dating anyone! What do you mean, my girlfriend?!”

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I am Jo Miller, and my daughter is the community’s golden girl, the poster child for filial devotion. Yet, on Christmas Eve, I signed the papers to legally sever our bond. The mediators from the local Family Services office rotated through, trying to talk sense into me. “Your daughter, Daisy, she’s devoted, Jo. Never gave you a moment’s worry growing up. She visits every other weekend, never comes empty-handed.” “What is wrong with you? You’ve got one foot in the grave, Jo, what in God’s name are you doing severing ties?” I stood my ground. I used a fireplace poker to drive Daisy out of the house. She wept, refusing to leave, and then, from the fourth-floor window of my old apartment, she threw herself out. I walked past her body. She was lying in a pool of blood, fingers frantically trying to clutch the hem of my jeans. I took a step back. “Try to bleed out somewhere else.” The neighbors couldn’t bear to watch. They called me a monster, wrapped me in a blanket, and drove me to the hospital. When Daisy woke up, intubated and broken, all she could do was whisper “I’m sorry” over and over again. I didn’t look at her. The next morning, I filed the final papers for the Petition for Familial Severance. 1 The Petition for Familial Severance hearing is straightforward. The petitioner asks three questions. If the respondent—the person being disowned—answers even one question correctly, the petition is denied. On the day of the hearing, Daisy was wheeled onto the platform by a kindly neighbor. She was skeletal, her face the color of wet plaster. Her hospital gown hung loosely on a frame of jutting bones. When she saw me, her voice was a rough whisper. “Mom…” I turned my head, refusing to meet her eyes. The Mediation Panel seemed annoyed by my callousness. Their pointed whispers and judgmental sighs drilled into my ears. “Silence,” the Judge’s voice was clipped. “The hearing is now in session. Joanne Miller, you will begin the questioning. Are you prepared?” I nodded. There was no preamble, no polite softening. I went straight for the throat. “My first question.” “Why did I first hit you?” Daisy’s eyes held a knowing, theatrical sadness. “Because I skipped school.” She sighed, her expression shifting to one of tragedy. “Dad had just been hospitalized in the ICU after his accident. We had no income. You were up all night, every night, so worried. I was trying to help, Mom. I was secretly skipping classes to work, and you caught me. You slapped me.” “Oh, that’s right! I remember that night. These old walls are thin. They were yelling so loud, my husband even went over to intervene.” “Skipping school is wrong, yes, but it came from a good place! She was trying to help her parents. No mother should hit her child for that.” “Exactly. Sweet Daisy was on the floor after that slap, shaking, but she pulled out five hundred dollars—money she’d earned—and begged her mother not to be angry. It broke my heart!” The murmurs, though low, were perfectly audible. I didn’t blink. I just spoke two words. “Pathetic.” The shockwave was instantaneous. Before Daisy could reply, the chorus of her defenders erupted. “Pathetic? Does this woman deserve to be a mother? Her daughter sacrifices her education to make money for the family, and you have the nerve to call it pathetic?” “She’s lucky to have such an angel! I say skip the trial. Grant the severance immediately before she bleeds her daughter dry in old age!” I gave a dry, humorless chuckle. “Fine by me. Let’s sever. It saves us all time.” But fear flashed in Daisy’s eyes. She lunged, sliding dramatically from her wheelchair, her face a streaked mess of tears and snot. “No… Mom, no, you can’t sever the bond…” Some people turned away, unable to watch; others glared at me with dagger-sharp contempt. The Judge looked down at Daisy, her expression pure pity. When they confirmed Daisy wasn’t injured from the fall, everyone sighed in collective relief. “Mom, that was the first time you ever hit me, the first time you ever lost your temper over my schooling. I never forgot it. After that, I was a model student. You drove me to and from school every day, even getting up at five a.m. for my last two years of high school. The only thing you ever talked about was my education.” She gazed at me, trembling. I said nothing, slowly turning my head to face the Judge. The Judge’s pity hadn’t yet left her eyes, but it instantly chilled when she glanced at me. She shuffled through her notes, pulling up the “obvious” answer, but her pupils narrowed sharply as she read the card. “The answer… the answer is… incorrect.” 2 “H-How is that possible? Mom, are you doing this on purpose? Are you trying to lie just so you can sever our ties?” Daisy furiously shook the wheels of her chair, turning to the Panel. “Mrs. Peterson, Mr. Harrison, you’ve been our neighbors for twenty years. You know what happened.” “They certainly do,” I cut in, my voice calm. “But Daisy, do you remember what happened in our home just before I first struck you?” Her eyes were glossy with unshed tears, and she spoke tentatively. “Dad was critically injured and in the hospital.” “That evening, I was mugged on my way home from evening study. When Dad found out, he confronted the guys, and they retaliated. They beat him into the ICU. It was my fault. I ruined him. After he was hospitalized, I didn’t want to live. I took an overdose of sleeping pills that night, and to be sure, I cut my wrists.” She pulled up her sleeve, exposing a web of hideous, jagged scars on her inner wrist. The tears finally spilled over. The low murmur of the Panel stopped, replaced by a heavy, profound wave of sympathy. I could feel my fingers starting to shake at the memory. I squeezed them into my palms, digging in my nails. Daisy’s voice was a plea. “Mom, you never left my side. You stayed up all night to watch me. You dragged me to every therapist and specialist in the city because you were terrified I’d hurt myself again. You told me you would sell the house, sell your blood, do anything, just to make me well.” “You loved me so much then… Why… why have you brought us here today?” Before she finished speaking, sniffles and muted sobs rose from the Panel. Everyone was moved by the tragic history of my daughter. All of the agony my husband and I endured for her was seen as a simple parental obligation. I remembered the day Rob was moved from the Critical Care Unit to a regular room. He squeezed my hand and begged me to take care of our girl. He made me promise so many things. I did every one of them. “So, Mom, after all that, what is your answer?” Daisy prompted, pulling me back to the present. “You were dating.” My answer was blunt. Daisy stared, speechless. Her high school guidance counselor laughed with disbelief. “Joanne Miller, you are an outrageous liar! Daisy was my student! Ours was an all-girls’ academy, you forget? For a mother to invent a sexual smear against her own daughter in a court of law… that is pure malice! Are you even her mother?” Everyone in the room fixed me with hateful, murderous stares. “Are you finished?” My voice was level. I turned my head slightly, catching Daisy’s face. “You tell them.” “Was it random thugs who put your father in the ICU, or was it your boyfriend, Mitch Sullivan?” 3 Daisy’s lips pressed into a tight line. She shook her head back and forth like a frantic metronome. She stammered. “I… I…” “Second question,” I cut her off coldly. “Why did I insist you attend a local university after high school?” The question wasn’t difficult. We lived in Boston. Most kids stayed local for the excellent colleges. The day she got her acceptance, the neighbors praised her for staying close to care for me. But was that the truth? With me and her teachers watching her, Daisy made it through high school. But in college, failing grades became the norm. She was facing expulsion. I swallowed my pride and went to a college friend I hadn’t spoken to in thirty years. I leveraged his connection to reach an obscure intermediary. That person led me to the Dean of Daisy’s department. I had no money, no connections of value. I just drove out to his home with baskets of fresh, small-farm produce and volunteered to clean his house, even helping to care for his bedridden mother. I constantly mentioned Daisy to him, painting her as a devoted, hardworking student who was distracted by having to care for her ailing father—a man in a vegetative state—and manage the household, using this as an excuse for her grades. Daisy’s fabricated “devotion” made the Dean relent. Afterward, I stayed on to care for his elderly mother, refusing payment. But the Dean was a good man; he started paying me a generous salary, enough to finally cover Rob’s staggering monthly hospital bills. He even took an interest in Daisy, offering her an internship and a place at the City Research Institute after graduation. I thought my years of sacrifice were finally paying off. But Daisy refused every one of the Dean’s job offers. The reason she gave? That my excessive control wouldn’t allow her to leave. She even managed to get me fired, losing my primary income, simply by casually mentioning in front of the Dean that I had scolded her for giving his mother too many potatoes, which she claimed I did out of spite. I looked at Daisy’s worried frown. I was genuinely curious how she would spin this. “You made me stay local because of your control issues. You wanted to keep me close.” Her voice was thick with manufactured injury. Large, fat tears dropped onto the floor, splattering onto the Panel’s hearts. “Mom, I’m an adult now. I have my own mind. I listened to you for twenty years, but I have my own family now, my own child. You can’t chain me up for the rest of my life…” Her eyes were red and fixed on me. She spoke each syllable with deliberate clarity. “Mom, I am not your accessory. I am my own person.” “Well said!” someone whispered, triggering a wave of hushed agreement. The looks directed at me twisted from suspicion and dissatisfaction to outright fury and disgust. The entire room supported her, and the weight of their judgment pressed down on me. I quickly glanced at Daisy, not pausing for a second. “Yes. You’re right.” Before she could smile, I continued. “But you’re only half-right.” Everyone, including Daisy, was confused. “I made you stay local, not to keep you close to me, but to keep you away from Mitch Sullivan.” I turned my gaze toward the corner of the room where he sat. Following my eyes, everyone else stared, too. The noisy whispers died instantly, replaced by a thick silence. Mitch Sullivan was no stranger. He was a local thug, known for dozens of petty crimes and violence. A born piece of trash. 4 “Hey! What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re here to sever ties with your daughter! Leave me out of your crazy drama!” “Besides, I’m a changed man! Everyone rebels when they’re young. Your daughter isn’t fifteen, she’s thirty-five! She has the right to decide who she dates! What right do you have to interfere?” His words spewed out like machine-gun fire. I was here to sever ties with my daughter. I saw no reason to engage with a lowlife like him. Seeing my silence, Mitch gave a sneering, knowing “Ohhh.” “I get it now. You haven’t had any male attention in years, so you’re jealous your own daughter does. If you’re that desperate, Jo, go find someone! Don’t lock your daughter up just because you can’t stand seeing her happy.” A wave of titters and whispers ran through the Panel. They furrowed their brows at his crude words, but I saw them slowly nodding in agreement. Someone in the crowd chimed in. “She’s right! The mother slandered her daughter, claiming she was dating in high school, and she’s still interfering in college! She just can’t stand to see her daughter happy. Competing with your own child is disgusting.” “That mother is a control freak. This girl was totally messed up by that home, yet she still doesn’t want to sever ties! If it were me, I’d have cut her off years ago.” “I can tell by her face she’s the kind of mother who will sleep between the bride and groom on their wedding night.” Daisy just sat there listening, neither confirming nor denying, a calculated look in her eyes. The tidal wave of condemnation grew louder. I bit my lip, my fingertips curling. I tried to stand to defend myself, but the room went black, and I collapsed back into the sofa. Daisy was instantly at my side, her eyes red, her voice choked with sobs. “Please, please don’t say those things.” “Yes, my mother secretly hid Mitch’s boxers and tore up our photos, but she didn’t mean to hurt us! She’s just so lonely…” That one sentence launched me right into the eye of the storm. I was like a criminal in ancient times, paraded through the streets—cursed, spat on, and shamed by everyone. Someone in the chaotic crowd actually spat toward me. Daisy turned back to me, smiling sickeningly. She patted my hand, her voice syrupy sweet. “It’s okay, Mom. Everyone understands.” The curses, the mockery—it was all behind a thick pane of glass. I was alone, hearing only the frantic drumming of my own heart. Something inside me fractured in that moment. I violently shook off her hand, raising my voice to reclaim the space. “Daisy Miller, you also got the second question wrong.” The smile froze on her face. She quickly reverted to her pitiful, vulnerable look. “The final question,” I said, my hand trembling as I held the microphone. “Why have I not spoken a single word to you in ten years?” She didn’t hesitate. “Because I married Mitch Sullivan.” I shook my head slowly. “Yes, and no.” Daisy’s fingers clenched the armrests of the wheelchair. Her voice was laced with impatience. “What do you want, Mom? Are you going to be satisfied with anything I say?” “If Dad knew how you were treating me today, he would hate you.” The rigid wall I’d built up since entering the courtroom finally cracked. The tears I’d held back for so long flooded my eyes. With shaking hands, I pushed the button on the remote to play the security footage. Everyone gasped at the scene that appeared on the screen.

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The New Year’s Eve I decided to move across the country to Minneapolis, my mother chased me out of the house with a broom. “That boy has nothing! You’ll starve with him. If you go, I will disown you!” she shrieked. For six years in that frozen city, Jake Harrison had swallowed all the hardship on his own. With hands permanently calloused and chapped from the cold, he built us a home. It was New Year’s Eve again, and I was digging through a plate of cream stew, searching for the one I’d marked—the one hiding the custom engagement ring I’d bought—when the police called. They said my boyfriend was involved in a serious brawl and I needed to come to the precinct. I rushed over through the snow, bowing and apologizing until my back ached. As I signed the papers to take him home, I saw him. Jake smelled of cheap whiskey, his face was bruised purple, and a young woman was clutching the hem of his jacket, her face a mask of tear-streaked sorrow. “Jake, thank you for sticking up for me. My ex is abusive and he’ll never stop harassing me. My son and I… we can’t hold on much longer.” “Mike loves the cream stew you make. He waits every day for ‘Daddy Jake’ to come play with him. Jake, please, give us a family.” In an instant, all my carefully managed composure snapped. I hurled my phone against the wall. Right there, inside the precinct, Jake and I had the most vicious fight of our relationship. I was hysterical, accusing him of treason. He yelled back, calling me selfish and heartless. He eventually backed down, promising to move his coworker, Scarlett, to another team and cut all ties. After that night, Jake never spoke of Scarlett again. Their chat history showed only essential work-related messages. Until I found his second phone. They hadn’t cut ties. They’d simply moved their relationship from the open, visible space to a hidden, private system where I couldn’t see. He’d switched from his main account to a private one filled with well-wishing friends and family, where every photo of him with Scarlett and her son, Mike, received genuine blessings. I scrolled to the messages from that New Year’s Eve. Scarlett: I found the ring in the cream stew. Was your girlfriend planning to propose? Should I bring it back to you? Jake: No. Just pretend you didn’t see it. I’m not ready for marriage right now. He got his wish. After six years away, it was time for me to go home. 1 Jake was bustling around the kitchen. “Jenny, I’ve reheated dinner a few times, so the taste might not be great,” he said, his voice laced with forced cheer. “What do you want? I can order takeout, or we can go to that Japanese place down the street…” He turned, meeting my red-rimmed eyes. His expression immediately softened. “Come on, honey. Don’t be dramatic.” He reached for me. “Our girl is the most understanding, isn’t she?” I flinched away from his touch. My voice was a flat slab of ice. “Get the cream stew back.” Jake’s smile froze on his face. He untied his apron, wadded it into a ball, and threw it hard at my feet. He pointed a finger, shaking it in my face, before finally, through gritted teeth, saying, “Fine.” The call connected. Scarlett answered, saying her son had eaten them. “I’m so sorry, truly. I’ll pay for them, whatever they cost.” Jake’s facade was crumbling. A plate of holiday food, and an unstoppable scene unfolding. “It’s nothing, Scarlett. Jenny is just being silly. I’ll buy her a new batch—” “Jake, it’s not the same,” I cut him off. He slammed the phone down. The screen shattered, fragments flying, and a few pieces grazed my arm, drawing pinpricks of blood. His voice swelled into a shout. “What exactly are you trying to do today?” “It’s just a damn cream stew, Jenny. Stop being so obvious with your hostility toward Scarlett.” I was stunned into silence. Jake yanked a wad of cash from his wallet and flung it at my face. Bills fluttered down, mixed with three faded tickets to an amusement park. “Is that enough?” He pulled out his card. And threw that too. “Is that enough?” “I’ll cover her debt!” The sound thrummed against my eardrums. In six years, this was the first time Jake had yelled at me like this—savage and consuming. My chest ached, the sorrow too thick to let words escape. I fumbled frantically for my photo album, desperate to find proof of the five-year-old promise: the one where he swore today would be our wedding day. He was the one who forgot. “Enough. We both need to cool down,” Jake said, pushing my phone away. “Jenny, you need to seriously reflect on your own jealousy.” The door slammed shut. I started dry heaving, clutching the fabric over my heart. Only the pressure seemed to ease the terrible feeling of suffocation. When the crying stopped and I could breathe again, I dragged myself up to pack my few belongings. I arrived six years ago full of reckless courage; I was leaving now utterly, tragically alone. Scarlett had posted a picture to her feed. The caption read: The happiest New Year’s ever. The photo’s background was a high-end restaurant. Jake was holding the boy, and Scarlett was nestled right against his side. While I was on the brink of breakdown, they had gone out for a lavish dinner. The table was covered in rich food. The dish Jake had just reheated in the kitchen for me? Their leftovers. And among the food was fresh shrimp, Scarlett’s favorite, but a deadly allergen for me. He hadn’t even thought to remove it while heating the meal. Jake’s assistant had commented: “Wow, that was fast. Scarlett’s charm is undeniable, sis.” “Jake swore up and down he was an anti-marriage bachelor. Guess he finally bowed down to you, Scarlett.” The screen went black, reflecting my own pale, shocked face. My hands trembled as I finished packing. At the bottom of my suitcase was the train ticket from six years ago—the thirty-two-hour journey that marked the beginning. And the six years that Jake had never taken seriously. 2 It was laughable. After all those years in Minneapolis, I had no friends, no job, and the only money I had was the wad Jake had thrown at my face last night. I had only learned to revolve around him. To cook his meals, put him first, and empty my savings to buy him a ridiculously expensive watch just to see him smile. I was unbelievably stupid. Stupid enough to hand my heart over completely, giving him unrestricted access to hurt it. “One ticket back to Miami, please.” The older ticket agent paused. “Wait, you’re that girl from six years ago, aren’t you?” I looked up, the gray of my face finally finding some color. “You remember me?” She smiled. “Who could forget you two?” “Your young man waited for you outside the station for over a day. The snow covered his shoulders; he looked like an ice sculpture, but he wouldn’t move. He was terrified of missing you.” “We told him to come inside for coffee to warm up. He gave us this embarrassed laugh and said he was starting his own business, but he’d spent every last penny on your welcome gift. He couldn’t even afford the bus fare, so he walked five hours just to get here.” I listened, mesmerized. My chest felt heavy and bittersweet. From the dilapidated shack to the rental apartment to this big, modern loft. The boy had swallowed the hardship alone. With hands marked by frostbite and calluses, he’d built brick by brick, creating happiness, creating a home. He’d said: “We won’t be afraid of winter anymore.” “Jenny, I was terrified you’d come and terrified you wouldn’t.” “I was afraid you’d have to suffer with me.” “But I was so much more afraid that you wouldn’t love me.” He’d cried that day. Holding me so tightly it felt like he was trying to meld me into his body. My own tears followed. They were happy tears then. How did they become so painful now? “Here you are, sweetheart.” My fingers trembled. It felt like I was receiving not a ticket, but a knife to sever the past. “Don’t cry.” The agent saw the expensive jade bracelet on my wrist and seemed relieved. “When you build a life with a man from nothing, don’t talk about feelings. Talk about money. Talk about whether he still chooses to be good to you.” I nodded. The ticket was crumpled in my hand. Just before I reached the boarding gate, Jake found me. He was running, just like six years ago, and he pulled me into his arms. I could hear his ragged breathing, his frantic heartbeat, and the tremor in his voice. “Don’t leave…” “Jenny, I was just angry. I didn’t mean to drive you away…” Jake tore the ticket from my hand, lifted me, and shoved me into the passenger seat of his SUV. “You hate that I talk to Scarlett, right?” he said, driving wildly. “I’ve had her moved to a different department. I will keep my distance.” I remained silent, staring blankly at the ornament dangling from the rearview mirror—a gift from Scarlett. The car was saturated with a light citrus scent—Scarlett’s perfume. The console, which used to hold my lip balm and CDs, was now packed with children’s snacks and a few lipsticks that weren’t mine. I blinked, my eyes stinging. Jake didn’t notice my deadened silence. He was rambling about taking me to Banff for our holiday break. I sighed softly. I didn’t even have the energy to nod. 3 Jake stopped mentioning Scarlett. Their message log was, once again, clean, showing only essential work communication. The slate seemed wiped clean. “Jenny, I’m running for VP, so work is going to be hellish for a while.” His voice was distorted through the phone, not quite real. “I wired money to your account. Go shopping, buy what you like. Don’t spend all your energy worrying about me.” He came home after I was asleep. He left before I woke up. There was always warmed breakfast in the microwave. My dirty clothes were washed and hung on the balcony. Jake’s presence was everywhere in the apartment. I could see it. But I couldn’t grasp it anymore. I felt us drifting apart, the relationship rusting. We could polish that layer of rust off, and everything looked the same, but the relationship had lost its weight. It was suspended in the air, trembling with the slightest breeze. I was planning to take the money and leave, but then came the biggest variable: I was pregnant. At first, I was just drowsy, nauseous, and throwing up constantly. I mentioned it to Jake. The next day, he came home with a huge bag of medication and, without a word of instruction, rushed out the door again. I took the pills until I felt so ill I went to the clinic. That’s when I found out I was pregnant. “We need further testing to determine if you can keep the baby,” the doctor frowned. “Taking this many antibiotics, there’s a risk of birth defects.” Two nurses had to help me get off the table. I spent the next six hours, the most agonizing of my life, in the waiting room. My hands were covered in bruises from where I’d pinched myself. My eyes were wide open, streaming with tears and guilt. I blamed myself for not realizing I was pregnant sooner. For not checking the medication. For blindly swallowing everything Jake handed me. “For now, things look okay. Come back next month for a follow-up.” A wave of relief washed over me. I even ate an extra bowl of dinner that night. Jake got home around midnight. He reeked of alcohol, his cheek was split and bleeding, and one eye was purple. “Did you get into a fight again?” He mumbled something vague and stumbled into the bathroom. His work phone, tossed on the bed, pinged. Scarlett: Jake, thank you, truly, for standing up to him today. My ex would never stop harassing me otherwise. Scarlett: I am so helpless. If you hadn’t been with us all this time, my son and I would never have made it. Mike loves you so much. He waits every day for ‘Daddy Jake’ to come play with him. Jake, please, give us a family. The words hammered my nerves. The pain was excruciating, like my guts were twisting into knots. Daddy Jake… Who would my child call Daddy? Give us a family. What about my home? The shelter I’d craved since childhood, the home I’d helped build—it was gone. Torn to shreds by Jake’s own hand. I bit down on my tongue, forcing myself to stay clear-headed. I scrolled back through everything. They had never broken contact. They had only moved their relationship from the visible world to the private one, the one on the second phone, the one where he received sincere congratulations on every photo with her and her son. I had been abandoned again. Scarlett: I found the ring in the cream stew. Was your girlfriend planning to propose? Should I bring it back to you? Jake: No. Just pretend you didn’t see it. I’m not ready for marriage right now. I couldn’t maintain the pretense of dignity any longer. My hand shaking, I typed a message to Scarlett: Love being the side chick? You can have the trash. I don’t want him. “Jenny Stone, what the hell are you doing with my phone!” 4 Jake’s tenderness vanished the moment I touched his raw nerve. He yanked me back, and I stumbled, falling against the side of the bed. Ignoring the sudden, sharp pain in my lower abdomen, I scrambled up and slapped him hard across his already swollen face. He stared down at the phone in my hand. “Give it to me.” I didn’t move. He lunged for it, grabbing my hand and prying my fingers open one by one. I heard a terrifying crack from my knuckle as I cried out. He snatched the phone back. “Too late. The message is sent, Jake. You can’t unsend it.” I started to laugh, a wild, hysterical sound that sounded like glee and madness all at once. “I called her a whore, Jake. A home-wrecker. Does that hurt? Does it make your darling hero complex ache?” “Scarlett is a home-wrecker—” Smack. I landed on the bed. The slap had driven every single word back into my stomach. They swirled around, turning into pain, into nausea, into clinging, tentacled vines that tore me apart from the inside. My eyes were swollen and throbbing. I wondered if he had damaged them, because how else could I be shedding so much warm liquid? Could it be anything but blood and tears? “Do you have any idea how much you’re hurting her?” Jake roared. “Jenny, you are trying to break her! She has depression because of her ex. Are you only satisfied if she kills herself?” My voice was a raw croak. “Yes.” “I want all of you to die. You, too.” Jake stormed to the kitchen, grabbed a knife, and shoved it into my hand. Then he pressed the blade to his own throat. It was a desperate, scorched-earth move. “Go on. Kill me.” “Fucking kill me if you’ve got the guts!” “Jenny, I never said I wouldn’t marry you! Scarlett’s situation isn’t resolved yet. I don’t have the energy to deal with you right now. You waited six years—are you really so starved for a little more time? So starved for a little more love?”

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The year my brother was born, my mother, Carol, established the “Family Trust Fund.” Her rule was simple: “Every New Year’s Day, I’ll hide a coin in one of the special Croissant. Whoever finds it has to contribute to the fund for the year.” And every year since then, I was the one who bit down on the cold metal. It was a brilliant scheme to exploit me. Every day, Mom would coo, “You are the luckiest child in this family, Jenna. Others wish they had your fortune!” That lie—that I was blessed—coaxed me into paying for two decades. It wasn’t until last year that I finally cleared the twenty-three years of accumulated debt. I thought I could breathe again. But then, Mom announced, “This year, the person who finds the coin contributes Fifty Thousand Dollars to the Family Trust.” She’d barely finished the sentence when I bit into something hard. The coin. But this time, I didn’t say a word. I swallowed it, hard, and acted like nothing happened. I was done being the luckiest child in the family. 1 “Who found the coin this year?” The moment Mom asked, her shrewd, calculating gaze snapped right to me. As if she already knew the answer, she bypassed everyone else. “Jenna, was it you?” The coin was heavy in my mouth. I hesitated, then forced myself to swallow it down with a gulp of water, ignoring the slight scratch in my throat. I smoothed the expression from my eyes and shook my head. “It wasn’t me.” Mom’s face was a mask of disbelief, though she tried to laugh it off. “Don’t be silly. It’s always you. How could this year be any different? Is the luckiest member of the family finally changing?” She reached over and snatched my bowl, plunging her spoon into the few remaining Croissant. She poked and prodded them, and her expression swiftly moved from smug certainty to frantic alarm. Her movements grew more agitated as she mumbled, “No way! Where is the coin?” “I remember…” She stopped herself midsentence and looked up at me, her face unnaturally bright as she offered a flimsy excuse. “I mean, I remembered that it’s always you, so I was worried when I didn’t see it. I got a little jumpy.” I wanted to laugh at her sudden desperation, but the emotion was too bitter. I just offered a quiet, low “Mmhmm,” and stayed silent. But she wasn’t done. Even after ransacking my bowl, she pressed me again. “Are you absolutely sure you didn’t get it, Jenna? Are you sure you didn’t just accidentally swallow it?” The pain in my chest was a heavy, dull ache, as if a hand had reached in and was squeezing the air out of my lungs. I felt suffocated. I didn’t answer her question directly. Instead, I leveled my gaze on hers and counter-attacked. “Mom, why do you have to search my bowl? Why are you so certain it has to be mine?” “Maybe it’s in yours, or Dad’s, or Jake’s?” Mom finally lost her composure. Her eyes darted around the table, a clear sign she was genuinely starting to doubt if she’d rigged the wrong bowl. Seeing her silence, I reached for my younger brother Jake’s bowl, preparing to search it. Mom’s hand flew out and delivered a hard, sharp slap across my wrist. Her eyes were blazing with fierce protectiveness. “Don’t you dare! Why would it be in his bowl?!” 2 My eyes stung with the sudden threat of tears. Why wouldn’t it be in his bowl? Why does it have to be mine? My voice trembled as I stubbornly pushed for the answer I knew I’d never get. “Why is it impossible for it to be in my brother’s bowl?” It was then she realized she’d overreacted. She plopped back into her chair, cleared her throat, and offered a dismissive explanation. “Oh, what else? Your brother isn’t the lucky one. You are.” My father, Richard, scowled and tossed his spoon back into his bowl, his voice clipped with impatience. “So where is the damn coin, then?” He paused, then his eyes narrowed into a focused, scrutinizing glare aimed straight at me. “Jenna Johnson, you didn’t just hide the coin so you wouldn’t have to pay the fund, did you?” My eyes flickered away for a fraction of a second, but my father was too sharp. He caught it. He shot a look at Mom. Before I could process it, she was on her feet, forcefully pulling my jaw open. “Jenna, let me see. Did you hide it in your cheek?” She ruthlessly pried my mouth open, her fingers digging into the tender flesh of my chin. The pain made me flinch, but she reacted instantly with a cuff to the side of my head. “Hold still!” When she found nothing in my mouth, she grabbed a spoon and stretched them toward my throat, rummaging deep inside. I dry-heaved repeatedly, tears finally streaming from the violation, but the search still came up empty. Next, she moved on to a body search. Nothing. Mom was furious. She delivered another stinging slap to my cheek and yelled the accusation. “Jenna Johnson, where did you put that coin!” My voice was a choked sob. “I don’t know where the coin is.” The air thickened, and the game of hide-and-seek reached a dead end. No one could find the coin. Jake, my brother, ever the quick thinker, piped up with an idea. “Mom, since the coin is missing, why don’t we just make a new batch of Croissant? Maybe you just forgot to put the coin in the first one.” My parents’ strained faces finally softened. Dad was quick with the praise for his favorite. “That’s my boy! Smartest one here. The future head of this family!” “That settles it. Let’s make another batch and see who gets the coin this time!” Mom’s relief was total. “You’re right, you’re right! I must have forgotten to put it in the dough just now!” She immediately scurried into the kitchen to mix the dough. I knew with absolute certainty that if she made them, the coin would still end up in my bowl. So, I followed her into the kitchen and offered to take over. But Mom recoiled immediately, putting on a show of false concern. “No, no, darling. I misunderstood you earlier. You rest now. Mom will have them ready in a minute.” “Go watch TV with your father.” She tried to usher me out, but I stood my ground. “I want to make them this time.” We stood at an impasse. Dad’s voice boomed from the living room, “Are those Croissant done yet? It’s taking forever to boil one single thing!” Mom looked at me, a silent war raging in her eyes, and finally conceded. “Fine! Fine, you can make them!” But it was only a half-concession. She stood right beside me the whole time, her eyes glued to the dough with the coin tucked inside. She was terrified I might switch it. But I wasn’t trying to switch it. I just wanted to see what would happen when there was no human intervention. I wanted to know if I really was the lucky child. Soon, the coin-bearing Croissant was lost among its brethren, dropped into the oven. A few minutes later, they were done. 3 Mom didn’t give me a chance to get near the oven. She shoved me out of the way, grabbed the ladle, and started furiously searching the water. She was trying to identify the coin’s location. But submerged in the water, they all looked the same. Even with her laser-like focus on the one she watched me make, she couldn’t tell it apart. Infuriated, she turned her anger on me. “Look at the way you cook! It took so long to boil them. How much electricity did you waste?” I simply let out a slow breath and didn’t reply. Finally, her eyes brightened. She must have identified one of the Croissant, because she quickly scooped it out, put it in a bowl, and visibly relaxed. She glared at me, then rushed out and placed the bowl she’d carefully selected right in front of me. “Jenna, eat up while they’re hot!” The others were distributed haphazardly among the rest of the family. Only mine was chosen with meticulous care. I curved my lips into a slight, bitter smile of sarcasm. I poked the Croissant open and put it in my mouth. A sudden, sharp CLINK echoed through the dining room. Mom’s face lit up with triumph. “Aha! See? I knew it! Our Jenna is still the luckiest one! Since it’s you, the Fifty Thousand Dollars is all yours, dear!” I spit the half-chewed Croissant plate and held it out to her, looking perfectly innocent. “But Mom, I didn’t find the coin.” My parents’ faces drained of color. Even whiter than theirs was the absolutely frozen expression on my brother, Jake. I turned and pointed to him. “It looks like Jake is the luckiest one this year, Mom. So, I guess I’m off the hook for the fifty grand.” Jake immediately spit the coin into his bowl and started screaming at Mom. “How could you have given it to me! This is fifty thousand dollars! I can’t afford that!” Dad quickly pulled Jake into a hug, soothing him. “Easy, easy. Of course, you won’t pay. You’re too young. You just focus on school, son. Don’t you worry about this.” Mom immediately jumped in. “That’s right! Fifty thousand is too much for you. You don’t have to pay!” I had been prepared to feel a flicker of relief, but their words shocked the air out of my lungs. I started trembling with rage, no longer able to suppress the scream building inside. “Why does he get a pass? When I was thirteen and found the coin, you made me pay three thousand dollars! I still had to do it!” “Why is he suddenly exempt?” Jake pouted and started rubbing his eyes, faking tears, but the look he flashed me was pure, malicious triumph. Mom’s eyes went cold, and her voice was laced with resentment. “Your brother is still a child. He can’t handle fifty grand. If someone has to pay, I’ll cover two hundred dollars for him.” Cover it for him? When I was thirteen, she had never uttered those words. Back then, her face was ice-cold. “We will not pay it for you. You will gather that money, even if you have to scavenge for cans, or we will disown you.” But now, she was offering to cover him, and only for two hundred dollars. Tears fell like rain. It took me several choked attempts before I could speak through my sobs. “No! He has to pay the fifty thousand! If he doesn’t have it, he has to earn it, just like I did! He can scavenge for money!” Mom bit down on her cheek and viciously grabbed my arm, twisting it hard. “Why are you being so stubborn, you worthless girl! That was years ago! Your brother can’t scavenge for money! What would people say about us?” 4 “And stop harping on the past! I’m the founder of the Family Trust Fund, and I have the right to decide that your brother only has to contribute two hundred dollars!” My legs felt weak, and I stumbled a few steps before grasping the edge of the dining table to steady myself. “No! You said the rules couldn’t be easily changed!” Mom ignored me completely, turning to comfort my crying brother. I stood there, an outsider, a complete anomaly in my own family. As Dad left the room, his gaze on me was sharp and threatening. “Be the adult, Jenna. Your brother is ten years younger than you. Don’t pick fights with him over petty things. Be generous, understand?” I bit my lip so hard I tasted blood before I finally came back to myself. I sat back down at the table and thought for a long time. I knew I had to compromise, at least on the surface. So, I went to find Mom to discuss withdrawing money from the Family Trust. The original rules stated that the coin-finder could not access the fund, but those who didn’t find it could. Now that I was in the clear, I could finally lessen the pressure on myself. I hadn’t even been able to pay my rent after clearing my last debt. I collected myself and went to Mom. “Mom, could you transfer about two thousand dollars from the Family Trust? I need to…” I was interrupted before I could finish my sentence by her shrill voice. “I don’t have any money! How old are you, demanding money from your family! Are you trying to leech off us?” “I was independent at your age! You need to learn from me! Don’t just open your mouth and ask for cash! Two thousand dollars? Do you think money grows on trees?” I pushed back. “But the rule was that whoever didn’t find the coin could use the fund! Why can’t I use it?” After all, ninety-nine percent of that money was contributed by me, and yet I was the one who was forbidden to use it. The irony was devastating. Mom avoided my gaze, reverting to her favorite tactic: cold silence. She just went back to playing with Jake, ignoring me completely. Dad, smoking by the window, acted like the conversation had nothing to do with him. The silence was driving me crazy. I couldn’t help but raise my voice. “Why can’t I use it!” Mom stayed quiet for a long moment, then spoke with a forced, placating tone. “It’s not that I won’t let you, dear. It’s just that I put all that money into a Certificate of Deposit, a locked-in account. I can’t withdraw it right now.” “Is that true?” I asked weakly. My mother snapped instantly, as if I had hit a nerve. “Are you questioning me?! Do you think I’m lying? What could I possibly gain by deceiving you!” “You walk around with a frown all the time, acting like I owe you millions! Get out! You’re not welcome here!” Every word felt like a surgical blade, carving the pain deep into my heart. When I didn’t move, she stood up and started physically pushing me out the door. Our relationship froze over that day. A week later, Mom called, actively trying to mend the relationship and inviting me over for dinner. When I arrived, four bowls of Croissant were arranged neatly on the table. The other three were already claimed. Mom approached me affectionately, pulling me towards the table. “Jenna, the Family Trust Fund is a little low. So, we took a vote and unanimously decided to try the Croissant one more time to find our biggest contributor! A chance to help the family!” “Hurry, Jenna, eat! They’re fresh out of the oven and still hot.” The eyes of all three of them were fixed on me, calculating. This bowl was clearly meant to seal my fate. When I hesitated, Mom urged me on. “Go on! They’ll get cold!” Filled with a fresh wave of disappointment, I sat down and started eating the Croissant, big bites, practically swallowing them whole. Seeing this, the other three relaxed and began eating their own. But the next moment, Mom froze mid-chew.

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The year-end bonus hit my account, and the very next second, a text message flashed across my screen: “Your account has been debited $195,286. Balance: $3.26. Vendor: Revolver Cycles.” Immediately, my landlord’s name popped up. “Jillian, rent is due tomorrow. That’s $2,500 total, including utilities.” My hands were shaking as I dialed Aaron’s number. I could hear the excitement in his voice when he answered. “Babe! How did you know I bought a new bike? Hold on, I’m on my way—we’re going for a ride!” “Aaron, did you just use our house down payment on a new motorcycle?” He was completely oblivious, launching into a giddy monologue about how sleek and powerful the machine was. I was too exhausted to fight. “Aaron, we’re breaking up.” His cheerful voice faltered, replaced by an edge of disbelief. “Honey, are you high? That’s not funny!” I stared at the screen, at the numbers confirming the obliteration of our future. Ten years. From eighteen to twenty-eight. We had talked endlessly about having a home, a space of our own. I’d scraped and saved, haunting the late-night produce markets just to save a few quarters. But every single time we managed to save anything substantial, Aaron would trigger. Now, the down payment was finally within reach, and in one careless swipe, the dream was shattered. “Aaron, do you remember what we agreed the joint account was for?” A pause. “Jillian, I just wanted to surprise you! The house isn’t going anywhere, but this model? If I didn’t grab it now, it would’ve been discontinued!” He rushed on, trying to sell the dream. “And listen to this—I joined a club! They said they’d be the entourage for our wedding. Think how epic that’ll be!” “Gotta run, babe, I’m almost there!” He hung up before I could speak again, and my heart dropped like a stone. I could picture his flushed, boyish face and the way he’d preen, even through the screen. The weight of a thousand small disappointments had finally coalesced, completely dissolving the last shred of my resolve. He arrived half an hour later. Aaron leaned against the enormous, gleaming black bike, dressed in fresh leather and dark sunglasses. He looked every bit the charming, slightly dangerous bad boy, drawing admiring glances from every girl passing by. “Check it out, babe, isn’t she sweet? I’ve been eyeing this one forever. Today, I finally got her!” “And I was talking to the guys…” “Enough.” I cut him off, the word flat and final. “Aaron, I’m tired. I can’t do this anymore.” I met his eyes calmly. “You know all I’ve ever wanted was a home. But you spent every dime we had. Rent is due tomorrow. Can your motorcycle keep us from being evicted?” He laughed, a sharp, dismissive sound. “Is that what this is about? Just money? You always said you were fine with a barefoot wedding!” He stepped toward me, exasperated. “A mortgage will just chain us down. We wouldn’t be free to travel! Jillian, you always said we were soulmates. Why are you suddenly so hung up on bills? Rent can be a few days late! You only live three thousand days—why make it so hard?” I shook my head slowly. “I don’t want to wait anymore. And I especially don’t want to be locked out of my apartment in the middle of winter.” “Aaron…” “Fine! I get it! It’s the rent, the utilities, the down payment! I’ll return the damn thing, okay?” He violently kicked the tire of the bike in frustration. Watching him, I felt a deep sense of alienation. I turned and walked away. “Jillian!” His shout followed me, but I didn’t look back. Ten years. We’d broken up and made up countless times, each time patching things up, hoping to keep going. But this time, the pieces wouldn’t stick. I checked my phone, scrolling past saved images of kitchen tiles and paint samples, and then paused. I kept the files. Aaron didn’t want to settle down, but I did. My colleague Brenda’s text notification popped up. “Jillian, are you still considering that transfer? It’s thirty percent higher pay. It’s a city away, but you’d still be able to visit on weekends.” I had politely declined the transfer three months ago because I wanted to buy the house here. I wanted stability. Now, I called her immediately. “Brenda, I’m in. Please put in the paperwork now. If possible, I can start the day after tomorrow.” Brenda sounded surprised. “Wow, slow down, kid. You sure? Did you talk to your boyfriend?” “No need. We broke up.” Brenda was silent for a moment. “Okay. I’ll submit the application right now. The approval should come through tomorrow. Get ready—you’ll report in at the new division first thing.” I agreed, hung up, and took a deep, shaky breath. Then I remembered. I had to terminate the lease. I called Aaron, but he didn’t answer. “Aaron, I’m moving out and terminating my part of the lease. You figure out the rent.” I texted the landlord, informing her I was moving out and that Aaron would need to sort out a new arrangement if he wanted to stay. I immediately started packing. The new office was in the next city over—a sixteen-minute commuter train ride—not terribly far, but I was on a strict timetable. We’d been together for a decade, and our lives were thoroughly intertwined; separating our things wasn’t easy. I grabbed my absolute necessities, sold everything else I could on marketplace apps, and gave away a lot of the junk we’d accumulated. Gifts, old furniture, anything that carried a memory of us. Within an hour, my phone buzzed with transfer notifications, and a courier was on his way. The living room instantly felt emptier. It was already past midnight when I finally collapsed on the sofa, breathing out a sigh of relief, my eyes burning with fatigue. Aaron still wasn’t back. I had less than $600 to my name. I needed money for the move, a deposit for a place to live, and groceries. It wasn’t enough. I used a quick-loan app and managed to borrow $1,500. The second it hit my personal account, I transferred it to the joint account, thinking I could get a money order later. The very next moment, a text from Aaron: “Babe, I knew you couldn’t stay mad! Thanks for the $1,500. Don’t worry, I’ll remember to pay the rent this time! I already reached out to the landlord. Deposit secured.” My first instinct was to deny it, to take the money back. But I stopped myself. Let him keep the apartment if he wants. I’m gone. “Transfer $700 back to me. I need it urgently.” Aaron didn’t reply. I called; no answer. My control snapped. He was lightning fast when money was coming in, but completely unreachable when I needed it back. I was furious, but it was too late to do anything. I just hoped I had enough for the train ticket. The next morning, Brenda confirmed the transfer was approved. I needed to report in by 10 AM the following day. Aaron still hadn’t responded. I checked his social media and saw a live video: he was riding the bike on a winding canyon road, racing with a gang of riders. His face flashed past, reckless and bright, laughing like the star he always thought he was. He was surrounded by a crowd of men and women looking at him with adoration. Aaron loved that spotlight, that thrill. But that lifestyle was bankrolled by my tight-fisted budgeting. I saved up for a decent laptop; he spent it on a high-end camera, promising to take beautiful travel photos. Ten years later, we’d only taken cheap weekend trips, and the camera was gathering dust in a drawer. I saved $30,000 for an early deposit; he booked a luxury cruise, calling it our seventh-anniversary celebration. He held my hand, saying, Jillian, you always wanted a destination wedding—this is how we start. I couldn’t bear to see him disappointed, so I told myself we could save again. This time, I had the full down payment, the agreed-upon price on the perfect condo, and the appointment was set. Aaron had obliterated the entire plan. His future was all about the immediate rush. There was zero room for risk management or actual adult responsibility. I couldn’t keep paying for his freedom. With a long, weary sigh, I texted him the final word: “We are over.” Then I blocked his number. I terminated the lease with the landlord, packed my final bag, and caught the train. Brenda texted me the new company address and a welcome note, adding that company dorms were available. Saved me rent. I arrived in the busy terminal city. As I emerged from the crowded station, I realized my coat had been slashed. Feathers were flying out, and my phone was gone. A wave of cold dread washed over me. All my work contacts, all the company data, and most importantly, the new office address—all gone. I only remembered the street name: Harper Way. I found the transit police, explaining the situation. I spent nearly three hours borrowing their phone to suspend my accounts and wipe my data. It started to snow, and the tears I’d been holding back finally streamed down my face. A kind female officer, seeing my distress, slipped me two $100 bills. I thanked her profusely, took her number, and raced off toward the general direction of the new office. After finally reporting in, getting a room, and buying a cheap new phone, I was finally safe enough to check my messages. A string of texts from Aaron awaited me, sent before I blocked his new number: “Jillian, what are you doing? I said I’d pay the rent. Why did you just abandon me?” “How could you be so cold? The landlord said you canceled the lease. What am I supposed to do now?” “Fine, stop being dramatic. Just send me $1,200 for this month’s rent and deposit. I want to keep the place.” I calmly flipped the phone face down and opened my laptop to start restoring my files. The dorm was bare, freezing cold, and had no heating. I huddled under the blanket. The snow continued outside; it felt as cold inside as out. I reviewed the company data, absorbing the details of my new job until late into the night. My stomach growled. I felt feverish and my head was pounding—definitely a cold. I ordered takeout and medicine, then decided to boil some water. The second I plugged the kettle in, the breaker blew. Sparks flew. I nearly screamed. Plunged into darkness, I heard a knock at the door. “Delivery!” I fumbled for my phone and turned on the flashlight. The moment I opened the door, a figure burst past me, slamming me against the wall and clamping a hand around my throat. “Cooperate. I just want the money. Give me everything!” The cold air rushed in, carrying the stink of cheap liquor. I struggled, my flashlight beam wildly swinging. In the darkness, I grabbed the nearest solid object—the still-hot kettle—and swung it with all my might. A howl of pain, and the intruder stumbled back, then fled. A faint, metallic smell of blood hung in the air. Shaking, I fumbled for the new phone and called 911. When the police finally arrived, I broke down, sobbing uncontrollably. After spending half the night at the precinct, I was dizzy and exhausted. Back in the cold dorm, I couldn’t sleep. I waited for the dawn, bracing myself. Then the knock came again. I opened it to find Aaron. He’d found me somehow, holding a wilted bouquet of wild flowers. “Jillian, I’m back. Look, I picked these on the mountain road. They have so much life—just like you.” Seeing the hopeful smile in his eyes, I finally let the tears fall again. Aaron panicked, rushing forward. “Jillian, I’m so sorry. I promise, I’ll never do anything like that again. Please, don’t cry.” As he reached for my face, I took a step back. “Aaron, we’re done. And how comforting was that $1,500 I had to borrow?” The sight of the ligature marks on my neck, which the police had photographed, only momentarily silenced him before his tone hardened. “Jillian, I came all this way to apologize and surprise you, and the first thing you do is bring up money? How did you get so materialistic?” “Materialistic? I was almost choked to death in a robbery last night! Aaron, when are you going to grow up?” “I’m done. We’re finished. Don’t ever come back here.” Hearing the finality in my voice, he froze. He finally saw the bruises on my neck and his whole body started to tremble. “No, are you okay? God, I’m sorry. It’s my fault—I wasn’t here. I panicked when I got your texts. I’ll sell the bike right now, I swear! I’ll move in here with you!” I looked into his eyes. He was twenty-eight, the same age as me, yet utterly devoid of responsibility. I had no idea what had kept me with him for a decade. But now, I couldn’t buy into his chaos anymore. I pushed him aside, grabbed my work bag, and walked out. “Aaron, don’t force me. We need a clean break. Stay away from me. And yes, since you’re selling the bike, remember to give me my share of the money.” He shrieked, instantly abandoning the contrite role. “Money, money, money! You are so shallow and obsessed with money!” I didn’t slow down, just took a deep breath. “I’m not wrong. In the real world, if you don’t have the skills to make a decent living, you have to work and accept reality.” Aaron clearly wasn’t ready to accept anything. He continued his tirade until I reached the main office doors and the security guard stopped him. He finally realized I was serious. I was resolved. The withdrawal symptoms hurt, but a decade of connection wasn’t something you could excise painlessly. Aaron remained outside for a few minutes, staring, but when I didn’t look back, he turned and stomped off. I shook my head. He was always like this—he never bent. Every single fight, I had to be the one to seek reconciliation. Now that I wasn’t waiting, he couldn’t even manage a half hour of persistence. The thought was suddenly ridiculous. I turned my attention to work. Aaron did stay away, but the landlord and Brenda called me. “Jillian, are you really not coming back? Your boyfriend is still living there, but the neighbors are complaining. He’s got too many people coming and going. The lease was only for two people!” I simply replied to the landlord: “I’m out of the city. Aaron is the only tenant now. You need to draw up a new lease with him.” Brenda called, too. “Jillian, did you two really break up peacefully? That guy seemed highly unstable when he was looking for you.” I apologized and assured her it was final. She was relieved and urged me to focus on my success here. I did. One month bled into the next. When my first full paycheck hit my account, and I saw the numbers steadily climbing, a deep sense of calm settled over me. All I did was work and sleep. I bought new things, slowly arranging my sparse dorm room, making it feel, little by little, like a home. I closed the old joint account, making sure to save all the balance and transaction histories. In the third month, Aaron reappeared. He showed up beneath the office building with a massive bouquet, a swarm of drones, and huge helium balloons carrying two long, paper posters with a message of apology.

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Two days after I ran away, Savannah found me outside the hospital. She gripped my wrist so tightly it felt like a cuff, her eyes blazing red. “You ran away because I slapped you once? Are you trying to kill me with worry, Elias?” “How long are you going to keep this up? I’m begging you, just be reasonable—be more like Grant, okay?” This time, I didn’t explain. I didn’t fight back. I simply followed her home, a model of the perfect, compliant little brother. She hated my tantrums, so I never raised my voice again. She accused me of being selfish, so I gave everything I owned to Grant Everett. Savannah thought I was playing a game, a stubborn power struggle to see how long I could keep the act up. But she had no idea. There was no act. I had simply run out of expectation. The day I left home, I went to the ER. That slap—her slap—had ruptured my eardrum, leaving my left ear deaf. It was also the day I unexpectedly found out I had blood cancer. For the rest of the time I had left, I just wanted peace. But I prayed that in my next life, I wouldn’t have a sister. 1 New Year’s Eve. Savannah spent the night out with Grant. On my dime. Before my grandmother died, she’d left me a debit card with $20,000, telling me it was my “starter fund” for the future. A few days ago, Savannah had called me petty and small-minded. So, I’d turned over all my valuables to Grant. Including that card. My phone kept buzzing with transaction alerts. First, they dropped five thousand on a fireworks show. Then, a ridiculously expensive dinner. Finally, a club downtown. At midnight, the last fifty dollars on the card was swiped. Grant posted a highly visible story on Instagram: [Who wouldn’t be jealous of a sister like this?] The picture was his hand, resting suggestively on a model’s slender waist. Savannah had hired him three high-end escorts. Savannah was wealthy—she owned several successful companies. Wiping out my grandmother’s last gift, then letting Grant post that photo? She was doing it on purpose. She believed I was in a months-long sulk, always testing me to see when I’d finally break. Yet my heart was perfectly still, flat as a calm lake. Not a ripple. My stomach felt hollow. I went to the kitchen and cooked myself a bowl of ramen. After I ate, I swallowed my medication. I was about to toss the empty pill bottle when the front door of the mansion swung open. I jumped, startled. My hand slipped, and the bottle clattered to the floor, rolling under the coffee table. Savannah, clearly drunk, paused when she saw me standing there, frozen and exposed. She sneered. “Still awake? Did spending your ten grand keep you up, Elias? Did you lose any sleep over it?” I didn’t answer. She went on, talking mostly to herself: “Three months of pouting. You have incredible stamina.” “Elias Bellweather, let’s see how long you can keep this charade going.” She stumbled. I instinctively moved to help her, but Grant shoved me away. “Can’t you see your sister’s drunk? Stop creating a scene.” He pushed me aside and helped Savannah into her bedroom. I picked up the designer jacket she’d dropped, hung it up, and went to the kitchen for a glass of water. Just as I was about to bring it to her room, Grant emerged. His eyes were full of venom. “Elias Bellweather, do you ever stop?” “You already ran away—why didn’t you go somewhere Savannah couldn’t find you? Why come back and keep bothering her?” 2 I hadn’t meant to be found. Three months ago, Grant had tearfully told Savannah I was a lost cause—flunking out of school and running with “gutter trash.” He even forged a few compromising photos of me in bed and showed them to her as irrefutable proof. Savannah believed him. No matter how I pleaded, her face was a black storm cloud. She had only one thing to say: “Elias, you’re truly disgusting.” I was beyond defending myself. The outrage made my whole body ache. I lost it, slapping Grant across the face. Savannah immediately returned the favor—for him. Her swing was massive; the blow knocked me to the floor, my ear ringing a loud, sickening buzz. Clutching my face, I stared at her in disbelief. The feeling of betrayal was too much. I bolted out the door. I was going to crash at a cheap motel for a few nights. But the pain in my ear became unbearable, and ached all over. The doctor diagnosed a perforated eardrum in my left ear, then dropped the second bomb: late-stage blood cancer. The doctor frowned. “That ear will never hear again. If someone hit you, you should report it.” He continued, “As for the cancer, I recommend conservative care…” The implication was clear: it was terminal. I walked out of the hospital, still in shock. Everyone rushed past, looking purposeful, most of them with family nearby. I sank down onto the curb, hiding in a corner, and just wept. My phone was dead. I hadn’t charged it since I left. Two days later, Savannah tracked me down. She roared, livid: “Why didn’t you come home? Do you know how long I looked for you?!” “You’re the one who screwed up, and all I did was hit you once. Was that really worth running away over?” She looked haggard, a wreck of anger and exhaustion. She grabbed my wrist, pleading: “Please. Just—just cut me a break, will you?” In that moment, I remembered something my grandmother used to say: “If you die full of hatred, you’ll become a vengeful spirit, and you won’t get a good rebirth.” My grandparents had a lifelong love story. Then, on her deathbed, my grandmother found out my grandfather had two illegitimate children. Yet, she found a way to let go of that resentment. What did I have to hold onto? So I went home with Savannah, and we never spoke about the past again. In those first weeks, the thought of dying would hit me, and I’d cry in secret. A few times, Savannah caught me. She would coldly snap, annoyed: “Crying, crying, crying. I have no idea why you’re constantly tearing up. Can’t you learn to be a man, like Grant?” I tried to mention my diagnosis once. She didn’t take it seriously, instantly dismissing it as a lie. After that, I stopped trying. She complained I was loud, so I never spoke to her first. She called me selfish, so I handed everything over to Grant. When she finally couldn’t find a fault in me, she decided I was just pouting. It didn’t matter. All that mattered was my own peace. Every day ahead was just waiting to die. I was far more excited about the next life. At midnight, I lit fireworks alone in the backyard. I didn’t want to wake Savannah and Grant, so I used the cheap, dollar-store sparklers. The fire sizzled and cracked from end to end. I made a wish: to make it through the new year. I slept in late the next day. When I got up, Savannah was sitting on the sofa. Our eyes met. The sheer rage in hers was barely contained. My heart sank. “What’s wrong?” She opened her palm. Lying there was the pill bottle I’d forgotten to pick up yesterday. I thought she knew. I clenched my fists, a tiny, desperate flicker of hope rising in my chest. Now that she knew about the cancer, would she finally care? Would her attitude soften? The next moment, she spat out the words, cold as ice: “Elias Bellweather, you’re an addict.” 3 I froze, stunned, and for a second, I felt like my right ear had gone deaf too. “An addict? What are you talking about?” Her face was dark. She uncapped the bottle and poured the contents onto the table. White powder. My eyes went wide with shock. My pupils shrunk. “I didn’t believe Grant when he told me, but I see it now. Not only are you messy in your personal life, but you’ve taken up something illegal!” Savannah was incandescent with fury, her voice a shrill, sharp weapon: “No wonder you’ve been acting so strange lately. This is what you’ve been doing!” I was plunged into an ice bath. I scrambled to explain: “This is my cancer medicine! I didn’t put anything in it! I don’t know—” “Still lying!” Savannah cut me off, her eyes like knives. “Just tell me this: Is this your bottle?” “Yes, but—” “There are no ‘buts’!” Her rage was uncontrollable. She crossed the room in three strides, raised her hand, and slapped me hard. Snap. My left ear started ringing again—that familiar, sickening buzz. She was shaking with raw fury. “Elias Bellweather, what is your endgame? Are you trying to destroy me?” “I forgave you for your personal issues, but now you’re breaking the law. Do you want to do a few years in prison just to calm down?” I couldn’t stop the tears this time. They streamed down my face. I clutched my ear, my voice hoarse. “Grant switched my medicine! We can go to the hospital and test me for drugs! I don’t have anything in my system!” “You’re going to be ruined if you go to the hospital!” She jabbed a finger at my forehead, her eyes welling up. “I don’t know why I have a brother like you. Elias, you are such a disappointment!” “From today on, you don’t leave the house. I check everything you eat and drink.” I was utterly defenseless, sweating with panic. I grabbed her arm. “Savannah, I didn’t do anything! I can call the police!” She ripped her arm away and threw my phone to the floor, shattering the screen. Then she picked it up and pocketed it. “Call the police for what? So the whole world knows my brother is a junkie and laughs at me?” She shut off the phone and, without another word, shoved me into the basement. “You’re staying here. You can come out when you’re clean.” The heavy door slammed shut. Bang. Darkness swallowed me whole. I pounded on the door, screaming until my lungs were raw: “Let me out! I’m telling the truth!” Savannah’s voice, muffled through the door, sounded distant. “Don’t lie to me. I know you, Elias. This is for your own good. I am saving you.” 4 I was locked in. The basement was a cold, dim cell, a perfect prison. After an indeterminate amount of time, Grant came down with my meal. The sight of him made me lunge. “Why are you doing this to me? You’ve ruined me once. Wasn’t that enough?” He easily caught my flailing hand, a predatory glint in his eyes. “Who told you to come back, Elias? You left—you should have stayed gone!” “I just want you to know that there’s no place for you here anymore.” My chest heaved. My eyes burned with pure, distilled hatred. I couldn’t speak. He was perfectly composed, radiating calm. “Honestly, that pill bottle was just flour. I told Savannah two sentences and she believed me. Just like last time.” “Admit it, Elias. I’m just more important to your sister than you are.” “I’ve been trying to hold on! Haven’t I been miserable enough for the past three months? What more do you want?” I screamed, my eyes bloodshot. He snatched a handful of my hair, a grotesque smile twisting his lips. “What do I want? I want Savannah to hate you a little more before you die.” “Elias Bellweather, you have blood cancer, right? If you don’t take your meds, it must hurt like hell…” His voice was a soft, cold whisper—the voice of a demon—sending shivers down my spine. “You’re insane, Grant. You are a complete lunatic!” He slowly dropped the smile. Then, without warning, he kicked out, sending me flying into the corner. The pain and the anger. The three months of suppressed emotion finally burst. I scrambled up, not thinking, and launched myself at him. When my palm landed on his face, he didn’t dodge. He took the hits and started screaming. “Savannah! My sister! He’s gone crazy, come here, please!” I barely registered his words. All I knew was that if I didn’t unleash this storm of fury, I would choke and die on the spot. I fought for every second, punching and kicking with every ounce of strength I had left. Harder, harder! Suddenly, the basement door flew open again. Savannah stood in the doorway, her face instantly turning to stone. Grant struggled and yelled: “Savannah! He’s having a fix! He demanded I go buy him more and when I said no, he attacked me!” “I didn’t!” I roared the denial, but I didn’t stop hitting him. He wailed, and in an instant, Savannah grabbed my wrists, her grip iron. “Elias Bellweather, stop the madness!” She pinned my shoulders down, her eyes burning with a mix of fury and worry, a look of utter disappointment. “I’m trying to figure things out for you. Can you please stop causing trouble for me?” My head was a loud, empty whirring. Everything had dissolved into chaos. In my complete breakdown, only one coherent sentence left my lips: “I am not an addict!!” Savannah pressed her lips into a thin line, looking angrier than me. “Of course you’re not going to admit it, Elias. Stop talking nonsense.” “You are going to stay right here. When you’re better, I’ll let you out.” She found a length of heavy rope and quickly, forcefully, tied me to a chair. Then, she pulled Grant with her, walking out of the basement without a glance back. As the door closed, I could still hear her worried voice: “Grant, what about your face? Elias has always been spoiled, please don’t be mad.” “Let’s get you some antiseptic…” I clawed at my palms, my nails digging deep into the flesh. I struggled until the chair toppled over, taking me with it. The ropes were impossibly tight, cutting into my skin, drawing blood. But the physical pain was nothing compared to the agony in my heart. I thought that by letting go of everything, Savannah would at least be a little kinder. Yet, Grant’s smooth lies were all it took for her to lock me up. Tears splattered the concrete floor. My blood felt like it was turning to ice, growing numb, then a burning ache. I couldn’t even stand up. I lay on the cold ground, a worthless, useless mess. From that day on, I was a prisoner in the basement. Without my pain medication, the agony in my body intensified daily. Grant brought me food, sometimes, throwing in a taunt or two. I would just curl up on the floor, too weak to even acknowledge him. My mind began to slip. I couldn’t tell reality from dreams. Sometimes my soul felt like it was lifting from my body, looking down at the tormented wreck of myself on the floor. I knew my time was almost up. This day, I dreamed of Mom. It was the first time I’d seen her since she died. She held me like she did when I was a child, gently stroking my head. I found my harbor and cried, telling her Savannah had been cruel to me. Mom’s eyes grew red. “How can that be, Elias? Savannah always loved you the most, since you were a baby.” I kept talking, telling her how Savannah favored Grant, how she hit me. Mom was quiet for a long time. Finally, she stroked my cheek, her voice laced with sorrow: “My boy. You have suffered.” Splash. I didn’t hear what Mom said next. A bucket of cold water was dumped over my head, jolting me awake. I opened my eyes. Mom was gone. Standing over me, bucket in hand, was a grim-faced Savannah. 5 It was all a dream. The warmth evaporated, leaving behind the penetrating cold of the water, chilling me to the bone. I looked up at Savannah, not understanding. What had I done this time? I’d just been sleeping. She read the question in my eyes. Her face was dark as thunder. “You were convulsing a minute ago. Was that your craving acting up?” “It’s been a month, Elias. If you don’t get better soon, I’ll have no choice but to send you to rehab!” “I dreamed of Mom.” Her words made the emptiness in my chest grow. The resentment and despair finally hit. I started to choke, overwhelmed. “Savannah, please, call the police.” “I can’t stand being humiliated like this anymore…” She was silent for a moment, then clenched her fists. “You think I don’t want to call the police?” “If I wasn’t trying to save face for you, I would have sent you in a long time ago.” “Elias Bellweather, saving your life back then was the biggest mistake I ever made.” “Knowing this, you should have just died sooner!” I remembered what Mom told me. When I was barely a year old, I got a high fever in the middle of the night. My parents weren’t home, so Savannah carried me to the hospital. It was a cold winter night. She was only five, too young to call a taxi or ask for help. She walked for two hours with me on her back, saving my life. The doctor said I would have died if she’d been any later. Savannah was my lifesaver. Mom also said Savannah had loved me the most, always. I forced a bitter smile. “Savannah, since you saved my life, let me give it back to you.” Her breathing hitched. She turned away in frustration, muttering to herself as much as to me: “Stop with the dramatics.” The basement door closed again. I shut my eyes. I couldn’t endure it. Not one second more. So what if I became a vengeful spirit? It was better than being this inhuman, living ghost. Slowly, I sat up, fixing my eyes on a forgotten fruit knife tucked in the corner. This blood in me hurts too much. It’s time to drain it clean. 6 Grandma was wrong. Dying with resentment doesn’t turn you into a demon. My soul floated out of my body in the basement. I saw my own corpse, crumpled in a pool of blood. I died ugly. My hair was a mess, my face a pale mask. The wound on my wrist was a gruesome slash, flesh torn open, utterly tragic. I could only look for a second before turning away. My soul passed through the wall and left the basement. Outside, Savannah sat on the sofa, tiredly rubbing her temples. Her voice was hoarse as she asked Grant, who sat across from her: “Was I too harsh just now? I didn’t mean it. I just said those things in the heat of the moment…” Grant gave a light laugh, soothing her. “Not at all, Savannah. You’re doing this for Elias. You found out he was addicted—you can’t just coddle him. You have to be tough, or how will he ever get clean?” Listening to Grant, Savannah’s brow furrowed deep in thought. “I don’t know why Elias turned out like this. He was such a good, quiet boy when he was little.” “I should really talk to him properly someday.” I gave a silent, bitter laugh. Someday, Savannah. I won’t be here to talk to you. And the things I didn’t say before? They don’t matter now. A flicker of malice crossed Grant’s eyes. “Savannah, he won’t listen to you. If he would, he wouldn’t have done this.” “In my opinion, you should just stop dealing with him…” “No, I can’t do that. It’s almost the new year. I have to let him out.” Savannah interrupted him without hesitation. “He has to be clean before the holiday. Don’t take him dinner tonight. Let’s see if that teaches him.” I sighed. Savannah was far too late with that idea. Grant hadn’t been feeding me properly since the start. Sometimes it was once every two days, sometimes once every three. He had already been punishing me on her behalf. Of course, Grant wasn’t going to tell Savannah that. He nodded obediently. “Don’t worry, Savannah. I understand.” “Grant, you’re so mature.” Savannah gave him an affectionate look. “It’s almost the New Year. What gift do you want?” “I want you to take me on a trip!” Grant’s eyes sparkled. Then he added: “Just the two of us!” Savannah nodded. “Okay. After the New Year, Elias should be stable. I’ll transfer some company shares to him then, and we’ll go traveling.” They chatted for a while longer, then went to bed. No one checked the basement that night. Or the next day. The closer it got to the holiday, the busier Savannah became, leaving Grant in charge of me. Grant couldn’t be bothered. With Savannah gone, he was out with his friends, only stumbling home in the dead of night. Finally, on Christmas Eve, Savannah finished her work and came home. She hesitated for a long time before stopping at the basement door. “Elias Bellweather. It’s been days. You’re not going to go crazy again, right?” “It’s Christmas Eve. If you promise you’re okay, I’ll let you out.” The basement was silent. No reply came for a long time. She frowned. “Are you still mad? What I said the other day was just anger talking. I didn’t mean it.” Still silence. Her face hardened. She turned to leave. But she stopped after two steps, thinking of something. She turned back suddenly and awkwardly pushed the heavy basement door open.

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“Everyone else here seems to manage. Why can’t you?” Ella’s voice echoed in the conference room. A dozen pairs of eyes focused on me. I lowered my gaze to the quarterly report in my hands. Monthly KPI Completion Rate: 32%. Olivia: 115%. Ben: 108%. Even Sarah, the intern who’d only been here three months, was at 95%. Only me. 32%. “If those numbers look like this next month, Jenna, you’ll need to seriously re-evaluate your future here.” I didn’t speak. Three years. Every month, the same ritual. I genuinely thought I was incompetent. It wasn’t until the day I resigned that I finally saw the full KPI Allocation Spreadsheet. 1. The air conditioning in the conference room was set to Arctic, but my back was slick with sweat. Ella tossed my report onto the table. The sound wasn’t loud, but every word she spoke felt like a nail driven into my skull. “Jenna Hayes. Tell me, why are you, once again, at the bottom of the list?” I stood up, palms damp. “The client side this month—” “The client side?” Ella cut me off. “Did Olivia’s clients have no issues? Did Ben’s clients have no issues?” I opened my mouth, but no defense came out. “Just sit down, Jenna,” Ella said, waving a hand dismissively. “It’s the same tired excuses every month. I’m exhausted hearing them.” I sank back into my chair. The silence was thick. I could feel the glances of my colleagues: some purely entertained, some tinged with pity, and others—undiluted schadenfreude. “Alright, that’s it. Meeting adjourned.” Ella stood up. “Jenna, stay behind.” The others filed out. Olivia brushed past me and murmured, “Hang in there.” I couldn’t tell if it was genuine support or practiced corporate politeness. The door clicked shut. It was just Ella and me. “Jenna,” Ella said, pulling up a chair across the table. Her tone softened, dropping into a deceptive cadence of concern. “I’m not targeting you, you know that.” I nodded stiffly. “But this performance… it’s indefensible.” “Ella, I personally visited twenty-three prospective clients this month—” “And the result?” I fell silent. “How many contracts did you close?” “Two.” “Two,” Ella repeated, letting the number hang in the air. “Olivia saw fifteen accounts and closed eight. Tell me, where exactly is the breakdown?” I wanted to point out that Olivia’s accounts were mostly renewals and long-standing clients—easy conversions. My accounts? They were all new, cold leads—never-before-converted prospects. The furthest was in the next county, a four-hour round trip. But I didn’t say it. It wouldn’t have mattered. “Jenna, I’m doing this for your own good.” Ella stood up and gave my shoulder a patronizing pat. “Young people need to be put through the wringer. Build character, right?” “Right.” “Next month, try harder.” “I will.” I walked out of the conference room. Laughter drifted from the breakroom. “Another dressing down, huh?” “I know. Last place every month.” “I mean, how does she still have a job?” “Must be the thick skin, honestly.” More laughter. I froze. That was Olivia’s voice. The same Olivia who had just told me to “hang in there.” I didn’t go in. I turned and went back to my cubicle. I logged onto my computer. The screen showed my client visit log for the month. Twenty-three accounts. Twenty-three cold calls. I’d visited one company three times, and they wouldn’t even look at the quote. With another, I’d barely finished my opening line before they said, “We’re not interested.” I drove two hours to a third, only to find the office had moved months ago. I was trying. I just couldn’t understand why everyone else could breeze through their targets while I was killing myself just to fail. My phone vibrated. It was Mom. “Sweetie, did you get your monthly bonus yet?” I gripped the phone, unable to speak. “Jenna?” “Mom, I’m in the middle of something. I’ll call you back later.” I hung up. I stared at the screen, which now displayed next month’s client list. Ella had just emailed it. Twenty-eight accounts. All new prospects. I managed to pull up Olivia’s list. Twelve accounts. Eight were renewals, three were existing client referrals, and only one was a new lead. I placed the two lists side-by-side and stared at them for a long time. Then I closed the window. Forget it. Maybe I really was just incompetent. At the end of the day, Sarah, the admin, called out to me. “Jenna, you have a package.” I took it. It was from my mother. I opened it to find a thick winter jacket. Tucked inside was a note: It’s getting cold. Don’t work too hard; your health is what matters. I stood by the company exit, looking at the coat. Mom didn’t know I was dead last every month. Mom didn’t know I hadn’t had a raise in three years. Mom didn’t know I was the department’s running joke. I shoved the jacket back in the bag and stepped out the door. It was raining. I hadn’t brought an umbrella. I walked the entire way to the subway station, getting soaked. 2. It was the end of the year. Annual bonuses were being paid out. I didn’t hold out much hope. But I still couldn’t stop myself from calculating. Three years into the job, my base salary was $65,000. The company policy stated the bonus was based on annual performance. My average completion rate was 35%. Pro-rata, I should at least get one month’s salary, right? About $5,400. It wasn’t a lot, but it was enough to send Mom a nice check. That afternoon, a message popped up in the Finance chat. “Annual Bonuses have been distributed. Please check your accounts.” I opened my banking app. Balance: $8,547.32. No change. I refreshed the page. Still no change. I went to the Finance Department. “Jenna Hayes? You didn’t receive an annual bonus this year.” “Why not?” “Failure to meet performance targets.” The finance officer kept her head down, staring at her screen. “Your annual average completion rate was below 40%. Per policy, no bonus.” “But—” “That’s a mandate from Ella. If you have an issue, take it up with her.” I stood frozen at the entrance to the Finance office. Someone cleared their throat behind me. “Excuse me, please.” I stepped aside. Olivia walked past, clutching a stack of papers. “Jenna? What are you doing here?” I shook my head. “Nothing.” Olivia smiled. “The bonus was great this year. Five months’ salary!” Five months. Her base salary was higher than mine. Five months was easily a six-figure payout. I got zero. “Congratulations,” I mumbled. “Thanks.” Olivia was already walking away. “We’re going out to celebrate tonight. Want to come?” “No, I have plans.” I walked back to my desk and sat down. Across from me, Ben was counting money, a grin on his face. “Thirty-eight hundred, not bad at all.” Patrice, the woman next to me, leaned over. “Mine was decent too. Thirty-five hundred.” The chatter turned into a lively debate about how to spend the money: new phones, travel plans, designer bags for spouses. No one asked me. They all knew. At five-thirty, Ella emerged from her office. “Jenna, a moment.” I followed her inside. Ella sat down and gestured for me to take a seat. “Did Finance talk to you about the bonus?” “Yes.” “And what are your thoughts?” I looked at her, not sure what she wanted to hear. “No thoughts.” “Jenna.” Ella sighed, a performance of weary concern. “It’s not that I don’t want to give you one, but your performance is truly awful. This company values results. You understand that, right?” “I understand.” “Look at Olivia. She consistently over-performs. Look at Ben. He’s a rookie, and he’s hitting 100%. What about you?” My head was bowed. “You’ve been here three years, and you’re always at the bottom. Frankly, any other company would have fired you a long time ago.” “…” “I’ve protected you, Jenna, you know that? Every time the CEO asks, I tell him you’re improving, you’re trying. But then you pull a 35% average.” Ella’s voice rose slightly. “Are you taking advantage of me?” I looked up. Her face was etched with disappointment. I couldn’t tell if the disappointment was real or just part of the act. “Ella, I…” “Never mind.” Ella waved me off. “Go home and think about this. If you pull this again next year, I won’t be able to save your job.” “Okay.” I stood up to leave. “Jenna.” I stopped. “I’m doing this for your own good.” “I know.” I left her office and returned to my desk. My computer screen was still on, showing the client list for January. Thirty-five accounts. All new, cold leads. I scrolled down, trying to see Olivia’s list, but my permissions were blocked. I closed the window and started packing my bag. Mom was waiting for my call. She would ask about the bonus. I thought for a moment, then said: “Just over a grand. Nothing huge.” “That’s plenty, sweetheart! You keep it for yourself. Your father and I are fine.” Mom sounded overjoyed. “Mhm.” “Jenna, everything going well at work?” “Perfectly smooth.” “That’s good. That’s very good.” I hung up, sitting on the subway, watching the dark tunnel flash past the window. A thousand dollars. I didn’t even have a hundred. When I got home, my roommate, Skylar, was already cooking. “You’re back. Eat yet?” “No.” “Good. I made extra. Let’s eat.” I dropped my bag and sat at the dining table. Skylar carried two plates out. “What’s wrong? You look awful.” “No bonus.” “What?” Skylar paused. “Why?” “Didn’t meet the target.” “But you’re always the last one to leave!” Skylar frowned. “Didn’t you tell me you visited over twenty clients last month?” “Twenty-three.” “And still nothing?” “Nothing.” I picked at my food. “My colleague got five months’ pay; I got zero.” Skylar put down her fork and looked at me. “Jenna, don’t you think something is off?” “What do you mean?” “You get in earlier and leave later than everyone else. You see more clients than anyone else. Why is your performance the worst?” I stayed silent. “Did it ever occur to you that the problem isn’t you?” “But… my completion rate is low, Skylar. It’s a fact.” “Low completion rate?” Skylar scoffed. “Do you know what kind of clients they’re assigning everyone else?” I looked at her blankly. “You get nothing but cold, new leads. They get renewals and existing accounts. What’s the closing rate on a cold lead? Maybe 20% if you’re lucky. A renewal? Eighty percent plus.” I clutched my fork, speechless. “Jenna, don’t be an idiot,” Skylar said, shaking her head. “Are you being set up?” “No way…” “No way? Then you tell me,” Skylar challenged. “Why do you always get the hardest accounts? Why are you always driving four hours into the next county?” I tried to argue, but the words caught in my throat. Because she was telling the truth. “I’m telling you,” Skylar said. “Go look. Find out how those KPI targets are really distributed.” “How?” “Find a way.” I couldn’t sleep that night. Lying in bed, Skylar’s words hammered in my head. Set up? It felt crazy. I didn’t have a feud with Ella. We weren’t enemies. Why would she deliberately sabotage me? But… Why was I always assigned the most difficult clients? Why was my completion rate always the lowest? Why, in three years, had I never received a single cent of the annual bonus? I grabbed my phone and navigated to the company intranet. Where was the KPI Allocation Spreadsheet? I searched for an hour. Nothing. Insufficient access permissions. I pulled up the client list Ella had sent, the one for January, and went over it carefully. Thirty-five accounts. All new, cold leads. One client was three hours away by train. Another was notoriously difficult; the last salesperson assigned to them quit after six months without a single contract. A third was just snatched by our biggest competitor, and I was expected to steal it back. I then dug through my old emails and found Olivia’s client list from the previous month. She had accidentally ‘Reply All’d’ to the entire team instead of just Ella. Twelve accounts. Eight renewals, three referrals, and one new lead—and that new lead was a subsidiary of the company’s largest existing client. I stared at the two lists. Her twelve, my thirty-five. Her eight renewals, my zero. She drives thirty minutes; I drive three hours. I felt a strange urge to laugh. So that was it. It had been like this all along. 3. I returned to the office after the holidays. My mood was heavy, yet strangely focused. Skylar was right. I had to find out. On the first day back, Ella called a department meeting. “New year, new energy. I expect everyone to over-perform this year.” She looked straight at me. “Jenna, you really need to step it up.” “I will.” “We won’t dwell on last year. Focus on earning that bonus this year.” “I will.” I didn’t say anything more. After the meeting, I found Sarah from the Administration Department. Sarah had been there a year longer than me and was generally friendly. “Sarah, I need to ask you something.” “Sure, what is it?” “Where can I find the company’s KPI Allocation Spreadsheet?” Sarah looked confused. “Why do you need that?” “Just… trying to understand the benchmark, get a clearer target.” “The KPI allocation is only visible to department managers and HR,” Sarah whispered, leaning closer. “You think something is wrong, don’t you?” I didn’t answer. Sarah glanced around and pulled me into an empty corner of the hallway. “Jenna, look, I’m going to tell you something, but you can’t breathe a word of it to anyone.” “What?” “Late last year, I helped HR organize some digital files,” Sarah said, her voice dropping lower. “I saw your department’s KPI breakdown.” My heart hammered in my chest. “Your target… it’s three times higher than everyone else’s.” “What?” “Your monthly KPI is $3 million. Olivia’s is $1 million. Ben’s is $1.2 million.” Sarah looked at me with deep sympathy. “Do you know what that means?” I stood there, my mind blank. Three times. My target was three times everyone else’s. “No wonder you’re always bottom of the list,” Sarah sighed. “A $3 million monthly target is impossible. The top sales exec couldn’t hit that.” “Why?” My voice was trembling. “Why me?” “I don’t know,” Sarah shook her head. “But you need to look into this yourself. Don’t let them make you feel incompetent while you’re making them look good.” I stood in the hallway for a long time. Three years. For three years, I was the last one to leave the office, I drove the most miles, and I worked the hardest. The result? Last place every month. Constant dressing-downs. Treated like a liability. It wasn’t because I was bad at my job. It was because, from the very beginning, the game was rigged. That afternoon, I found an excuse to visit the HR Department. “Barbara, I need to look at our department’s KPI spreadsheet.” Barbara, the HR manager, looked up. “Why would you need to see that?” “I just want to understand the effort required to earn the bonus. A goal-setting exercise.” Barbara hesitated. “That requires your manager’s approval.” “Ella is traveling this week, back on Monday,” I lied. “I just need a quick look. I won’t take photos.” Barbara considered it, then pulled up the file on her computer. “Fine. Take a look. I’m going to grab some water.” She left. I quickly moved to the computer and opened the file.

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The first thing I saw on my phone that morning was a TikTok video. My own face, edited with devil horns and a heavy red filter, was staring back at me. The caption read: My CEO is a monster. “This is why no one gets married or has kids anymore! We’re being ruined by greedy, toxic capitalists like her!” The voice, shrill and weeping, belonged to Skylar Moore, an intern who had started only forty-eight hours ago. “She won’t approve my wedding leave! Am I just a workhorse to them? Not even a person?!” “I actually believed her lies about running an all-female, woman-friendly company. But the capitalist predator who eats her own has finally shown her face!” The video exploded. The comments section filled instantly with thousands of young people fiercely relating to her rage. They joined the digital lynch mob, flooding my DMs with abuse and—I later found out—even sending threats to my office. As the CEO of Her World—a company I’d built from nothing—I went live immediately to confront her. I refused to let my rules be bent by public pressure. “I’m sorry, but I will not approve Skylar Moore’s request for wedding leave,” I stated, looking directly into the lens. My voice was calm and steady. “She’s free to resign and file a grievance with the Department of Labor. She’s free to sue me in civil court. But her leave request will not be approved.” The live stream’s engagement was through the roof. The comments section was a battlefield. A few people, claiming to be pro-bono lawyers, offered to represent Skylar for free. But Skylar, who was also live on her own channel, visibly hesitated. Her calculated panic was perfectly pitched. “I only wanted my time off,” she mumbled, tears welling in her eyes. “I never wanted to quit, and I certainly never wanted to sue Ms. Linda…” That moment of feigned helplessness was her genius stroke. The sympathy for her quadrupled. “Oh my god! Look how traumatized she is!” “She’s still calling that wicked woman ‘Ms. Linda’!” “Sierra Linda is subhuman! You’ve driven your employee insane!” “Lawyers! Sue her! This woman is a bully on a power trip!” “She’s clearly jealous! She’s unmarried and she hates seeing anyone else happy!” Just like that, my image as a “power-tripping, employee-crushing monster” was solidified. Off-camera, my loyal assistant, Jessie, and a few other women couldn’t stand it. “That’s not true!” “Skylar knew the rules!” “Ms. Linda isn’t like that!” Their small, whispered protests were unfortunately picked up by my microphone. The chat exploded again. “Did you hear that? She’s threatening other employees!” “The other women are being forced to cover for her!” “Oh, this company is terrifying! A toxic cult!” “They’ve all been brainwashed! Why else would they defend her?” My private cell phone vibrated a frantic, desperate dance on my mahogany desk. The screen flashed the name: Rich Grant. My lead investor. I ignored it. I looked at the camera, watched the deluge of hatred. They called me “inhumane,” a “crazy boss,” a “sociopath.” In front of millions of viewers, I reached out and manually ended the stream. The screen went black. The confrontation ended with my complete and utter defeat. Skylar Moore had earned the sympathy of the entire internet. And I, Sierra Linda, became the poster child for the “jealous, toxic capitalist who emotionally blackmailed her whole company.” The next morning, I walked into the office. Vanessa Cole, my VP of Operations, rushed in, her face pale. “Sierra, it’s bad,” she said, her voice tight. “All of our products have been pulled from every major platform. The reason: ‘Severe concerns regarding corporate values.’ We’ve received termination notices from every partner we have.” Her World was at a complete operational halt. Before I could reply, my office door was thrown open. Richard Grant stormed in, his eyes bloodshot, looking ready to commit violence. He slammed his phone down on my desk. “Sierra Linda!” he roared, pointing a shaking finger at my face. “You hung up on me yesterday?!” “Are you out of your mind?!” “You’re going to bankrupt us all for a freaking intern?!” He was a fury of male entitlement and financial panic. Before I could get a word in, Vanessa stepped in front of him. “Rich, you need to calm down,” she insisted. “Sierra is the most principled person I know. She must have a reason for this!” Rich laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Vanessa! Did she get to you too? What did she promise you people? Why are you all covering for her?” Vanessa ignored him. She took out her phone. Right in front of Rich, she logged into her verified professional account and posted a strong, clear message. “I stake my reputation on this: Sierra Linda is the best boss I’ve ever had. She is not the monster the internet is making her out to be.” Jessie, and a few women from the Tech and Marketing teams—the same ones whose whispers were picked up on the stream—all logged in and posted comments with their real names. “The culture here is the best in the industry. Zero bullying!” “Ms. Linda treats every one of us with respect!” “We stand with Sierra!” Within minutes, the post and the comments had climbed to the top of the trending topics. Less than ten minutes later, Skylar dropped a new video. She took screenshots of Vanessa’s post and every single comment. She was hysterically sobbing and shaking in the video. “I’m so scared… they’re… they’re all ganging up on me!” “Ms. Linda has turned the company into her own dictatorship! She’s brainwashed all the women who work there!” “They’re all colluding against me!” “This company is pure evil! They’re working together to drive me to suicide!” The phrase, “colluding against her,” became the next hot search term. A collective online assault against my employees began. Vanessa’s home address was doxed. Photos of her three-year-old were being deep-faked into hideous funeral montages and shared across social media. Jessie’s phone was hit with a barrage of calls, all featuring vile insults and death threats. Every employee who had publicly supported me was targeted. The hate DMs piled up: “Female CEO’s little pet!” “Brainwashed idiot! You deserve this!” “Hope your whole family drops dead!” When Vanessa came to my office next, her eyes were swollen, her spirit completely broken. I watched her delete the post, her hands shaking, tears streaming down her face. “Sierra… I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “My son is three years old… They’re not human beings.” “My husband is filing for divorce…” She handed me her resignation letter. Jessie followed. Then Tech. Then Marketing. Every employee who had shown me loyalty was harassed into a mental breakdown and forced to quit. Skylar Moore became the heroic symbol of resistance against the “workplace cult.” My company, Her World, was permanently branded as a den of “toxic sisterhood” and “pyramid scheme brainwashing.” Our reputation was annihilated. A week later, the office was empty. I sat alone. On my computer screen, the internet was saturated with blissful interviews of Skylar and her “fiancé.” He was shown kissing her head and promising to protect her forever. On my private cell, thousands of malicious messages cursed me to “die alone.” My personal information—Social Security Number, home address, private number—was all over the dark corners of the web. People had taken to throwing red paint on the front door of my apartment. “Wicked Old Hag” and “Die” were scrawled in thick black marker. The cleaning crew had to come three times a day. My mother called. The first words were a torrent of scolding. “Sierra! Have you lost your mind?!” “Look at what the internet is saying! You’re going to lose the company! Just apologize to that girl!” My father yelled from the background: “You’re just psychologically messed up because you’re not married! You’re jealous of that girl’s wedding!” “You and your mother’s reputation is ruined!” I hung up. The silence lasted two seconds. Skylar, high on her public victory, went live again. She began a livestream of her entire wedding preparation: dress fittings, engagement ring selection, new apartment decorating. In every stream, she made sure to mention me. “I honestly have to thank my former boss.” “It was her cruelty that showed me who truly loves me.” “Women shouldn’t tear each other down. I hope she finds peace someday.” The chat filled with comments: “Skylar, you are so kind.” Richard Grant called an emergency board meeting. Afterward, he gave me my final ultimatum. “Sierra, two choices.” “One: You immediately call a press conference, publicly apologize to Skylar Moore, approve her leave, and compensate her for emotional distress.” “Two: All shareholders will collectively dilute your shares and force you out of the CEO chair.” “Choose now.” My reply was steady: “I refuse to apologize.” Rich was silent for a few seconds. Then he bellowed: “You are a freaking psychopath!” He slammed the phone down. The next day, I was completely blacklisted by the entire industry. All my speaking engagements and business profiles were removed. I went from “Annual Female Entrepreneur Role Model” to “Industry Disgrace.” No one dared to even mention my name. Skylar sent the digital wedding invitation to everyone via social media. She didn’t block me. She even intentionally tagged several former colleagues, including Vanessa and Jessie. She wanted to make sure I saw it. That night, my closest friend, Maya, came to try and talk sense into me. She looked at the red-painted apartment door with deep dismay. “Jen,” she used my old college nickname. “You can’t win against the mob.” “It’s not worth destroying ten years of your life for one junior employee! Just concede! Say sorry, and this will all go away!” “Why are you being so stubborn?” I didn’t explain. I just stared out the window, at the shocking red paint on my front door. A strange, cold calm had settled over me. I opened my phone’s Notes app. I silently typed in the date of Skylar Moore’s wedding and the name of the hotel from the invitation. The Board of Directors released a public statement. “Given the severe personal misconduct of Ms. Sierra Linda, which has caused irreparable harm to the company’s brand…” “The Board has voted unanimously to immediately terminate Ms. Linda’s employment as CEO and freeze all her stock options.” I was fired from the company I had personally founded. The moment the news broke, the internet erupted in celebration. Skylar’s wedding was that same evening. She was live-streaming the entire event. The online viewership topped ten million. She was resplendent in an expensive, custom-made gown, her face glowing. This was her victory lap. During the stream, a viewer brought me up. “What happened to that evil boss, Sierra Linda? Is she dead yet?” Skylar put a hand over her mouth, feigning “mercy.” “Oh, let’s not talk about her. Today’s my happy day. I feel sorry for her, actually. She’s lost absolutely everything now.” She looked into the camera, her eyes glinting with barely contained triumph and challenge. “If she really thinks I fabricated documents, or cheated the company in any way…” “She can totally sue me, you know!” She smiled sweetly. “I’ll be waiting for her court documents.” The chat burst into laughter. “LOL, where is she going to get money for a lawyer now?” “Sue her! Let’s see her try to win!” “Skylar, ignore that crazy lady!” My phone rang again. It was my mother. Her voice was a desperate, pleading whisper. “Sierra, please. Your father’s heart is bad, he’s in the hospital. We are too old for this public humiliation. We can’t take this social pressure anymore…” I hung up. Vanessa, my former VP, who had lost her job and her marriage because of the harassment, sent me one last text. “I surrender, sis. I can’t fight them. I’m just an ordinary person.” “You should give up too.” I watched the live feed in silence. Skylar and her fiancé, Mark, were about to exchange rings. The moment had arrived. I closed the live stream app. At the wedding venue, the music swelled to a crescendo. “The groom may now kiss the bride!” The hall was filled with cheers. BANG—! At that exact moment— The double doors of the ballroom were violently thrown open. The massive sound swallowed the music. Every guest, and the camera capturing the ten million viewers, snapped toward the entrance. Skylar’s victorious smile froze on her face. Her eyes met mine. They went immediately pale. She pointed at me and shrieked, an ear-piercing sound: “Security!” “Security! Get that psychopath out of here! She’s trying to crash the wedding!” The hotel security team scrambled forward. I didn’t slow down. I ignored her screams and the shocked faces of the guests. I walked straight onto the stage. The officiant stared at me, dumbfounded, unable to speak. Mark, the groom, stepped in front of Skylar, shouting: “What do you want? Get out!” I took the microphone straight out of the officiant’s hand. I looked at Skylar and smiled. My voice was quiet, but amplified through the massive speakers, it carried through the hall and across the live stream. “Don’t worry.” “Skylar Moore, I’ve brought you a wedding gift.” I turned to the camera and the hundreds of guests. I held up a simple USB drive. “You asked me to sue you? I’m here to deliver the evidence.” I walked to the wedding control booth at the side of the stage. Before the technician could react, I plugged the USB drive into the laptop. A crystal-clear image of a document immediately appeared on the massive screen behind the altar. It was her employment verification form from Her World. The live chat froze. I picked up the officiant’s laser pointer, and the red dot landed precisely on the most critical date: the day before she submitted her request for wedding leave. The entire hall fell silent for three seconds. Then, a sudden, explosive roar of astonishment erupted! “As of this moment,” I said, looking directly at Skylar, “she was still in her probationary period.” “Let me clarify one point.” “The company did not reject a reasonable request for leave.” “I rejected an egregious, unreasonable request made by an employee who had been on the payroll for forty-eight hours, who was not entitled to formal benefits, and who then attempted to use public opinion as a weapon to extort special treatment.” My words were precise and cutting. A few more seconds of silence, then the screens showing the live chat went insane. The comments scrolled so fast they were a blur. “Wait, what?! FORTY-EIGHT HOURS?!” “She tried to pull a wedding leave two days in? Does she have any shame?” “It’s common sense you don’t get benefits during a probationary period! This woman is nuts!” “I actually believed the black-hearted CEO story! She’s just a manipulative giant baby!” “This is straight-up fraud! The tables have turned!” The narrative had shattered. Skylar’s face was rapidly losing all color. She gripped her wedding dress, her body starting to tremble. “I didn’t know! I didn’t read it clearly! I just started, how was I supposed to know anything?!” she stammered, desperately trying to find an excuse. “Sierra Linda! You deliberately did this! You wanted to ruin me!” She started to wail, pivoting back to a moral attack. “Are you sure you didn’t know?” I asked, my voice flat. I pulled out a third item: a sheet of paper. “This is the onboarding training sign-in sheet from October 18th. Down in the bottom right corner is the signature of Ms. Skylar Moore.” I then produced a stack of printed materials. “These were the training materials she received that day. I’ve specifically folded this page.” I held it up to the camera. The section on Leave and Benefits was clearly highlighted in fluorescent yellow. “The rules for the probationary period are here, in black and white.” “She not only received the materials but signed to confirm she had read and understood all the terms.” “And you’re telling me you didn’t know?” Skylar’s mouth opened and closed soundlessly. The tears were still on her cheeks, making her look pitiable and ridiculous. “You…” she began to whisper. “Enough!” A sharp, furious roar cut her off.

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I ended it with a paring knife straight to the heart. It was clean, efficient. Three minutes, and I stopped breathing. Liam Sterling got the news and laughed maniacally. “Good! She’s finally dead! Saved me the trouble.” He ordered my heart removed, demanding they cremate only the empty shell of my chest cavity. He said I didn’t deserve to keep Chloe’s heart. But later, he searched the country for mediums and paranormal investigators, holding desperate seances. “Ava, I’m begging you. Come back and see me. Even just in a dream…” Liam wept like a broken child in front of the dogwood tree he’d chopped down with his own hands. But my body was incomplete, my ashes lost in the system, my soul untethered. Though I was right beside him, he couldn’t see a thing. 1 Word got out that I plunged a fruit knife into my heart and died. Liam Sterling stunned for a few seconds, then burst into wild, theatrical laughter. “Good! Excellent! The bitch is finally dead.” As he laughed, tears streamed down his face. I knew he was crying tears of joy. He was just that relieved. After all, in the six months since we’d married, he had used every method imaginable—both psychological and physical—to torment me. His goal was always to push me toward death without ever crossing the legal line into murder. Like when he bought me a kitten, and the next day I found its taxidermied body hanging outside my bedroom window. Like celebrating my birthday with wine and roses, only to have photos splashed across the morning news of him French-kissing another woman at a club. He didn’t poison me directly. Instead, he mandated a specific diet from our live-in housekeeper, exploiting my weak system with food combinations that caused severe inflammation and kidney strain. He moved me to an isolated, modern glass house in the Hollywood Hills to hide my deterioration from neighbors. Every night, he played high-frequency noise emitters that vibrated the floors, nearly driving me clinically insane. And then he decimated my father’s legacy, watching my brother, Ethan, go from a respected CEO to drowning in debt, eventually framing him for corporate fraud and sending him to prison. In Liam’s eyes, I deserved all of it. Because, according to him, my family had “engineered” the death of his beloved stepsister, Chloe, to steal her vibrant, healthy heart for me. 2 When I died, only Mara was home. She was deaf and mute, a caretaker Liam specifically hired to watch me. Her daily routine was mechanical: cook the damaging meals Liam prescribed and ensure I ate every bite. If I refused the overly salted soups or the high-fructose concoctions meant to spike my inflammation, she would kneel before me and slap her own face frantically until I gave in. I knew Liam was watching it all via the hidden cameras. Whether he was dining out, in a board meeting, or entertaining clients, he would tune in and smile with satisfaction. This wasn’t my first suicide attempt. Trapped in that beautiful, glass prison, my body pushed to its absolute limit, I wanted a release. If I died, everyone would be free. I had slit my wrists before, dyeing a bathtub full of water deep red. But the drain plug was faulty; the water leaked out, and the blood coagulated. I woke up cold, but alive. I tried sleeping pills, swallowing a whole bottle. I found out later they were years expired and ineffective. In a fit of despair, I jumped from the second-story balcony. I landed in the dense landscaping below, only shattering my right shoulder blade. Liam had stood over me then, smiling cruelly. “Ava, stop pretending. Someone like you is too selfish to ever really die.” He said if I truly had the conscience to die for my sins, I wouldn’t have plotted to kill Chloe and lived on borrowed time for so long. I explained a thousand times that Chloe’s death was a tragic accident. He never believed me. What kind of accident is so convenient? Why did a wire transfer of one hundred thousand dollars from my family hit Chloe’s account hours before the crash? Why did she sign the organ donor agreement in the hospital, alone, without a single family member present, moments before she died? He decided my wealthy family had simply bought Chloe’s life. And so, the gears of fate began to turn the day he enacted his meticulous revenge plot—by kneeling before me, pressing his cheek to my chest, and weeping over the sound of Chloe’s heartbeat. He didn’t know that heart was a gift Chloe willingly gave me. A gift wrapped in her deepest love for him. “Ava, when I’m gone, please love Liam for me… He’s going to be so lonely.” He wasn’t the only one who knowingly walked into a trap. I did, too. 3 For the final time, I chose the cleanest, fastest way. When the blade pierced my heart, I couldn’t even speak. Less than three minutes. The blood pumped out, and I was gone. Liam was taken in for questioning. The police were suspicious; the initial forensics didn’t look like a typical suicide. Self-inflicted stab wounds usually show “hesitation marks”—shallow cuts where the body instinctively fights the pain before the final thrust. Mine had none. It was one clean, decisive blow straight to the heart. “Maybe she just really, really wanted to die,” Liam told the detectives with a cold smirk. Yes. A person who truly wants to die will grit their teeth against the pain and push through. Liam had an airtight alibi. Mara had no motive. My suicide note was in my pocket, though most of it was soaked in blood, leaving only the words “Last Will” legible. Liam was released. But before he left the station, he demanded an autopsy. He demanded they remove the heart. He said I didn’t deserve to leave this world carrying Chloe’s heart inside me. At the funeral home, my brother, Ethan, escorted by police, saw my chest, caved in and empty beneath my burial dress. He broke down instantly. “Liam Sterling, you animal!” Ethan lunged, his handcuffed fists managing a glancing blow to Liam’s jaw. “Give my sister her heart back! She can’t go to her rest broken like this…” Ethan was facing multiple felony charges due to Liam’s setup. The police had granted him a brief, supervised visit for the funeral. “That thing never belonged to her,” Liam said icily, staring down at my body lying in the satin-lined coffin. I was surrounded by expensive flowers, their stems filling the void in my chest. At my brother’s insistence, the funeral home had hired a high-end mortician. I looked beautiful, peaceful, thanks to their work. I watched as Liam approached the casket. He leaned down, staring at my cold face. Then, he tucked something inside the lining of my dress. It was a small, handwritten note. Liam was an atheist. He didn’t believe in gods or ghosts. But to keep me down, he was willing to try anything. “Stay away from Chloe,” the note read. “Don’t you dare bother her.” “Liam, you will regret this!” Ethan screamed as the police dragged him away. “You will regret everything you did to Ava!” Regret? In the empty viewing room, Liam stood for a long time, staring at my memorial photo. Why would he regret it? From the moment he first approached me with gentle smiles, he had been planning for this very day. If he regretted anything, it was probably that he didn’t get to kill me himself. Liam had Chloe’s heart cremated separately. He buried the small urn of ash in front of Chloe’s existing grave, claiming he was returning her whole body to her. As for my ashes, he didn’t want them. He told the crematorium staff to just “get rid of them.” But regulations don’t allow for just dumping human remains. The staff placed me in a temporary plastic container and stored me on a shelf in a back room. Since Ethan was in prison, no one came to claim me. That afternoon, a warehouse worker moving inventory bumped a shelving unit. My container fell. The lid popped off. A draft from the loading dock door caught me, and I was scattered into the wind. Liam returned to the empty glass house in the hills. It was dark. Mara had mechanically prepared dinner. He didn’t touch it. After a long silence, Liam finally spoke. “Mara, I’m moving out in a few days. This house… it’s yours. For your retirement.” 4 Mara wore high-powered hearing aids; she wasn’t totally deaf. After Liam spoke, she signed rapidly. I couldn’t read sign language, but her expression clearly said: “I don’t want it.” “It’s the last thing I can do for Chloe,” Liam said, pushing the property deed across the marble island. “I… I really wanted to be with Chloe, to call you Mom again.” The food on the counter went completely cold. Liam looked up, his eyes fixing on the empty space where my soul hovered. I knew he couldn’t see me or feel me. If souls really could communicate with the living… then why hadn’t Chloe ever come to him? Chloe, I’m sorry. This is as far as I could go. I tried my best. Suddenly, Liam stood up. He pushed Mara’s cooking aside and opened the sub-zero freezer. He pulled out a large freezer bag filled with homemade ravioli. I had made those two months ago. Before he fully revealed his claws, we had a brief period of what felt like genuine warmth. I was a good cook. Growing up with a bad heart meant I missed a lot of school and couldn’t play sports. The kitchen became my playground. When we first lived together, Liam was often too busy to eat hot meals. I would bring food to his office and sit quietly by his side while he ate. He loved my ravioli. So I made batches of it, freezing them for him. Honestly, even if he hadn’t wanted me dead, this transplanted heart didn’t have a long warranty left anyway. Chloe once told me that Liam went hungry a lot as a kid. Even now, as a wealthy, powerful titan of industry, his table manners were nonexistent. The water boiled. The ravioli floated to the surface, mirroring my short, turbulent life. He ate ravenously, stuffing himself until he gagged. He vomited into the sink, then slid down to the kitchen floor, clawing at the tiles, howling. “You’re finally dead! You’re finally dead, Ava Hayes!” My transparent form floated above him. I watched him roll onto his back, an arm thrown over his eyes. He cried until the veins in his neck bulged and spasmed. The next second, he scrambled up, bolted out the sliding glass doors and into the yard. He grabbed a shovel and swung it wildly at the young dogwood tree, snapping its trunk in half.

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