1 I was the pampered only daughter of the Wright family, guarded by three overprotective brothers until a mysterious notepad app appeared on my phone. It predicted their ruin. Dominic would lose eighty billion dollars on a bad deal. Gideon would be stripped of his shares. Jude would abandon his inheritance. My lifetime security was vanishing. I launched my Save the Wallet plan. I swiped Dominic’s black card and spent thirty million dollars in a single day. He spent all night processing returns and handling complaints. I took Gideon’s private jet to Paris and gutted the custom leather interior under the pretext of a remodel. He was forced into an eight-hour transoceanic video call just to supervise me. I converted Jude’s climate-controlled wine cellar into a karaoke lounge and used eight million dollars worth of vintage Cabernet Sauvignon as bathwater. My brothers were so exhausted they had no time to check their phones. That ended when Seraphina, the new executive secretary, was appointed to Dominic’s office. She cast a cold glance at me, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Little girl, the executive suite is not a playground. You can run along now. A dead silence fell over the hallway. Everyone knew the fiercely protective CEO of Wright Group was about to walk through those doors. I was only halfway through my gourmet lobster roll, the rich filling still in my mouth. There were five assistants in the lounge, and even the newest among them had been with my brother for six years. Right now, their expressions were identical, a perfect mix of wanting to speak up but fearing they would say the wrong thing, wanting to pull her back but not knowing how. Martha was the first to break the silence, letting out a dry laugh. “Ms. Seraphina, this is Mr. Wright’s…” “I know, his sister,” Seraphina interrupted, not even sparing Martha a glance. When she said the word “sister,” her voice tilted upward with a subtle, dismissive edge. “But even a sister shouldn’t be eating and playing in the executive suite. The scent of lobster is far too strong. What if a client arrives later?” She glanced at the gourmet box in front of me, her brow knitting together. “Besides, today is my first day, and the executive suite needs structure. When Mr. Wright is away, I coordinate the daily operations.” She smiled, tilting her head to look at me as if coaxing a difficult child. “Be a good girl, pack up your things, and I’ll have the receptionist call a car to take you home, alright?” Martha panicked, her voice rising. “Ms. Seraphina, you really don’t understand the situation. This lounge was specifically built by Mr. Wright for—” “It doesn’t matter who it was built for.” Seraphina turned, her tone still soft and gentle, but every word carried a hard, unyielding weight. “Martha, you’ve worked with Mr. Wright for so many years. You should know better than anyone that the executive suite represents the face of the entire conglomerate. A young girl sitting here eating messy lobster rolls, what would the outside world think of Wright Group if word got out?” Philip, the director of operations, set down his coffee cup, finally unable to keep quiet. “Ms. Seraphina, I suggest you wait until Mr. Wright returns before making any—” “Mr. Philip,” Seraphina turned her face, her smile unchanging. “Mr. Wright authorized me to manage the daily administration of this suite. This falls directly under my purview. Or are you suggesting his authorization is flawed?” Philip opened his mouth, then closed it. I grabbed a napkin and wiped my fingers, my movements slow and deliberate. “What did you say just now? Tell me to get lost?” Seraphina’s smile stiffened slightly. “I didn’t use that word,” she said. “I said ‘go play outside’.” “Oh,” I nodded. “So you’re saying you get to decide where I stand?” “Ms. Mariette, everyone in the company knows Mr. Wright spoils you, but work is work—” “By the way,” I interrupted her. “The keypad on the door, the passcode is my birthday, August 16. You can ask anyone in this room. On paper, this lounge belongs to me.” Martha nodded frantically beside me, like a chicken pecking at seeds. Seraphina remained quiet for two seconds. She took a deep breath, smoothing her expression. This time, she didn’t bother to smile. “Ms. Mariette, everything I’ve said today is for the sake of the Wright Group. It is nothing personal.” She turned to Martha, her tone shifting into that of an administrative manager delivering a cold directive. “Martha, inform the reception desk. From today onward, any non-staff entering the executive suite must register and seek pre-approval. Everyone, without exception.” Martha’s face turned pale. “Ms. Seraphina, a rule like this… I’m afraid it requires Mr. Wright’s personal—” “Mr. Wright authorized me,” Seraphina cut her off coldly. “I don’t need to consult him on every minor administrative detail.” Then she turned back to me, her eyes devoid of any gentle pretense. “Ms. Mariette, your behavior today has disrupted our professional working order. As the administrator of the executive suite, I have the authority to handle this.” She walked to the door, opened it, and nodded to the two security guards standing in the hallway. “Please lock this lounge temporarily.” She looked back at me, her voice quiet but clear. “Ms. Mariette can stay here for a bit to clear her head. I’ll let you out once I’ve debriefed Mr. Wright on today’s events. Consider it a lesson.” Martha stood up abruptly. “Seraphina! You!” Seraphina raised her hand, silencing her with a chillingly sweet smile. “Martha, don’t be dramatic. I am doing this for her own good. A spoiled girl needs someone to teach her boundaries, don’t you agree?” The security guards closed the door. The light in the lounge didn’t change, but the atmosphere felt as though it had been plunged underwater. Seraphina stood at the door, clapping her hands lightly as if she had just disposed of some minor nuisance. “Alright,” she turned back to Martha, her voice returning to its soft cadence. “Martha, please organize the meeting minutes from this afternoon and send them to me. Mr. Wright will want to review them later.” Martha didn’t move. “Ms. Seraphina,” she said, her voice dropping low. “Do you have any idea what you’ve just done?” “I do,” Seraphina replied. “I am maintaining order in this office. Martha, I wasn’t asking for your opinion.” Martha bit her lip, her eyes rimmed with red. She had been with Dominic for eleven years, starting back when Wright was just a mid-sized firm. She had never dealt with such arrogance. Before Martha could speak again, Seraphina turned away, pulling out her phone and dialing a number. The call was answered almost immediately. A deep, commanding voice came through the speaker. “Seraphina, what is it?” Seraphina’s tone instantly softened. “Uncle Arthur, I just arrived at the executive suite, and I’ve run into a bit of a situation. I wanted to report it to you.” The name “Uncle Arthur” made the room fall completely silent again. Philip’s eyes shifted, and even Martha looked visibly tense. The “Uncle Arthur” she was speaking to was none other than Arthur Ward, a founding board member of the Wright Group, a close associate of my late father, and the current head of the supervisory board. Seraphina explained the situation, her voice laced with delicate distress, framing herself as the responsible manager and me as the spoiled, disruptive sister. “…I had no choice. Mr. Wright is away, and the suite was in complete disarray. I had to enforce the rules. Uncle Arthur, did I do the right thing?” There was a brief pause on the other line. “You did the right thing, Seraphina. The executive suite must have rules.” Arthur Ward’s voice was clear enough for everyone to hear. “I’ll call Dominic later and tell him to keep his sister in line. A young girl running wild in the office is completely inappropriate.” Seraphina looked at the room, her lips curling into a triumphant smile. “Thank you, Uncle Arthur. I knew you would understand.” She slipped her phone back into her pocket, standing tall. Her entire posture had changed; she no longer needed the gentle facade. She looked at me. “Ms. Mariette, you’re smart, so I won’t beat around the bush. I didn’t come to Wright to make an enemy of you. But rules are rules. If you cooperate with me today, I’ll speak highly of you to your brother, and I’ll turn a blind eye when you visit in the future. Isn’t that a fair deal?” I looked down at the cold lobster roll on my plate. I raised my head, about to speak, when the sound of heavy footsteps echoed in the hallway. “Who authorized locking this door?” It was Miles, my brother’s chief secretary and personal shadow. Miles stood at the entrance, holding a spare key in his hand. He was in his early forties, having been with Dominic for thirteen years. Everyone in the company knew that when Dominic was away, Miles spoke with his authority. His gaze swept from the locked door to the people in the room, finally resting on Seraphina. “I’ll ask one more time,” he said, his voice flat and calm. “Who authorized locking this door?” Seraphina didn’t answer immediately. She studied Miles for a moment, her eyes lingering on his badge: Chief Secretary, Miles. “I did,” she said, her chin lifting slightly. “There was an administrative issue, and I acted within the authorization Mr. Wright gave me.” Miles said nothing. He walked past her, coming straight to my side. He glanced at the cold lobster roll, then looked at me. “Mariette, are you alright?” I shook my head. Miles nodded, then turned to Martha. “Have the kitchen prepare a fresh plate, and bring some mango boba tea. Mr. Wright mentioned she was coming today and left specific instructions.” Martha looked incredibly relieved. “Of course, right away.” “Wait a moment,” Seraphina’s voice cut in. Martha stopped in her tracks. “Mr. Miles,” Seraphina stepped forward, placing herself between Miles and Martha. “As I stated, non-staff are not permitted to dine in the executive suite. This rule is effective immediately. By ordering food now, are you trying to undermine my authority?” Miles looked at her. “Ms. Seraphina, I processed your onboarding paperwork myself. I know the exact boundaries of your authority better than you do. Mr. Wright authorized you to coordinate daily administrative tasks.” He paused. “That does not include personnel, security clearance, or… locking doors.” Seraphina’s expression stiffened, but she quickly recovered, letting out a soft laugh. “Mr. Miles, those are just technicalities on paper. Do you really believe Mr. Wright brought me here just to do basic paperwork? You’ve been with him for thirteen years; you should know better than anyone that he doesn’t hire people just to fit a standard job description.” She tilted her head, her tone carrying an intimate, knowing edge. “My relationship with Mr. Wright cannot be defined by a simple contract. You are a smart man, Mr. Miles. I shouldn’t have to spell it out for you.” At those words, Philip almost spilled his coffee, and Martha stood frozen, her mouth slightly open. Miles simply pushed his glasses up, his expression entirely unchanged. “Ms. Seraphina, regardless of your personal relationship with Mr. Wright, within the Wright Group office, we operate strictly by the rules. That is a boundary Mr. Wright established himself.” He turned back to Martha. “Go on, get the food.” Martha didn’t hesitate this time, quickly disappearing down the hallway. Seraphina watched her leave, the smile fading from her face. She turned to face Miles directly. “Mr. Miles, I respect your seniority, which is why I’ve been polite. But undermining me in front of the entire office makes things very difficult.” Miles remained silent. “I locked the room because Ms. Mariette’s behavior was disrupting the office. Even the head of the supervisory board, Mr. Ward, supported my decision. Are you suggesting a secretary has more authority than a board member?” Miles kept his tablet tucked under his arm, his voice cool. “Ms. Seraphina, Mr. Ward oversees corporate compliance. The personnel and daily administration of the executive suite have never fallen under the supervisory board’s jurisdiction. That is written in our bylaws. It is not my decision, nor is it Mr. Ward’s.” Seraphina’s eyes turned icy. “Miles, do you have any idea who you are talking to?” “I do,” Miles replied smoothly. “Ms. Seraphina, the newly appointed secretary of the executive suite, on her very first day of employment.” The words weren’t loud, but they cut deep. She turned her attention back to me, trying to apply pressure from another angle. “Ms. Mariette, I am giving you one last chance. Cooperate with me regarding today’s incident, and we can pretend nothing happened. You can come to the office, and we won’t interfere with each other. But if you persist…” She paused, her eyes scanning my face. “I won’t hesitate to have Mr. Ward handle this personally. If this escalates, it won’t end well for anyone.” I pushed the cold lobster roll aside, looking up at her. “Ms. Seraphina, how long have you been in this room today?” Seraphina frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?” “Just curious,” I said. “You walked in, locked the door, threatened me with your board connection, argued with the chief secretary, and now you want to make a deal.” I tilted my head. “Do you really think you have any cards left to play?” Seraphina’s expression shifted, a flash of panic crossing her features before she quickly suppressed it. She took a deep breath, her cold smile returning. “You have a sharp tongue, Ms. Mariette.” “I’ve always been like this. My brothers are used to it.” “Your brothers?” Seraphina let out a soft, mocking laugh. “Your brothers aren’t here right now. Even if they adore you, they can’t save you from this.” She took a step closer, pointing toward the door. “So, Ms. Mariette, you had better think carefully. Are you going to leave on your own, or do I need to have security escort you out?” Miles stepped forward. “Ms. Seraphina—” “Miles, if you interfere again,” Seraphina snapped, her voice turning completely cold, “I will call Mr. Ward right now and have him ask you why a secretary is repeatedly obstructing executive administration.” Miles stopped. Seraphina looked back at me, her hand still pointing toward the exit. “After you, Ms. Mariette.” I stared at her outstretched hand for three long seconds. Then, I raised my eyes, looking past her shoulder toward the doorway. Sensing my gaze, Seraphina’s brow furrowed, and she slowly turned around. The sound of heavy, measured footsteps echoed in the hallway. The door opened. My eldest brother, Dominic, stood in the doorway. “What,” he spoke, his voice entirely flat, “is going on here?”

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Ever since I was a kid, I could hear the whispers of pests. Fresh into my internship with the investigative task force, I tagged along with my mentor to the Lancaster estate. We were looking into the disappearance of the sole heir to the wealthiest family in Harbor Bay. The head consultant sounded dead certain. “The kid was definitely smuggled out of the city. We need to expand the mountain search grid immediately.” The little Lancaster boy was the only male heir in eight generations. Old man Arthur, the family patriarch, had even put a ten million dollar bounty on the table for whoever found him first. Everyone was rushing out of the city limits. I was the only one standing dead in my tracks. Because I heard the rats. I turned my head toward the corner and spoke up. “No need to leave the city.” “The boy is right here.” 1 The moment those words left my mouth, Arthur slammed his walking cane against the marble floor. He stepped forward. “What do you know?” The octogenarian’s voice trembled. “You know where Oliver is?” Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to me, sharp as daggers. “He is in this mansion,” I replied. A split second of dead silence followed, and then the room exploded like water hitting boiling grease. Preston, the head consultant, adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses and let out a scoff. “You are just an intern. What proof do you have?” His tone dripped with unconcealed contempt. “We pulled all the security footage and cross-checked every toll booth record. The conclusion is unanimous. The boy has been moved.” “This little girl must be out of her mind for that bounty,” Dexter, the private eye, chimed in. He crossed his arms, intentionally raising his voice. “The whole world is searching outside the city, and you insist he is in the house? Just to play the contrarian and snatch that ten million?” The flicker of hope that had lit up Arthur’s face vanished entirely. “Young lady, the Lancaster bounty is not a game.” Richard, the boy’s father, turned livid. He leaned in to whisper something to his assistant. From the looks of it, I was seconds away from being thrown out by security. Only my mentor, Alistair, hurried over to my side. He leaned down, dropping his voice so only I could hear. “Harper, did you find something again?” His question yanked the room’s attention back to us. Dexter narrowed his eyes. “Alistair, you should know better than to indulge your student. Don’t let her think one lucky guess with that cold case means she is psychic now.” Alistair ignored him. He kept his eyes locked on me. I knew exactly why he believed me. Two years ago, a dismembered body case on the outskirts of Harbor Bay had gone cold for months. I was the one who followed the squeaks of rats all the way into an abandoned bunker, unearthing a skeleton buried for five years. After that, Alistair made an exception and took me on as an intern, even though I hadn’t officially graduated college. Right at this moment, two rats were chattering in the corner behind the baseboards. “The little kid’s blood still smells fresh. Hasn’t faded yet.” “It has been three days. I am starving. Let’s go feast.” I spoke up immediately, terrified of losing precious time. “The boy is injured. He is still in this building. We need to search right now, he might still be saved.” Marcus stood three paces away. He was the tactical captain sent by the police department. He raised a hand. “Hold your positions. Prepare for a full tactical sweep of the estate.” “Absolutely not!” Richard shoved past his bodyguards and marched right up to Marcus. “It has been three days! Every camera, every tire track, every witness statement points out of the city! And you want to tear my house apart?” He whipped around to glare at me. “Do you have any idea what you are delaying? If Oliver really was taken out of the city, and we waste half a day here…” Panic burned in my chest. Just as Richard was about to order the search teams to roll out, a black-shelled roach squeezed through a crack in the molding. “Basement. The little brat with the mole on his butt got shoved down there.” I jerked my head up, ignoring Richard’s roaring entirely, and spoke over him. “The boy has a mole on his right buttock. About the size of a quarter.” “The last person who saw him before he vanished was his mother. Am I right?” 2 Eleanor, the boy’s mother, stood at the top of the second-floor staircase. One hand covered her mouth, and the other gripped the mahogany railing like a lifeline. Arthur stared at me for a long time. His cane slowly lowered back to the floor. “Search the house,” the old man rasped. Marcus personally led the team, tearing through the first-floor living room inch by inch. “Not even a stray hair.” Dexter strolled out of a second-floor guest room, dusting off his slacks. “All this chaos just to entertain an intern’s wild delusion of him being injured?” Preston stood in the center of the living room, frowning at the thermal imaging on his tablet. “The wall structures are completely normal. No irregular heat signatures detected. Captain Marcus, with all due respect…” “Keep looking,” Marcus muttered, not even looking up. Richard paced the foyer, checking his watch at least twenty times. With every passing minute, his face grew darker. He finally snapped at Marcus. “Captain, I already have three private teams sweeping the southern mountains. If you don’t produce results here soon…” I was crouching on the floor tiles at the end of the ground-floor hallway. While the Lancasters were busy arguing, a cluster of rats had gathered by the wall, muttering among themselves. “Crawl east. There is a sweet, sticky smell coming from the bottom of that wall.” “Idiot, you have to squeeze into the hollow parts! The sweet smell is leaking from the brick joints.” They kept repeating the same direction. The basement. I stood up, stumbling slightly because my legs had gone numb. Alistair quickly caught my arm. “Are you sure?” he whispered. I looked down the narrow door leading to the basement and nodded. “Head down to the basement,” Marcus said, putting his tablet away and following my gaze. “Harper says search the east wall. Follow the roaches and rats.” The basement was larger than I imagined. Nothing looked out of place. But when I crouched down, I heard a faint rustling coming from the seams where the wall met the floor. Marcus ordered a tech to tap the drywall. The echo was muffled and hollow, completely different from a solid structure. Benson, the family butler, was summoned. He unrolled the vintage architectural blueprints of the estate. The diagrams showed there should only be a three-foot plumbing cavity behind this wall. Richard stood at the top of the stairs, looking down. His expression was a stormy mix of rage and anxiety. Finally, he gritted his teeth. “Smash it.” When the worker swung the sledgehammer, my heart pounded louder than the impact. The first brick gave way, revealing a pitch-black void. A damp, chilling breeze wafted out. I held my breath. Then the second and third bricks shattered. The hole widened. Marcus shined his tactical flashlight inside. Nothing. Just a few rusted old pipes and a thick layer of dust. Dexter stood less than two feet behind me. His mocking laughter practically pierced my eardrums. “Absolutely nothing. You made the Lancasters demolish their own house just to look at some garbage plumbing?” Preston had wandered downstairs at some point. He took one look, turned on his heel, and spat out a single word. “Absurd.” Richard stood on the steps, his knuckles popping as he clenched his fists. Just then, the butler’s voice echoed from the floor above. “Sir, the housekeeping staff is asking for a word.” 3 The four maids stood in a line in the parlor, their expressions ranging from annoyed to nervous. Martha, a woman in her fifties, took the lead. She had worked for the Lancasters for over a decade and held the most authority. She anxiously twisted the hem of her apron, glancing between Richard and me. Her voice was steady. “Sir, the girls and I talked it over. We need to clear our names.” Martha swallowed hard. “This estate gets a comprehensive pest control sweep twice a day, at six in the morning and nine at night. We use top-tier bait and traps constantly.” “I have worked here for twelve years. Forget rats, I haven’t even seen a stray ant. And this young lady comes in talking about rats leading the way and roaches giving clues.” A younger maid chimed in from behind. “Sir, saying stuff like that makes it sound like we are just getting paid to do absolutely nothing.” Dexter let out a sharp whistle. “Hear that? Professional cleaners are on it every single day. Where exactly are you getting these clues? Straight from your own imagination?” I stood frozen. Cold sweat drenched my back. The combined glare of everyone in the parlor weighed on me like a mountain. Richard turned to look at me, his eyes clouded with pure venom. He closed the distance in three massive strides, his finger nearly poking through my shoulder. “You are a total fraud. You just wasted three hours of our critical search and rescue window. Three hours! Do you have any idea what that means?” “Mr. Lancaster, Harper isn’t…” Alistair tried to step between us, but Richard shoved him aside violently. “Shut your mouth!” Richard’s eyes were bloodshot. “You told the cops to follow the rats to the basement. Because of that one stupid sentence, we wasted three hours in this house. Three hours is enough to sweep half a damn mountain!” He whipped around to face Arthur. “Dad, I told you these people are just grifters after the reward money! But you insisted on bringing in some fringe consultant.” Arthur sat in his antique wingback chair. He closed his eyes and waved a hand dismissively. It was a clear gesture. Throw her out. A young man from the family’s legal team stepped out from the crowd. He wore a sharp suit and held a leather folder. “Miss Harper, we have documented your repeated attempts to intentionally mislead the rescue operation.” “Under civil law, we will be pursuing charges for obstructing an emergency response and malicious misdirection. The financial damages will be…” “That is enough.” Alistair cut him off, a rare edge of fury in his voice. “She is an intern. Every action taken was authorized by the experts on site. You cannot pin the entire blame on a single girl.” “Authorized?” Richard sneered. “Who authorized her? From the very beginning, she has been pointing fingers like a lunatic!” He waved a hand dismissively. Two massive security guards marched toward me. “Drag her out. I never want to see her face again.” When the guards clamped down on my arms, I had zero strength to fight back. Alistair trailed behind us all the way to the door, arguing heatedly, but Richard tuned him out entirely. Dexter followed me with his phone out, recording the whole thing. He shoved the camera right into my face. “Here we go, folks. Let the internet see what people will do for a ten million dollar bounty.” I was dragged through the hallway, across the marble living room. Every step pulled me further away from the basement. Marcus hadn’t moved an inch, but I saw his brow knit together. His gaze kept shifting between the smashed wall and my retreating back. His lips parted, but he didn’t say a word. Richard followed us all the way to the foyer. His voice chased me from behind, cold and absolute. “If anything happens to Oliver, I will make you pay with your life.” The heavy bronze front doors were swinging open, letting in a blinding strip of daylight. Right before the doors parted completely, something caught my peripheral vision. Down by the base of the basement stairs. A gray rat squeezed through the crack in the door. 4 The guards were hauling me outside. One of my feet was already past the threshold, but my entire body locked up as if nailed to the floor. The rat was moving too slowly. Normally, a rat darting from a gap would vanish in a blur. But this one took two steps and froze. Its four tiny legs trembled, struggling to hold up a belly so swollen it practically scraped the tiles. It crawled a few inches, then rested. Another rat popped out from the corner and nudged its head. The gray rat let out two weak, raspy squeaks. “Swallowed it. Swallowed it. Too heavy, can’t crawl.” “Spit it out!” “Can’t. My stomach is totally jammed.” I threw my entire weight backward with a violent jerk. The guard holding me hadn’t expected a young girl to pack that much explosive force, and his grip slipped. My knees slammed into the marble floor. The pain was so sharp my vision went black for a second, but I ignored it, scrambling forward on all fours. Dexter’s camera feed shook as he yelled. “Hey. She is making a run for it!” By the time I lunged, the gray rat was desperately trying to squeeze into a corner seam. I slid across the floor, slamming both hands over its back, pinning it flat against the freezing tiles. The rat twitched twice and gave up. Its belly was bloated like a stuffed walnut, the skin stretched so thin I could see dark, heavy outlines underneath. The entire room went dead silent. Richard charged back from the foyer. He saw me kneeling on the floor, cupping a filthy gray rat in my hands. My face was flushed red, and my voice shook uncontrollably. “You are still pulling this stunt!” Richard screamed. Marcus and Alistair rushed over from the living room. I clutched the rat, spun around, and stayed on my knees. The security guard reached out to grab me, but I fiercely shielded the dusty little creature in my palms. I threw my head back, looking straight at Arthur. The old man had quietly walked to the end of the hall, watching me from a dozen feet away. “Examine it.” My voice tore from my throat, so ragged I barely recognized it. “There is something inside this rat’s stomach. I swear on my life, if I am wrong after you cut it open, I will gladly go to prison!” Dexter burst into laughter from the back of the room. “Are you insane? You want us to perform an endoscopy on a rodent?” He shoved his phone closer. “Look at this, guys. The final meltdown of a scammer. That bounty really drove her crazy.” “Shut up.” Marcus finally spoke. He pushed through the crowd, knelt in front of me, and stared at the rat’s unnaturally bulging stomach. He stayed silent for two seconds before looking up and calling out. “Dr. Simon.” The forensic examiner stepped forward quickly. He took a knee, observed the rat for a few moments, and pulled a pair of forceps and a specimen tray from his kit. Dexter opened his mouth to complain, but a lethal glare from Marcus shut him up instantly. When Dr. Simon took the rat from my hands, I felt it give one last, feeble twitch against my skin. The gray rat squeaked two final times. “I ate so much. So full.” The scalpel sliced through the rat’s belly with practiced speed. The hallway was so quiet you could hear the faint, wet sound of skin parting. Ten seconds later, the forceps reached into the incision and pulled something out. It was a piece of reddish-brown flesh. 5 Everyone instinctively crowded closer, yet simultaneously took a half-step back, as if getting too close might infect them with something vile. Dexter was the first to break the tension. “Are you guys serious?” He pocketed his phone and scoffed. “The kitchen in this mansion is massive. A rat snagging a piece of leftover meat is supposed to be a clue?” He gestured toward the metal tray. “It is just a chunk of pork. Probably dropped on the floor during dinner prep.” Preston adjusted his glasses. He stayed quiet, but didn’t argue. Richard stood two paces away. His eyes darted between me and the dead rat. His mouth was a tight, hard line. Marcus didn’t entertain them. He stared intently at Dr. Simon. The forensic examiner held the tray up to the light, inspecting it for a few heavy seconds. When he looked up, his brow was locked in a deep knot. “The edges are cleanly severed. This wasn’t torn naturally. And look here.” He gently nudged the tissue with his forceps. “The surface shows signs of dehydration, likely from formalin immersion. The rat’s stomach acid couldn’t break this down, which is why it swallowed it whole.” “Formalin?” Preston finally frowned. The temperature in the room plummeted. Arthur stepped forward from the back of the crowd. He ground the tip of his cane into the floor and spoke in a gravelly whisper. “Find every single rat left in this house. Bring them all to me. Dead or alive.” The Lancaster bodyguards and Marcus’s officers immediately scattered like hounds. They tore through the living room, the kitchen, the pantry, the staff quarters. No corner was spared. Fifteen minutes later, a shout rang out from the kitchen. “Got one!” A tidal wave of people rushed in. An officer was kneeling behind the kitchen cabinets, holding up a snap trap. A small, gray rat was caught in the metal jaws. Its belly was slightly distended. The rat was still twitching. It wasn’t completely dead. “Cut it open,” Marcus ordered. Dr. Simon went to work immediately. The hallway descended into an unnatural silence, leaving only the wet slice of the scalpel. Seconds later, the forceps reached inside and extracted something. Half a human fingernail. Eleanor shoved her way to the front. She took one look, and it was as if someone had ripped the spine right out of her back. Her legs buckled, and she collapsed. Richard lunged to catch her. As he looked down at the nail, the blood drained from his face, turning his skin a ghastly, ash-grey. “Oliver’s.” Eleanor gripped Richard’s sleeve, her voice sounding like she was drowning. Nobody in the crowd made a sound. Arthur slowly walked forward. Every step was heavy, dragged out. He stared down at that tiny fragment of a nail for a long time. His lips trembled, but no sound came out. A profound, unbearable grief shattered his eyes. All the strength left his aged body, and he fell rigidly backward. The crowd erupted in panicked shouts, rushing to catch the patriarch and carry him to a recliner in the parlor. Total chaos took over the living room. Richard handed Eleanor over to the maids and stood frozen in the parlor doorway, staring at his collapsed father. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips pressed so tight they were bone-white. I stood on the outskirts of the crowd. The bruises on my knees were throbbing with heat. Alistair walked over and stood beside me. He didn’t say a word, but he placed a warm, reassuring hand on my back. Then, a sound caught my attention. Over by the baseboard radiator, a fly buzzed against the metal casing. “Smells so good behind the fridge. But I can’t find it.” “Can’t find it.” I slowly turned my head toward the kitchen. Arthur regained consciousness ten minutes later. Lying on the recliner, the very first words out of the old man’s mouth were absolute. “Oliver is gone. But I want him found. Alive or dead, bring my boy back!” That single sentence shifted the atmosphere in the estate from a rescue op to a murder investigation. Marcus instantly locked down the property. He called in a full crime scene unit to tear the place apart, room by room. I was the only one standing perfectly still, straining my ears to catch the whispers of the pests. But there was nothing. The rats and roaches had gone completely silent, as if acting on some collective instinct. Even the fly was gone. The mansion was as quiet as a tomb. Alistair crouched next to me, speaking softly. “Think back. When you heard the first rats, which part of the wall were they talking about exactly?” I closed my eyes. The conversation of the gray rat replayed in my mind like a tape recorder. The brick joints. Not behind the wall. Inside the wall. My eyes snapped open. “We shouldn’t just be looking behind the walls. We need to look for gaps small enough for a rat to crawl into.” Marcus glanced back at me. He didn’t ask for an explanation. He just pivoted his orders. “Everyone. Look for hidden compartments.” An hour later, an officer shouted from the bottom corner of the first-floor hallway. “Found a hidden panel behind the wainscoting.” 6 The officer knelt by the corner baseboard, using a screwdriver to pry off a loose piece of wooden paneling. Behind the wood was a square cavity, barely the size of a hand. Marcus shined his flashlight inside, sweeping the beam across the darkness. Curled in the corner was a dead rat. Its stomach was completely flat, entirely desiccated. But right next to the carcass, wedged deep in the crevice, was a piece of rubber. When Marcus pulled it out with his tweezers, everyone stopped breathing. It was the front half of a shoe sole. The edges were gnawed and torn, but the tread pattern was unmistakably clear. A row of jagged teeth grips, and in the center, the faint logo of a cartoon crocodile. Eleanor didn’t come over to look. She sat on the living room sofa, hands clasped over her knees, as rigid as a marble statue. But Benson, the butler, leaned in for a closer look. When he turned his head, his lips were quivering violently. “The young master loved those shoes. The crocodile ones. The Madam bought them for him at the city center last year.” Arthur sat motionless in his wingback chair, but his knuckles gripped the armrests until they turned white. Marcus sealed the evidence bag, handed it to Dr. Simon, and stared at the location of the hidden panel. It was in the hallway corner, less than twelve feet away from the smashed east wall in the basement. Only a load-bearing staircase wall separated them. The secret compartment perfectly aligned with the hollow wall’s trajectory. If the sledgehammer had hit just three feet to the left, it would have cracked this exact compartment open. “Too many coincidences,” Marcus muttered, sounding like he was talking to himself, or maybe to me. He stood up and surveyed the room. “Tear apart every single wainscot panel, baseboard, and ventilation duct in this house. There is more than one compartment.” For the next two hours, the house was methodically gutted. Panels were ripped off, baseboards pried loose, and vent covers completely dismantled. They lined up a table full of random debris, but only one item mattered. Behind the furthest wall of the walk-in closet in the second-floor nursery, they found another hidden cubby. It was empty, but stuck to the inner lining were a few strands of short, dark hair. Eleanor held those strands in the palm of her hand for a long, agonizing moment. Her eyelashes fluttered, but she refused to shed a single tear. Richard stood by the window, his back to the room, shoulders locked as tight as a coiled spring. Arthur walked out of the parlor, glanced at the hair, and returned to his chair. He looked as if he had aged ten years in ten minutes. I crouched by the tiles in the living room corner. Everyone was busy moving. I was the only one listening. Still, I heard nothing. The only sound left in the entire estate was a low buzzing drifting from the back kitchen door. Flies. A small swarm of greenbottle flies circling a specific spot. I got up and walked toward the kitchen. Just past the back door was a small utility room stacked with unopened water cases and cleaning supplies. Tucked all the way in the back, flush against the wall, was a massive stainless-steel double-door refrigerator. The gap between the bottom panel and the floor was barely an inch high. The flies were doing lazy laps right around that gap. “It opens. The panel opens.” I crouched down. The fluorescent light in the utility room was old, casting a sickly yellow glow that reflected blurry shadows on the fridge’s steel surface. I pressed my face near the floor and slipped a finger into the gap. My fingertip brushed against a hard, cold edge. Metal. “Captain Marcus,” I called out over my shoulder. Marcus was there in seconds. He eyed the gap, dropped to a crouch, and shined his light underneath. After two seconds of dead silence, he looked up and yelled for backup. “Pull this fridge out of the wall.” It took four men nearly twenty minutes to haul the heavy built-in unit out of its alcove. When the space behind it was finally exposed, every eye locked onto the floor. The fridge had been resting over a large, iron-gray maintenance hatch. The edges were scratched, bearing fresh marks from being pried open recently. Marcus grabbed a pry bar and wedged it under the lip. With a loud metallic pop, the hatch sprang open. A foul, freezing draft rushed up from the dark. The living room was immediately cleared of civilians. Dr. Simon put on a fresh pair of gloves and a heavy mask. He laid on his stomach and lowered half his body into the hatch. About ten minutes later, he pulled himself out. When he peeled off his gloves, his fingers were shaking. He leaned in and whispered something into Marcus’s ear. Marcus’s face drained of color for a split second before snapping back to a cold, hard mask. “We have recovered the entire right arm.” Marcus turned around. His voice wasn’t loud, but every syllable cut through the room like shattered glass. “Confirmed to be the remains of a young child. Preliminary forensic analysis indicates professional dismemberment. The tool used was likely a bone saw or surgical scalpel. Time of mutilation is estimated at no less than forty-eight hours.”

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I am a simple, hardworking corporate drone. After a long, agonizing, and entirely unrequited crush on my boss, I had a mild, petty meltdown. So, I stole his beloved pet snake. Surprisingly, the little thing was incredibly affectionate. It wasn’t shy at all. I kept it for a few days. Then, strange glowing text suddenly floated right in front of my eyes, like live-stream chat comments: [Where did this random background character come from? That little snake he’s holding is actually the Snake King, capable of taking human form.] [Once the Snake King gets through his mating cycle, he’s probably going to eat this nobody alive, leaving nothing but bones.] A cold sweat broke out across my back. I immediately tied the little snake into a neat, firm knot. That very night, I drove three hours into the countryside and dumped it in the middle of nowhere. The next morning. My boss, who was always impeccably dressed and intensely serious, walked into the office looking like a total wreck. His hair was a bird’s nest, and dark circles bruised the skin under his eyes. When someone asked him what happened, he gritted his teeth and growled: “I fell asleep, and when I woke up, I realized someone had dumped me in the woods.” 01 When Gary said those words, the entire conference room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. No one dared to breathe. “Ha, haha, Mr. Ford, you sure have a wild sense of humor,” someone finally piped up, desperately trying to break the ice. “Luke, did you sleep well last night?” Gary turned his gaze toward me, his voice cutting through the room like a sudden chill. My heart leaped into my throat, and my mouth hung open. “Huh?” Gary let out a cold snort and looked away, completely ignoring me from that moment on. I blinked, utterly baffled. Beside me, a coworker nudged my arm with his elbow. “Did you piss off Mr. Ford?” I gave him my most innocent look. “No way.” Could he have found out that I was the one who swiped his snake? But according to those floating comments, that gorgeous little serpent was dangerous. Gary should honestly be thanking me for saving his life. “And here I thought you finally grew some balls and snuck into Mr. Ford’s bed,” my coworker whispered, a sleazy grin spreading across his face. I stomped on his foot with all my might. “Shut up. If I ever decide I’m tired of living, maybe I’ll consider it.” Suddenly, a freezing glare locked onto the two of us. I looked up, meeting a pair of breathtakingly beautiful, icy eyes. Gary spoke, his voice dropping to a low, commanding register: “Everyone else is dismissed. Luke, stay behind.” 02 Dozens of suggestive, knowing looks shot toward me, making me feel like I was sitting on a bed of nails. I squirmed as the room slowly emptied. Once the last person left, I stood up on trembling legs. Hoping a smile might soften whatever blow was coming, I forced my lips into a polite curve: “Mr. Ford, is there something you need?” Gary walked slowly to the massive floor-to-ceiling window, turning his back to me as he stared out at the sprawling city skyline. My chest thundered with anxiety. I didn’t dare utter a single sound. After what felt like an eternity, Gary spoke, his voice barely above a whisper. “Do you hate me?” “Um, what?” I choked on my own spit, coughing slightly. What kind of bizarre, loaded question was that? Gary’s shoulders trembled slightly, but he composed himself almost instantly. I took a cautious step forward. “Mr. Ford, are you alright?” He still didn’t turn around, keeping his aloof, aristocratic back to me. When he spoke, there was a faint, fragile crack in his stubborn tone: “It is nothing. You may leave.” I scratched my head, completely lost. “Oh, alright. Let me know if you need anything else, sir.” “Mhm.” I turned and walked toward the heavy mahogany door. Just as I turned, I caught his reflection in the glass of the window. For a split second, it looked like a single, quiet tear was sliding down Gary’s cheek. But he wiped it away so quickly, his face returning to its usual stoic mask, that I doubted my own eyes. What on earth? Jesus. I must be getting old. Pulling all-nighters was starting to make me hallucinate. I walked out of the office. Before I could take more than a few steps down the hallway, a sharp, high-pitched whistling sound echoed from inside, sounding exactly like an old-fashioned kettle coming to a boil. I rubbed my nose and mumbled to myself. What year was it anyway? Who still used an ancient, whistling kettle in a luxury high-rise office? Did my billionaire boss have some incredibly bizarre retro fetish? 03 It was another grueling day of being a corporate slave. Work was already exhausting enough, but Gary kept watching me with the most unsettling, eerie looks. I had to admit, a pet really did take after its owner. When Gary stared at me, he had that exact same damp, chilly, and hypnotic intensity that the beautiful little snake had. Suddenly, a heavy wave of guilt washed over me. The moment the clock struck five, I bolted out of the office, eager to drive back and retrieve the poor thing. But before I could reach the elevator, a firm, warm hand pressed down on my shoulder. “Where are you going?” A low, heated breath brushed against my ear, sending a shiver down my spine. I forced a dry laugh and stepped back, subtly breaking his grip. “Mr. Ford, this is personal business.” With that, I took advantage of his brief moment of hesitation and hurried away. I had no idea what was wrong with him lately. He was acting completely out of character. … After a few hours of navigating traffic, I finally made it back to the wooded outskirts where I had abandoned the snake the previous night. Because I had been worried about it getting hurt, I had actually put it in a small wire cage and hidden it safely under some bushes. But now, the wire door was wide open, and the cage was completely empty. I spent hours searching, digging through the dirt with my bare hands. By the time I stopped, I was covered in dust, and my shirt was soaked through with sweat. It wasn’t until the sky turned pitch black that I finally gave up. Smelling like a swamp, I checked into a cheap, sketchy motel nearby just to take a quick shower before heading home. By the time I finally unlocked my apartment door, it was almost midnight. The moment the door swung open, I froze. Two glowing, glassy spheres stared back at me from the darkness. My heart nearly stopped. I fumbled for the light switch and flipped it on. There, coiled proudly right in the middle of my living room, was the very snake I had thrown away. It was a gorgeous Beauty Snake, its scales a striking pattern of brownish-gray with delicate black bands running down its spine. It sat there, coiled tightly like a tiny king, holding its head high and staring at me with undeniable authority. I rubbed my eyes, convinced I was dreaming. “Nox!” Nox didn’t move. He just stared at me with those massive, round eyes, looking incredibly pathetic. I took a tentative step forward. Only then did Nox begin to slither toward me. He still looked visibly annoyed, his little body tense, but he slowly began to climb up my leg, wrapping himself around me. Since I had just showered, I smelled faintly of cheap drugstore body wash, and damp droplets of water still clung to my hair, occasionally dripping down onto his scales. The moment a droplet hit him, his entire body went rigid. He even stopped flicking his tongue. I didn’t know if I was imagining things, but he looked like he was about to burst into tears. I scooped him up, completely disregarding my fears, and showered his little scaly head with kisses. “I’m so sorry, Nox! You went through so much because of me. I don’t know what possessed me to dump you. Can you ever forgive me?” 04 Nox looked utterly dizzy from my sudden onslaught of affection. His vertical pupils locked onto mine, and his cool body coiled tightly around my arm, clinging to me as if his life depended on it. In an instant, all the tension left my body. I finally understood the sheer, intoxicating relief a toxic partner feels when they successfully win back their ex. I seriously wanted to slap myself for being so heartless. After a quick rinse, I took Nox into the bedroom to sleep, just like I used to. I always ran hot at night, so having his cool, smooth body draped over me felt like heaven. The moment my head hit the pillow, I drifted into a deep sleep. During the night, I had a vivid, strange dream. I dreamed a man had broken into my room. He stood right beside my bed, watching me. The moonlight filtering through the blinds was too faint for me to make out his face. “Luke, I don’t care if you have someone else out there,” he whispered, his voice trembling. “I don’t even care that you threw me away. Just, as long as you still let me come home, it is fine.” With that, he leaned down, burying his face in the crook of my neck, his entire frame shaking. Warm, wet tears soaked into my t-shirt, leaving a damp, heavy sensation against my skin. I felt a bit annoyed by the clinginess. In my half-asleep state, I tried to push him away. The figure stiffened instantly. He didn’t make a sound, nor did he pull away. He just stayed there, his tears flowing even faster, weeping with the tragic intensity of a melodrama hero. … The next morning, when I opened my eyes, the dream was still vivid. I rubbed my aching neck, my mind filled with the absurdity of the nightmare. While brushing my teeth, I caught sight of myself in the mirror and froze. There were several dark, purplish-red marks scattered across my collarbone. I pulled my collar down. The marks traced a path down my chest, disappearing beneath the waistband of my underwear. I stared at them, completely numb. Suddenly, the floating chat comments began to scroll frantically across my vision again: [Those marks were left by the Snake King! How can you still keep that thing in your house?] [This snake literally crawled all the way back from the outskirts of the city. Doesn’t that terrify you?] My body went rigid, and my hands began to tremble. From the hallway, I heard a faint, soft rustling sound. Nox poked his little head through the crack of the bathroom door, looking up at me with the most adorable, innocent expression. I stared back at him. The next second, I let out a squeal, scooped Nox into my arms, and began kissing him all over again. Stupid comments. How dare they call my precious, sweet Nox a terrifying monster? I couldn’t even begin to fathom the sheer struggle and pain my poor baby must have gone through just to find his way back to me. After cuddling him for what felt like hours, I finally set him down reluctantly. “Baby, I have to go to work to buy your food. Wait for me at home, okay?” Nox coiled into a neat circle, tilting his head as if he understood perfectly. The chat comments flashed violently: [Oh my god, this idiot has been completely hypnotized by the Snake King. He’s totally lost his mind.] [We warned you. When the Snake King gets bored of him and swallows him whole, he’s going to regret everything.] I completely ignored them. Humming a cheerful tune, I walked out the door and headed to work. 05 As I sat at my desk, my mind was entirely consumed by thoughts of Nox. To be honest, I used to be terrified of snakes. I always thought of them as cold-blooded, creepy monsters. The mere thought of their slick, cold bodies sliding against my skin used to give me goosebumps. But then, after several failed attempts to flirt with Gary, I had to accept the brutal reality. He was a straight-laced, utterly unreachable heterosexual man. That realization had triggered a brief, petty wave of madness in me. During a visit to his penthouse to retrieve a document he had left behind, I happened to spot Nox. He was resting elegantly in a custom-built terrarium, flicking his dark tongue as he stared at me. In that moment, a sudden rush of sheer audacity took over. I reached in, grabbed the snake, and stuffed him straight into my jacket pocket. The little guy had looked at me in shock, trying to squirm free, but he couldn’t break my grip. Ultimately, he just poked his tiny nose out of my pocket, looking at me with utter helplessness. Well, if I couldn’t have Gary, then I would take his, snake! But after keeping Nox for a few days, I quickly realized that snakes were actually incredibly sweet. He had an unbelievably gentle temperament. Even when I annoyed him, the worst he would do was sulk in the corner. Within an hour, he’d be slithering back, wrapping himself comfortably around my wrist. Thinking about it made my lips curl into a smile, and I started humming softly. My coworker turned to me, curious. “Luke, you’re in a great mood today.” Before I could answer, he scratched his head and muttered to himself, “Weird. Mr. Ford seems to be in a fantastic mood too. I could’ve sworn he looked ready to murder someone last night.” I shrugged. “Who knows.” Suddenly, my coworker went dead silent and sat up straight, instantly looking incredibly busy. Puzzled, I felt a familiar, rich scent wash over me, a deep, luxurious note of sandalwood and cedar. Gary’s smooth, velvety voice echoed from behind me: “Luke, come with me to my office.” 06 My entire body froze. I slowly turned around to face Gary. He was immaculately put together today, wearing his usual polite, slightly detached smile. I followed him up to the top floor, my mind racing. This was highly unusual. Why did he need to see me? And why didn’t he just have his assistant call me? Why did the CEO personally come down to fetch a low-level designer? Are billionaires really this free? Gary sat behind his massive mahogany desk, clasping his hands together in a formal gesture. “There is an industry dinner tonight. You are coming with me.” A massive question mark popped up in my head. Putting aside the fact that this was a secretary’s job, even if they needed a designer, it shouldn’t fall on a low-level draft technician like me. Seeing my silence, Gary’s brow furrowed slightly. “Why? Do you have other plans tonight?” “Well, actually,” I dragged out my words, clearly reluctant. Gary blinked. “Good. If it is nothing urgent, cancel it.” I looked at him with a miserable expression. “Mr. Ford, I don’t have any experience with these high-profile dinners. What if I mess up?” Gary completely ignored my protest, continuing smoothly, “Excellent. I will have someone send over a suit for you shortly. It’s a formal event, so you need to look the part.” … I lost track of how long I sat in front of the vanity mirror. My ass was practically numb by the time the stylist, who was working with extremely dramatic hand gestures, finally stepped back with a satisfied nod. “There. Now you actually look like you belong by Mr. Ford’s side.” I rolled my eyes. “I’m just accompanying him as an assistant, not his date. What do you mean by belonging?” The stylist gave me a thoroughly confused look. “An assistant?” “Yeah. He’s probably just bringing me along to drink on his behalf. I get how these things work.” “You don’t know shit about,” Before the stylist could finish his sentence, the door swung open. Gary stepped into the room, his sharp eyes instantly locking onto me. “Is he ready?” The stylist offered a quick, nervous smile. “All done, Mr. Ford. Are you pleased?” Gary stared at me, his gaze intense, raw, and incredibly hot. I watched his Adam’s apple bob up and down. After a long, breathless pause, he spoke softly: “I am, highly pleased.” 07 By evening, I was standing beside Gary, stepping into a grand ballroom filled with clinking crystal glasses and murmuring elites. Every other guest seemed to be paired up. If I were straight, I could easily lie to myself and pretend I was just there to be his shield against free drinks. But the problem was, I was very gay, and I actually harbored highly inappropriate feelings for my boss. Standing next to him under the warm, glittering chandeliers made me feel incredibly self-conscious. Gary gently patted my shoulder. “Don’t worry. Just stay close to me. Don’t wander off, and let me handle the rest.” “You got it, boss.” As it turned out, I had vastly overestimated my duties. Given Gary’s terrifyingly high status in the business world, absolutely no one dared to pressure him into drinking. My sole purpose seemed to be standing next to him like a piece of handsome arm candy, listening to people flatter him endlessly. I felt more like a bodyguard than an assistant. I let out a quiet yawn, thoroughly bored. Suddenly, Gary leaned in. “Luke, could you fetch me a glass of juice?” I snapped out of my daze, looking into his pale, striking eyes. “Right away, sir.” I wandered over to the drinks table and picked up a vibrant, beautifully colored cocktail that smelled sweet and fruity. When I brought it back, Gary didn’t take the glass. Instead, he leaned forward and took a sip directly from my hand. His cold fingertips brushed against my wrist, sending a jolt of electricity straight up my arm. I flinched, nearly dropping the glass. Gary suddenly choked, coughing as his brow knit in immediate disgust. “That is alcohol.” My eyes went wide. “What?” Within three seconds, a deep crimson flush crept up his neck to his ears. His gaze grew glassy and unfocused, and he slumped forward, resting his heavy forehead against my shoulder. “I, I don’t feel well.” Oh, great. I had heard rumors that Gary never touched a drop of alcohol, but I had no idea his tolerance was practically non-existent. Using every ounce of strength I possessed, I managed to drag his dead weight out to the parking lot and heave him into the back of his car. I patted his cheek gently. “Mr. Ford, where do you live?” Gary blinked lazily, murmuring a string of street names and numbers. The address sounded incredibly familiar. Wait, that was my apartment address. “Mr. Ford, that’s my place. Where is your actual home? Or can you give me your phone so I can call someone to pick you up?” Gary looked deeply offended, correcting me with absolute, drunken gravity: “That is my home.” “…” 08 There was absolutely no reasoning with a drunk. Left with no other option, I had to bring him back to my tiny apartment. I dragged him into the guest room and tossed him onto the bed, then immediately rushed out to find Nox. But no matter where I looked, under the sofa, behind the curtains, inside the cabinets, there was no sign of him. Panic seized me, and cold sweat broke out across my forehead. What if someone had broken in and stolen him? Suddenly, a heavy, dull thud echoed from the guest bedroom. I rushed back toward the sound. Gary was no longer on the bed. Instead, slithering awkwardly across the hardwood floor, was Nox. … Nox wobbled unsteadily as he made his way toward me. His massive eyes looked completely dazed. He climbed up my side, winding his way up to my shoulders, and began rubbing his little head affectionately against my neck. I stood frozen, completely paralyzed. A cold sweat drenched my shirt. Yes, Nox was still adorable. But could someone please explain to me where my six-foot-two boss had gone? As if to answer my silent question, the weight around my neck began to shift. Within seconds, the cool, scaly coils transformed, expanding until they became the solid, warm form of Gary once again. He mumbled incoherent complaints about feeling hot, his hands sliding down to wrap tightly around my waist, his fingers tugging at the belt of my trousers. I grabbed my pants with one hand and held him back by his chest with the other, my mind completely fracturing under the sheer absurdity of the situation. This couldn’t be real. “Luke, it hurts, I feel so hot.” Gary looked up at me with tear-filled, misty eyes, looking entirely defenseless. “I think, I think I’m in heat.” Right then and there, I officially confirmed that my boss was not human. Because no normal human being would ever say something like that. I tried to push him away. “Mr. Ford, I can’t help you with this. Why don’t I go find you a nice female snake?” Gary’s hand slid lower, his voice entirely too certain. “You can help me. Only you.” I blocked his wandering hands with one arm while wrapping my other arm around his waist to keep him from collapsing. But wait, if he was a snake, did that mean he had, two of, I couldn’t control my eyes. My gaze flicked downward. Before my rational mind could stop me, I swallowed hard, trying to convince myself that I was just curious. Just a little peek. It was a once-in-a-lifetime scientific inquiry. But the moment my fingers brushed against him, Gary shuddered violently. The last shred of his sanity seemed to snap, his eyes flashing a dangerous crimson as he pinned me flat against the mattress.

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When I saved a suffocating kid on the side of the road, I accidentally cracked one of his ribs. Instead of an ounce of gratitude, his mother dragged me to the police, insisting I committed intentional assault and forcing me to pay twenty thousand dollars in damages. When I initially refused, she launched a massive smear campaign online. She painted me as a sadistic medical worker who deliberately harmed children, leading to my termination and a relentless wave of cyberbullying. But karma only took two months to circle back. When her son choked and turned blue a second time, she fell to her knees, sobbing and begging for my help. I just turned and walked away. I told her I couldn’t afford a second assault charge. … After working overtime for two days straight, I was dragging my exhausted feet through the courtyard of my apartment complex. Suddenly, a loud crowd gathered just up ahead, buzzing with panic. I quickened my pace. In the center of the circle, a well-dressed woman was clutching a little boy, screaming her lungs out. “Somebody help! Please, somebody save my baby!” “I am begging you, he is dying!” The little boy in her arms was turning a horrifying shade of violet. His tiny hands and feet thrashed wildly in the air. Crumbly bits of snack food were smeared around his mouth. He was choking. Total airway obstruction. My heart dropped. I sprinted right through the crowd. “Did anyone call 911?” “I did! They are not here yet!” The mother was a frantic mess, her face completely covered in tears and snot. The kid was already fading. His limbs went limp, dropping dead to his sides. He was seconds away from slipping past the point of no return. I gritted my teeth. There was no time to second-guess. I snatched the boy from her arms, flipped him over my thigh, positioned the heel of my palm right between his shoulder blades, and delivered sharp, forceful upward thrusts. “Be gentle! You are hurting him!” I ignored the mother’s hysterical shrieking and thrust four, five times in rapid succession. Finally, a sticky mass of fruit jelly shot out of the boy’s mouth and splattered onto the pavement. The kid immediately broke into a loud, gasping wail. I let out a massive breath of relief. But as my palm rested against the boy’s chest, I felt a very faint, sickening crack beneath the skin. My stomach plummeted. Before I could even open my mouth, the mother lunged forward and snatched him back. “Baby! Mommy is here! You are safe, you are safe!” She held him tight, laughing and crying all at once, kissing his face over and over. Then she looked up at me. “Thank you! Oh my god, thank you so much!” “I am Brenda. If you ever need anything, anything at all, you come find me. You saved his life!” Brenda grabbed my hands, showering me with endless gratitude. The little boy cried for a bit before his wails turned into whimpers of “It hurts.” He was barely three years old. He couldn’t articulate exactly what was wrong. Brenda’s newly settled nerves spiked right back up. She frantically checked him over. “Sapper, baby, what is wrong? Where does it hurt?” She looked up at me with panicked eyes. “Is something else wrong with him?” I looked right at her. “I had to use the Heimlich maneuver, and if you don’t use enough force, the obstruction won’t dislodge.” “You need to take Sapper to the ER for an X-ray right now. I might have fractured one of his ribs.” Brenda’s face instantly went pale. She scooped Sapper up into her arms. “I am taking him to the hospital right now. I will properly thank you when we get back!” Just as she said that, the ambulance sirens blared as the rig pulled into the complex. Brenda rushed Sapper into the back of the ambulance, and they sped off. When I finally got back to my apartment, I felt a warm sense of comfort. I had saved a life today. All those emergency response drills at the clinic had actually paid off. That evening, Brenda and her husband, Gary, showed up at my door with a premium fruit basket and an expensive bottle of wine. “We owe you everything, Sylvia! It was pure chaos yesterday, and we didn’t get to thank you properly!” Brenda was overwhelmingly warm and affectionate. Gary nodded vigorously beside her. “Absolutely! You ever need a favor, you just say the word. I have got your back!” he said, patting his own chest proudly. I smiled and told them it was no problem at all. I thought they were decent, upstanding people who knew how to be grateful. I had no idea that just three days later, my pure act of kindness would result in a nightmare that nearly ruined my life. 1 On the afternoon of the third day, I was at my desk at the clinic, organizing patient charts. Bang. The office door violently swung open. “Sylvia! This is bad, you need to see this!” Sophie, our new intern, rushed in. Her face was flushed bright red with panic. She shoved her phone right into my face. “Look at what is trending locally!” The headline glared back at me in bold letters. Vicious Medical Worker Intentionally Snaps Toddler’s Rib Out of Spite. It was already the top trending post on the city’s local forum. In the post, Brenda had painted herself as the ultimate victim, a helpless mother abused by a heartless, sadistic healthcare worker. Every word dripped with calculated venom. Hordes of self-righteous internet crusaders had flocked to the comments. They had already doxxed my home address and my workplace. The hate was suffocating. “A psycho like this actually works in medicine? Terrifying!” “What an absolute monster. Doing that to a tiny toddler!” The few comments pointing out that CPR often results in broken ribs were instantly buried under a landslide of toxic rage. I stared at the screen in complete disbelief. Just days ago, Brenda was practically kissing my feet in gratitude. Now she was broadcasting my face to the world, dragging my name through the mud. I felt dizzy. Did I hallucinate saving her son’s life? “Sylvia? Are you okay?” Sophie looked at me with wide, worried eyes. I had been mentoring her since she started. She knew exactly what kind of person I was, and she knew I would never do something so malicious. Before I could even formulate a response, someone knocked on the door frame. Dr. Harrison, the clinic director, walked in with a dark expression. “Sylvia, in my office. Now.” In his office, Dr. Harrison rubbed his temples, refusing to meet my eyes. “Sylvia, this situation is a massive PR disaster for the clinic.” “Until this blows over, I need to put you on unpaid leave.” “Dr. Harrison, I saved that boy’s life…” “I don’t need the details right now. Just pack up your desk and go home for the afternoon.” He turned his back to me, signaling the conversation was over. I clenched my jaw so hard my teeth ached. I couldn’t force a single word out. After years of breaking my back for this clinic, I wasn’t even given the basic dignity of an explanation. My chest felt like it was trapped in a vise. When I returned to my apartment complex, the lively chatter in the community garden completely died the second I walked in. Mrs. Higgins, my neighbor, grabbed the woman next to her, leaned in, and whispered something. The woman’s eyes immediately darted toward me, filled with undisguised shock and absolute disgust. The hushed whispers followed me all the way to my building. I felt like I was suffocating. I practically ran to my door and locked myself inside. On the second day of my suspension, Brenda and Gary showed up at my apartment. The pounding on the door was so violent the frame rattled. I threw the door open. Gary stood there, his face engorged with rage, jabbing a thick finger right at my nose. “Sylvia! You vicious bitch, what the hell is wrong with you!” Doors down the hallway cracked open as neighbors poked their heads out to watch the drama. My temper instantly spiked. “Excuse me?” “Don’t play dumb with me!” A woman I didn’t recognize shoved her way to the front, slapping a medical X-ray right against my chest. Her voice was shrill and piercing. “The doctor said my nephew’s third rib is completely fractured! You did this on purpose!” I took a deep, steadying breath. “Brenda, breaking a rib during the Heimlich maneuver is incredibly common…” “Bullshit!” Gary slammed his palm against my doorframe. “Common? You think snapping a kid’s bone in half is common? You made it severe on purpose! You were just getting off on hurting us!” I flinched, my own voice rising in defense. “I literally saved your son from choking to death! Why on earth would I want to hurt him?” “Because you are a bitter, jealous psycho!” Brenda lunged forward, grabbing the collar of my shirt. Her manicured nails dug into my neck, leaving a stinging scratch. “You couldn’t stand seeing my son happy! You wanted him dead! You are a murderer!” A couple of neighbors finally rushed over to pry her hands off me. Looking at Brenda and Gary’s rabid, blood-red faces, I felt a chilling wave of absurdity wash over me. The building manager hurried out of the elevator, trying to play peacemaker. “Let’s take this inside, folks. No need to cause a scene in the hallway.” “Take it inside?” Brenda whipped her head around and screamed at the manager. “I want everyone in this building to know exactly what kind of monster Sylvia is!” “Playing the hero in public while secretly torturing my baby! He is three years old, and she broke his ribs!” I clenched my fists. The scratch on my neck burned fiercely. “I used textbook emergency protocols! Go ask literally any ER doctor in this city if rib fractures aren’t legally protected during life-saving CPR!” Gary whipped out his phone and hit play on an audio file. “I had to use the Heimlich maneuver, and if you don’t use enough force, the obstruction won’t dislodge. I might have fractured one of his ribs.” It was my own voice from that night. “You hear that!” Gary spat, the saliva practically hitting my face. “You admitted it yourself! You knew exactly what you were doing, and you pressed down hard anyway! If that isn’t intentional assault, what is it?” My mind went completely blank. I had warned her out of genuine concern for the boy’s safety, and now she had weaponized it as a confession. Before I could even process the absolute madness of the situation, Brenda’s voice dropped into a lethal sneer. “I already called the cops. You can save your excuses for the precinct.” 2 Ten minutes later, two patrol officers arrived. Brenda shoved her phone right into the cops’ faces, playing the recording on a loop. “Look at this, Officer,” she cried. “She openly admits she knew it would break his bones, and she did it anyway. This is textbook intentional assault!” I was shaking with pure rage. I stood there and explained exactly what happened that night to the officers. “It happened right out by the street. There were a dozen witnesses! Everyone saw me save him!” Gary scoffed loudly. “Seeing you out there proves nothing! Who knows if you used the distraction to purposely crush Sapper’s chest?” Brenda squeezed out two crocodile tears, looking pitifully at the cops. “Officers, you have to get justice for my baby.” The cops were clearly exhausted by her theatrics and told us all to head down to the precinct for formal mediation. Once we were in the mediation room, Brenda threw an absolute fit, screaming and demanding financial compensation. “I don’t care about your excuses! You are paying up! Sapper is our only child, our absolute treasure, and you are going to pay for what you did!” Gary chimed in, practically salivating. “That is right! Medical bills, professional care, emotional distress, and lost wages. It comes out to exactly twenty thousand dollars. We won’t take a penny less!” “My son is going to be a CEO one day, and you traumatized him! How is he supposed to focus on his development now!” I explained the Heimlich maneuver to the two precinct mediators, even pulling up medical journals on my phone to prove my point. The mediators understood completely. They spent the next thirty minutes trying to explain the law to Brenda until they were blue in the face. They repeatedly told her this didn’t qualify as intentional assault. Brenda didn’t care. She actually threw herself onto the precinct floor, wailing so loud the walls vibrated. “I don’t want to live anymore! My baby’s ribs are snapped in half, and this murderer gets to just walk away! Is there no justice in this world!” The building manager had followed us to the precinct. All he cared about was making the noise stop. “Sylvia, look… I know you were trying to help. But the fact is, the boy’s bones are broken, and you are going to have to pay something to make this right.” He put on a sickeningly paternal tone. “Sometimes good intentions cause real damage. Just pay the money. Think of it as buying peace of mind for the parents.” I looked around the room. Gary and Brenda’s faces were twisted with undisguised greed and triumph. The manager just wanted to wash his hands of the drama. Not a single person in that room cared that I had literally saved a child from suffocating to death. Suddenly, a wave of profound exhaustion washed over me. I didn’t want to fight these parasites anymore. I just wanted to get out of that room. Under Brenda’s smug, victorious gaze, I took the pen and signed my name on the “Voluntary Compensation Agreement.” I looked up, my voice dropping to a dead, icy calm. “I looked up the law. Good Samaritan protections mean I don’t owe you a single dime for injuries caused during a life-saving rescue.” “But I am done arguing with trash like you. I can afford to lose the money, but I refuse to let you drag my life through the mud any longer.” When I got home, my phone was blowing up. Over ninety-nine unread messages in the complex’s HOA group chat. I opened it. Brenda had posted a massive voice memo. Her voice was shrill and triumphant. “Hey neighbors, I need you all to see this! Sylvia broke my son’s ribs and tried to deny it!” “I was too nice to press criminal charges. If I wasn’t so forgiving, there is no way she would have gotten off just by paying a fine!” A cascade of replies flooded in beneath it. Mrs. Higgins from the fruit stand wrote, “Oh Brenda, you are way too kind-hearted for your own good!” Mr. Franks from the bakery chimed in, “Sylvia went way over the line! What kind of adult uses that much force on a baby?” I typed out a furious explanation. The second I hit send, a notification popped up. You have been removed from this group by the admin. I threw my phone onto the table, tilting my head back to force the tears back down. Well played, Brenda. I stared blankly at the ceiling, my chest feeling like a hollowed-out icebox. Did I really commit a crime by saving a life? But lying there that night, I had no idea that Brenda’s karma would arrive far sooner than I could have ever imagined.

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My roommate borrowed a quick five bucks from me to buy instant noodles. An hour later, she was flexing her “wealth” and offering to treat our entire drama club to a luxury dinner. I kept my mouth shut and made a single phone call that completely shattered her little fantasy. When the bill arrived, all the color drained from her face. … 1 “Loren, you still have like a thousand bucks on that prepaid card, right?” Vilma leaned over, a sickeningly sweet smile plastered on her face. “Let’s go get a nice dinner this Saturday. My treat.” I didn’t even bother looking up from my laptop. “No.” Her voice spiked an octave. “I am offering to treat you, and you are saying no?” “My tonsils are inflamed.” “So what!” Vilma grabbed my arm. “You can just order something light! Babe, I am finally treating you to a nice meal. Can’t you just give me this one?” I yanked my arm back. “I said no.” “Loren!” Her face darkened instantly. “Are you intentionally disrespecting me?” I finally looked at her. “Are you out of your mind?” Vilma crossed her arms defensively. “I am trying to do something nice for you, and you curse at me?” I stared her down. “Two days ago you were crying about being broke and begged me for five bucks just to buy ramen. Today you are playing sugar daddy? Did you win the lottery?” Vilma let out a cold laugh. “Wow, you are so stuck up. I am taking over a dozen people from the drama club out to dinner. It is going to cost over a thousand bucks.” I narrowed my eyes. “With what money?” As I stared at her, a memory flashed in my head. The last time we were at that high-end restaurant, I caught her pulling a waiter aside. I clearly remembered the greedy glint in her eyes as she whispered, “Can someone use a prepaid account just by giving the phone number?” “Vilma,” I dropped my voice to a whisper. “Are you planning on using my card?” Her face went completely rigid. “What the hell are you talking about?” “I am asking you a direct question!” “Do you have any proof, or do you just like screaming at people!” Vilma yelled, her voice echoing in the dorm. “Are you insane, Loren? I offer to buy you dinner, and you accuse me of stealing?” “Offer to buy me dinner?” I scoffed. “You couldn’t afford a cup of noodles, and now you are suddenly taking fifteen people to a luxury restaurant? Tell me, where is this sudden generosity coming from?” Vilma glared at me. “Did I ever say I was using your card? You are just making up lies to slander me!” “Then why did you ask the waiter if you could charge the account with just a phone number?” “Am I not allowed to be curious?” she shrieked. “If I look up a word in a dictionary, are you gonna accuse me of stealing your vocabulary too?” I actually laughed out loud at the sheer absurdity. Vilma snatched her purse and stormed toward the door, turning around at the last second. “Loren, if you are going to be this paranoid, don’t ever ask to borrow anything from me again.” “When have I ever borrowed anything from you?” I fired back, my voice dripping with ice. “Let’s see… the shampoo, the body wash, the laundry detergent. Which of those didn’t I buy?” “Fine!” Her face flushed a dark, angry red. “I will buy brand new bottles tomorrow and throw them at you! Nobody wants your cheap garbage!” “Oh, you will replace them.” I stared dead into her eyes. “You will go buy them right now. Do not wait until tomorrow.” Vilma froze. “You…” “Go.” I picked up my phone. “Or do I need to walk you down to the convenience store myself?” She shot me a venomous glare, slammed the door, and left. I didn’t hesitate for a second. I immediately dialed the restaurant’s manager. “Hi, this is Loren, I have a VIP account with you. I need to update my security settings immediately. From now on, no one can authorize a charge without my physical ID present. No exceptions.” “Yes. I don’t care if it is my own mother. If my ID isn’t there, decline the charge.” 2 “The electricity bill is $33. The power gets cut at 11:00 PM tonight.” A message popped up in our dorm group chat. Vilma replied instantly. “Everyone send me $11.10. I will collect it and pay.” I glanced at the bill attached to the message and typed back in the group. “The bill is $33. There are four of us. That is $8.25 each. Why are you asking for $11.10?” Vilma popped her head out from her top bunk. “You are rich. What is the big deal if you pay a little more?” “Why should I?” “Because you are the one blasting the AC all day! Me and Sarah hate the cold, we never turn it on! You are the one living in luxury, you should pay the difference!” I laughed. “You hate the cold? It was ninety-five degrees last week, and you spent the entire afternoon practically hugging the AC vent. Do you want me to pull up the photos Sarah took?” Vilma’s face turned bright pink. “That… that was a special circumstance!” “Special how? When you were leeching off my AC, you didn’t volunteer to pay extra, did you?” “You…” She gritted her teeth. “Are you seriously doing this, Loren? Over three dollars? You are going to argue with me over three dollars?” “Three dollars is still money,” I stared right back at her. “Why don’t you cover it for me, since you are so generous?” Vilma choked on her words. Our other two roommates, sensing the tension, quietly transferred exactly $8.25 in the group chat and pretended to be dead asleep. My phone pinged twice with the transfers. I looked at Vilma. “They paid. You are the only one left. Send it.” Vilma’s face was practically glowing red. “I… I will send it later.” “Later when? Didn’t you say you were collecting it to pay now? The power cuts at eleven. It is eight-thirty.” “I said I will do it later! God!” she suddenly yelled. “Why are you rushing me!” I didn’t say a word. I just watched her. She aggressively tapped her phone screen a few times, her face turning even redder. “I… I don’t have enough money right now,” her voice dropped to a barely audible whisper. “You don’t have enough?” I leaned back in my chair. “Aren’t you treating fifteen people from the drama club to a massive luxury dinner this Saturday?” “What, you can’t even afford eight bucks for electricity?” Vilma’s eyes darted around the room. “That… that is totally different.” “Different?” I laughed. “You have money to play big shot at a restaurant, but no money to keep the lights on? That is hilarious.” I stood up and grabbed my shower caddy. “The power cuts at eleven. You have two and a half hours.” When I reached the door, I looked over my shoulder. “Oh, by the way. You don’t have to pay me back that five bucks for the noodles. Consider it a favor.” “What favor?” She looked confused. “I will eat the three-dollar difference on the electric bill.” “But Vilma, that restaurant is going to cost a hell of a lot more than three dollars. You better go secure a bank loan before Saturday.” 3 On Saturday, Vilma had barely been at the restaurant for two hours. Voice calls and text messages started machine-gunning onto my phone screen, blowing it up instantly. “Loren! You did this on purpose, didn’t you!” “Unfreeze the card right now! Or I swear I will make your life a living hell!” I didn’t reply to a single one. A minute later, a call came through. It was the restaurant manager. “Miss Loren, your classmate said you were coming down personally with your ID to unfreeze the account…” “How much did she spend?” “Nine hundred and eighty-six dollars.” I laughed. The audacity of ignorance truly knew no bounds. “Manager, please put her on the phone.” After two seconds of dead silence, Vilma’s sickly-sweet, innocent voice came through the speaker. “Audie, babe, you promised to let me borrow the card…” I cut her off immediately. “Did I promise you in a dream you had?” “Babe, we already ate all the food. What are you gonna do…” Her voice was dripping with manufactured sugar. “You are always so good to me, you wouldn’t make a big deal out of this, right? I will totally buy you dinner next time…” “Next time?” I let out a sharp laugh. “You tried to extort three dollars from me for an electric bill. How exactly are you going to buy me a thousand-dollar dinner?” “With your dazzling personality?” Vilma’s voice started to tremble. “Loren, don’t do this… Everyone is watching me…” “Good.” I said. “Let everyone watch. Let them see exactly what happens when a parasite tries to play host.” Through the phone, I could hear the hushed, panicked whispers of the drama club members. “What is going on? I thought she had a VIP card?” “Vilma, what is the holdup? We finished eating half an hour ago…” “Is it even her card?” Vilma’s voice spiked in sheer panic. “Don’t… don’t worry guys! Loren is my roommate, her family is loaded! She is super sweet, she is fixing it right now!” I burst out laughing. “Vilma, what does my family’s money have to do with you?” “Am I your mother? Or did you mistake me for your personal ATM?” “Loren!” I scoffed coldly. “Let me make this crystal clear. You do not get to use my money to play God. You invited them, you pay the bill. That is how the world works.” “Don’t try to buy popularity with my bank account.” Vilma completely lost it, screaming into the phone. “Can’t you just help me this one time! Are we not friends anymore!” “Friends?” I laughed coldly. “What kind of normal person tries to steal their friend’s credit card to buy a thousand-dollar dinner?” “That is not friendship, Vilma. That is fraud.” The private dining room went completely silent. One of the club members muttered, “Vilma, didn’t you say it was your card?” Vilma was in full meltdown mode. “No! She told me I could use it! She lied to me!” “Right,” I sneered. Vilma exploded. “Loren! You purposely froze the card just to humiliate me! You did this on purpose!” “So what if I did? I am under zero obligation to clean up your mess.” Right on cue, the manager’s calm, professional voice echoed through the dining room, loud enough for everyone—including me—to hear. “Miss, will you be paying with Apple Pay, a physical card… or should I have you wait in my office until the police arrive?” 4 That night, Vilma practically kicked the dorm door off its hinges. She stormed right up to my desk and screamed in my face. “Loren! What the hell is your problem!” My tone was absolute ice. “My problem? I think I should be asking you that.” She immediately launched into a hysterical rant. “In front of twenty people! I lost every shred of dignity I had! I had to beg the manager on my knees and sign a promissory note saying I would bring the cash tomorrow just so he wouldn’t call the cops! You could have easily stopped this! Why didn’t you help me?” I stared at her, completely unfazed. “You attempted to steal my identity to flex on your club, and you think you are the victim?” Vilma resorted to throwing a full-blown tantrum. “It is nearly a thousand dollars! I don’t have that kind of money! What am I supposed to do!” “You can go beg on the street corner for all I care,” I said coldly. “Figure it out yourself.” “We are roommates!” Vilma shrieked, her voice echoing down the hall. “Aren’t roommates supposed to help each other out? Supposed to be forgiving? Do you really have to be this petty and completely ruin my life?” I actually chuckled, shaking my head at her absolute delusion. “You tried to dodge an eight-dollar electric bill. You begged me for five bucks for ramen, which you never paid back.” “You steal the pennies, but you try to hijack the big bucks. Your greed is just getting out of control, Vilma.” “You… you took screenshots of all that!” Vilma’s eyes instantly welled up with tears, flipping the switch back to playing the victim. “I just made a stupid mistake! Just pay the restaurant for me, please! I literally have zero dollars, they are going to have me arrested!” My voice was glacial. “It was an attempted theft. Let them call the cops. The one getting a criminal record is you, not me.” “I wasn’t stealing! I was just borrowing it!” Vilma screamed hysterically. “Taking without asking is stealing.” I stated with absolute finality. “I am not giving you a single cent. You made the mess, you deal with the consequences.” Vilma completely broke down, dropping to the floor and wailing like a child. She honestly thought I would eventually cave, just like I had in the past. I looked down at her with absolute apathy. “Consider this a hard lesson. Next time you think someone’s generosity makes them a pushover, remember today.” Vilma glared up at me, her eyes filled with pure venom. “You forced my hand. I am going to make you the most hated person on this campus!” She scrambled up, slammed the door, and stormed out. A second later, my phone buzzed. It was a text from an unknown number. “Loren, I am a freshman in the drama club.” “Vilma just posted a photo of you in the massive club group chat. She is calling you a ‘filthy rich sociopath who bullies poor students.’” “She also said she is going to the Dean to report you for defamation. Watch your back.” I stared at the messages and smiled. Go ahead. Throw your little tantrum. If she wanted a war, I was going to give her a war of absolute annihilation. I opened a new document on my phone. The title: The Vilma Debt Ledger: From Cup Noodles to Identity Theft. This wasn’t the end. This was just the beginning.

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1 Three years of marriage, and I finally figured it out. Every single way my husband showed his love for me was something Suzie taught him. The flowers I liked? Suzie told him. The foods I couldn’t eat? Suzie reminded him. Even the restaurant for our very first date was booked by Suzie. He knew me only because Suzie knew me. He loved me only because Suzie didn’t love him. Last month, Suzie got a divorce. Suddenly, Gary couldn’t sleep. He spent his nights taking endless, hushed phone calls, constantly murmuring, “Suzie’s having a really hard time lately.” Then his mother stopped by, carrying two bags. One was for me, and the other was “just to drop off at Suzie’s on the way.” The package for Suzie was a fresh, homemade peach cobbler, still warm from the oven. Mine was a box of cheap, store-brand sandwich cookies from the grocery store. That night, as I sat in front of the vanity mirror staring at my reflection, a bitter truth echoed in my mind: “You are the one he married. She is the one he keeps in his heart.” I unlocked my phone, opened the real estate app, and looked at the listing page of our house, which I had bookmarked weeks ago. Before going to bed, I clicked submit to put it up for sale. It was time to cut the ties. Our first spring as husband and wife, Gary brought home a bouquet of white magnolias. Holding the delicate blossoms, a rare warmth bloomed in my chest. Then he took a photo of the flowers and posted it online. Suzie commented almost immediately: “White magnolias. Perfect choice. I knew she’d love them.” I stared at that comment for what felt like hours. So that was it. I quietly arranged the flowers in a vase and said nothing. Later that night, while Gary was in the shower, I picked up his phone. I wasn’t looking for a smoking gun of an affair. I just needed to confirm a nagging suspicion. I scrolled up through his chat history with Suzie, all the way back to when we first started dating. Suzie: “She loves white magnolias. Skip the roses, she thinks they’re too cliché. Got it?” Gary: “Yeah.” Further up, another one: “She’s allergic to seafood, especially shrimp. Do not take her to sushi bars.” “She’s afraid of the dark. Make sure there’s a nightlight.” “Don’t hug her unexpectedly from behind. It startles her.” One by one, they went on. A curated instruction manual written entirely by Suzie. Exactly twenty-three rules on how to love me. I slipped the phone back onto the nightstand, lay down, and stared blankly at the ceiling. Gary stepped out of the bathroom, bringing the damp, warm scent of his shower with him as he slid under the covers. “Tired?” he murmured. “Yeah.” He turned on his side, gently stroking my hair in a slow, rhythmic way he thought I loved. I closed my eyes, silent. Even this gesture, I suspected, was something she had taught him. Our three years of marriage weren’t terrible. Gary didn’t have a bad temper, he didn’t drink, he transferred his paycheck to our shared account on time every month, and he always accompanied me to the grocery store on weekends. My friends constantly told me how lucky I was. But day by day, a cold truth crystallized in my mind. Every ounce of his thoughtfulness had a blueprint. And Suzie was the architect. Once, at a company dinner, a dish with shrimp was placed on the table. The colleague sitting next to me asked, “Can you eat shrimp, Nora?” Before I could even open my mouth, Gary interjected, “No, she can’t. She’s highly allergic.” The colleague beamed at him. “Wow, what a sweet husband.” Gary offered a modest smile and said nothing. I forced a smile of my own and kept sipping my soup. He remembered. But how he came to remember was a secret only the two of us truly held. Suzie was our mutual friend, the matchmaker who had brought us together. She was beautiful, bright, the kind of woman who effortlessly commanded any room she walked into. I had known her for seven years and genuinely believed we were close friends. Until one afternoon, when I accidentally overheard her on the phone with Gary. “You need to treat her right,” she was saying. “Nora’s the type who needs real devotion to feel safe, or she’ll walk away.” Her tone was careful, clinical, like a manager handing off a delicate assignment. I stood frozen in the hallway. A sudden breeze swept through the open window, chilling me to the bone. Last month, Suzie and Brandon finalized their divorce. Gary was the one who broke the news to me. He sat on the couch that evening, his face an unreadable mask of worry and restlessness. After a long silence, he finally spoke. “Suzie and Brandon are done. It’s official.” I was at the kitchen sink, rinsing the dinner dishes. “Oh. Okay.” The clinking of ceramic and silverware echoed loudly in the small kitchen. Gary fell silent, but he tossed and turned all night. I knew, because I lay wide awake beside him. After that, Gary’s phone began to light up constantly. Eleven at night, midnight, sometimes past one in the morning. Whenever I rolled over, I would see her name flashing across the screen. Sometimes he answered. He would slip out of bed, quiet as a ghost, and step out onto the balcony, sliding the glass door shut behind him. I lay there in the dark, listening to the muffled murmur of his voice through the glass. I couldn’t make out the words, but his tone was incredibly soft, incredibly patient. A tone he rarely used with me anymore. His mother visited last week. She walked in carrying two shopping bags. One she tossed onto the coffee table; the other she kept tightly in her grip, explaining she was dropping it off at Suzie’s. “Suzie’s all alone now, poor thing,” she said with a heavy sigh. “I baked her some peach cobbler to cheer her up.” She nodded toward the bag on the table. “Yours is in there. Just some cookies from the supermarket. You young people love that stuff, right?” I peered inside the bag. It was a box of generic, store-brand cream sandwich cookies. The clearance sticker read $1.99. His mother was already heading out the door, cobbler in hand. She turned to Gary before leaving. “Gary, make sure you check in on Suzie. She has no one else right now.” “I will,” Gary replied softly. When the front door clicked shut, I was still sitting on the sofa, clutching that cheap box of cookies. A tiny label on the back caught my eye: Best before: Six months. For some reason, I felt a hysterical urge to laugh. That night, I sat alone in front of the mirror, wiping off my makeup. My eyes looked tired, the corners of my mouth pulling downward. Suddenly, a memory from before our wedding surfaced. Suzie had taken my hands in hers, smiling warmly. “I’m so glad you’re marrying Gary, Nora. He’s a good man. He’ll take such good care of you.” I had been so touched back then, believing she was genuinely happy for us. Now, looking back, the words felt dripping with a different meaning. He will take good care of you… As long as I keep telling him how. The day I officially listed our house, Gary wasn’t home. He had told me he was helping Suzie finalize her divorce paperwork and pack up a few boxes of books. I had simply smiled, said okay, and watched him leave. Then I unlocked my phone, opened the real estate app, and filled out the listing form. My hand didn’t tremble when I pressed submit. The truth was, this wasn’t a snap decision. I hadn’t decided to leave on the day Suzie got divorced, or even the day his mother handed me those cheap cookies. It happened much earlier, on a cold, ordinary Tuesday afternoon. I had a high fever, shivering alone under the blankets with my temperature spiking to 101.3. I texted Gary, asking if he could come home early. His reply was brief: Suzie has a bit of an emergency today. I’m going to be late. Just walk down to the drugstore and grab some ibuprofen. I stared at the screen and never wrote back. Instead, I dragged myself out of bed, threw on a heavy coat, and walked to the pharmacy myself. On the walk back, the freezing wind made my eyes sting. Waiting at the crosswalk among a sea of rushing commuters, surrounded by strangers who didn’t care if I lived or died, the realization washed over me. In this marriage, I had always been entirely on my own. The real estate agent called back quickly, asking a few routine questions and promising to schedule some viewings soon. I hung up and began mentally cataloging my belongings. There wasn’t much to pack. A few changes of clothes, some favorite books, the jade bracelet my mother had given me, and my bank documents. Everything else was noise. Gary returned around nine that night, holding a takeout container of homemade lasagna. He said Suzie had made extra and insisted he bring some back for me. “She knows it’s your favorite,” he said, setting the container on the dining table. I stared at the plastic box, making no move to touch a fork. “I’m not hungry.” Gary frowned, sitting across from me and examining my face. “What’s wrong?” “Nothing. I’m just tired.” He didn’t probe further. He scrolled through his phone for a few minutes before heading to his study. I remained at the table, staring at the lasagna. He didn’t even see the problem with bringing me food cooked by Suzie. Or maybe he just couldn’t comprehend how deeply insulting it was. The potential buyers came on Saturday morning. It was a young couple with a toddler around three or four years old. Gary had left early that morning, claiming he needed to help Suzie move her furniture. I showed the couple around, leading them through the master bedroom, the study, and the kitchen, acting as a polite, detached guide. They loved the place, noting the abundant natural light and the practical layout. They asked why I was selling. “Just looking for a change of scenery,” I said simply. They nodded, satisfied with the answer. As they left, the little boy turned back to wave and smile at me before his mother guided him into the elevator. The metal doors slid shut, plunging the hallway into silence. I stood in the doorway and checked my phone. Gary had texted: Suzie’s place is taking longer than expected. Just grab something for lunch yourself. A second message followed: Oh, by the way, Suzie says there’s a great little bistro near her new apartment. I’ll take you there tonight. I set the phone screen-down on the coffee table. I went back to the bedroom, opened the closet, and began folding my clothes into a suitcase. I only took what was in season, just enough to get by. My mother’s jade bracelet was wrapped carefully in an old sweater and tucked securely at the bottom of the case. Leaving the rest behind didn’t feel like a loss. Gripping the handle of my suitcase, I stood at the threshold and took one last look at the apartment we had shared for three years. The beige walls, the dark mahogany furniture he loved, the dim bedside lamp he had refused to replace despite my complaints. Everything reflected his taste, curated in a style Suzie had picked out for him. There was not a single trace of me in this home. I turned the handle and walked out. Just as I reached the lobby, a notification popped up on my phone. Suzie had posted in our group chat. It was a photo of her new living room, sunlight streaming through sheer white curtains. A fresh start. So grateful to have you both in my life. A string of heart emojis followed. Gary replied instantly: Looks beautiful. Feels like a real home already. Then, he sent me a private message. Nora, can you send Suzie a quick text? If you’re the only one who doesn’t reply, she’s going to feel down. I stared at the screen, a dry, humorless laugh escaping my throat. Within seconds, I left the group chat and blocked both of them. I was done being an afterthought.

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1 Right after my kidney transplant. My supposedly perfect father stood by my bed with bloodshot eyes, claiming he had three earth-shattering secrets to tell me. I figured it was just some bad investments he wanted me to bail him out of. Instead, he delivered a crushing blow. “Fiona, you aren’t our biological daughter. Sabrina is.” Seeing my lack of a reaction, he pushed harder. “You’ve been living in luxury on borrowed time. It’s time to give the Lockhart Group inheritance back to her.” He didn’t care at all that I had just come out of major surgery and couldn’t handle any stress. He even had the audacity to play the saint. “You’ve always been a good, dutiful daughter. You wouldn’t want to watch your mother die on the operating table, would you?” Looking at his smug, confident face, I just wanted to laugh. “Is that it?” The kidney transplant was over. My mother was still unconscious, but I had just woken up. “Fiona, there are three secrets I need to tell you.” I stared at my father, Marcus, a man with a spotless reputation as the perfect dad. I figured he had just botched an investment and needed me to clean up his mess. “Go ahead,” I said. His eyes welled with tears, his voice cracking with emotion. “You aren’t our biological child.” I frowned slightly. “During the transplant compatibility tests, I noticed your blood type didn’t match ours. Your mother and I are both type O, but you’re type A.” “I was completely blindsided. I quietly ran a DNA test, and the results confirmed it. You aren’t ours.” I kept quiet, watching his tears fall. “The truth is, Sabrina is our real daughter. Helena and I… we are her biological parents.” Sabrina? The girl our family had been sponsoring for twenty years? “Sabrina grew up in a run-down foster home, suffering so much. She’s dreamed of having a real family her whole life, of having parents who cherish her.” “Now that we’ve finally found her, I can’t let her suffer any longer.” “Fiona, I know this is a massive shock, but blood ties can’t be denied.” He buried his face in his hands, weeping as if he were the victim of some tragic twist of fate. “Marcus,” I said, my voice flat, “I gave Mom a kidney. I didn’t lose my brain.” He froze, looking up at my calm expression. “DNA results don’t come back that fast. You knew Sabrina was your daughter long before today.” “No matter when you told me this, I still would have given Mom my kidney.” “So why did you have to wait until the exact moment my surgery was finished?” Lying on the hospital bed, I looked at his tear-stained face. “You really are cold-blooded.” He scrambled to explain. “No! That’s not it! I love you, of course I do. It’s just that your mother’s health has always been fragile, and the doctors said we couldn’t stress her before the surgery…” Just then, the door burst open, and Sabrina stepped in. “Fiona, don’t talk to Dad like that!” With teary, pathetic eyes, she stood close to my bed. “He was only doing what was best for you and Mom…” When I looked at her, she lowered her head and sobbed. “I’m so sorry, Fiona. I didn’t mean to steal your parents.” “I honestly had no idea I had real parents out there.” She spoke in a trembling voice, tears spilling over her cheeks. “Back in the foster home, I had to fight just to get a warm meal. I didn’t even have a winter coat. My hands were covered in chilblains.” “I dreamed of having a home. Of having parents who loved me.” “Now, heaven has finally shown mercy and brought me back to them.” She wiped her tears, looking at me like a wounded puppy. “Fiona, I finally have a mom and dad… You won’t throw me out, will you?” “We can still be a family, right?” Her voice grew softer, desperate and fragile. Marcus wrapped a comforting arm around her shoulders, looking at me with disapproval. “Fiona, Sabrina has had a hard life. Just let her have this.” “You’ve had everything since you were a child. She had nothing.” “She just wants her real parents back. You wouldn’t deny her that, would you?” I looked at his hand resting on Sabrina’s shoulder. “So, what is it you actually want me to do?” 2 Marcus clearly hadn’t expected me to cut straight to the point. Sabrina lowered her head, biting her lip in silence. Marcus wiped away his meager tears, and his tone suddenly went cold. “Since you’ve already guessed, I won’t beat around the bush.” He stood up straight, looking down at me. “There is something you must do.” “You aren’t our biological child, which means the inheritance rights to the Lockhart Group belong to Sabrina. You need to sign them over.” Lying on the hospital bed, the surgical incision in my side throbbed with a dull ache. But I didn’t let my anger show. I just stared at him. “Marcus, have you forgotten?” “My grandfather was the one who designated me as the sole heir to the Lockhart Group.” “If there is to be any change, we should wait until Mom wakes up, go to the family estate, and let Grandfather handle it.” Marcus snapped, “Absolutely not!” “Your grandfather is old and in poor health. We shouldn’t trouble him with such minor family matters.” “We can settle this quietly among ourselves.” Handing over a multi-billion dollar conglomerate is a minor family matter? Sabrina finally looked up, her face pale. “Fiona…” “I know this is a lot to take in. I understand if you can’t accept it right away.” “But blood is blood. You can’t change facts.” “I am their biological daughter. That is the truth.” The tears began to flow again. “I’m not trying to fight you for anything. I just think fate is finally being fair.” “You’ve enjoyed twenty-four years of being a pampered heiress. Luxury cars, mansions, private schools, bodyguards following your every step. Your biggest worry was probably which diamonds to wear.” She wiped her eyes, her voice cracking. “But me? I grew up in a foster home, wearing rags, sleeping in a cramped, drafty bed, with chilblains all over my hands in the winter.” “Why did you get to live in luxury from the moment you were born, while I had to beg for a scrap of affection?” Her voice grew louder, venting years of repressed bitterness. “Now I just want what was always meant to be mine. Are you really going to deny me that?” “Fiona, you are incredibly selfish!” Marcus, overwhelmed with pity, pulled her into a tight hug. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. Dad’s here.” He glared at me. “Fiona, look at what you’ve done!” “Do you have any idea how much Sabrina has suffered? You can’t even begin to imagine!” “You’ve stolen her life for twenty-four years. Returning her inheritance is only right! What is there to hesitate about?” I watched their touching display of fatherly love. A slow smile crept onto my lips. “Marcus, you are nothing but a son-in-law who married into the Lockhart family.” “You have absolutely no right to interfere with the company’s succession.” 3 His face instantly flushed a deep, angry crimson. “I am your father! How dare you speak to me like that!” “Am I wrong?” I cut him off. “When you married into this family, you signed a strict prenuptial agreement. You were allowed to manage daily operations, but you have zero decision-making power.” “The succession has always been entirely up to Grandfather and Mom.” “You don’t get a say.” Marcus shook with rage, pointing a finger at me, unable to squeeze out a single word. Seeing this, Sabrina quickly grabbed his arm to placate him. “Dad, please don’t be angry. Fiona is just in shock. She’ll come around.” She turned back to me, her eyes glistening. “Fiona, I know you’re the designated heir and you’re used to everyone catering to your every whim.” “But this isn’t something you can just control.” “I am their real daughter, and nothing changes that. You can’t keep holding onto things that don’t belong to you.” She turned her head away, looking like a delicate, tragic heroine. “Of course, if you really refuse, I won’t force you.” “I’ll just accept that I wasn’t meant to be happy.” “I’ve survived twenty-four years in a foster home. I can handle whatever comes next.” She wept as if her heart were breaking. Marcus’s eyes burned with indignation. “Fiona!” he barked. “Look at how graceful and understanding Sabrina is! Now look at you!” “You stole her life, and you can’t even offer her a single word of blessing!” “Do you even deserve to carry the Lockhart name?” He was practically spitting in my face. I lay there, the surgical wound in my side throbbing from the sudden spike of tension. But I didn’t flinch. I kept my eyes locked on Marcus. “I said, we wait until Mom wakes up. She will make the decision.” Marcus’s face darkened. He stared at me for a long moment, then slowly, a sinister smile spread across his face. “Do you honestly think… your mother is going to wake up?” My fingers tightened around the bedsheets. “What do you mean?” Just then, the door was thrown open. A nurse rushed in, her face entirely pale. “Miss Lockhart, your mother is experiencing severe transplant rejection! She’s in critical condition!” “We need a family member to sign the consent form immediately for emergency resuscitation!” I scrambled to sit up, my vision blurring. “I’ll sign! Hand it to me!” “Wait.” Marcus stepped forward, physically blocking the nurse. He looked back at me, his smile widening. “I forgot to tell you.” “As her legal husband, only my signature can authorize the hospital to proceed.” “If I choose not to sign… your mother dies.” 4 My blood ran cold. “Are you insane? She’s been your wife for twenty-five years!” “Twenty-five years of playing the obedient husband, putting up with her spoiled tantrums, and kissing up to her and that old man!” “I am sick of it!” Marcus whipped out a document and threw it onto my bed. “Sign this.” I looked down. It was a Voluntary Relinquishment of Inheritance Rights. Black ink on white paper. Clear and absolute. “Sign it and leave your thumbprint, and I’ll authorize her surgery. Otherwise, you can watch her die.” I glared at him. “You bought off the board of directors, didn’t you?” He let out a smug chuckle. “Why do you think I’ve been playing the loyal servant all these years?” “Those greedy old fools on the board have been in my pocket for a long time.” “If you don’t sign, your mother dies. When she’s gone, the board will pressure your grandfather. That old traditionalist will never let a massive conglomerate fall to an outsider like you.” He leaned down, his voice dripping with malice. “If you know what’s good for you, you’ll sign.” “You love your mother so much, don’t you?” Marcus shoved a pen into my hand. “She spent millions on you. She sent you to the best schools, gave you the finest life.” “Now it’s time to pay her back. Surely you aren’t so heartless as to let her die?” I stared at the document, the pain in my side flaring up. My voice was iron. “You planned this all along.” “You knew Sabrina was your daughter. You knew I was adopted. But you waited for the exact moment my mother was unconscious after surgery.” “You wanted to trap me, force me to give up the inheritance, and install Sabrina as the heir. Once Grandfather passes away, you can finally put your own name on the family legacy and take over everything.” Marcus looked down at me with mock pity. “And what are you going to do about it?” “In the end, I’m the one who wins.” The nurse stood by the door, sweating profusely. “Miss Lockhart, your mother is slipping away! We can’t wait…” “What’s the rush?” Marcus cut her off coldly. “We’re waiting for my daughter to sign.” He turned back to me. “Fiona, you wouldn’t want the world to know you let your mother die, would you?” Sabrina looked at me with a glint of smug satisfaction beneath her mask of pity. To her, I was a fallen princess. My stepfather had betrayed me, my mother was on her deathbed, and my gilded life was finally over. She was about to become the new queen of the Lockhart empire, and out of sheer generosity, she might spare me a little pity once she had the money. I let out a slow sigh. “Marcus, twenty-four years, and you haven’t changed a bit.” “With such cheap tricks, it’s no wonder you never made anything of yourself.”

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1 On our second anniversary of getting back together, my husband brought home a three-year-old boy and expected me to raise him. “Vivienne nearly bled to death giving birth to him,” Michael said, his eyes rimmed with red. “I made a mistake, Evelyn, but the child is innocent. I swear I am done playing around. From now on, I will only fulfill my duty as his father.” The boy blinked up at me with large, pathetic eyes. Swallowing the bile in my throat, I agreed. A year later, I went to pick him up from preschool on a whim. “Mommy, when are you moving into our house?” the boy asked, pouting his lips. “Daddy said once I count to five hundred days, you can come home,” he continued. “I hate that miserable woman at home. She is always stealing Daddy away.” A fair, delicate hand gently stroked his cheek. “Hang in there, my sweet boy. Mommy will be back with you soon.” Vivienne, the woman Michael claimed had died from postpartum hemorrhaging, was standing right there. Her face was flushed with health as she coddled her son. I clutched the massive asset distribution agreement I had just received from my mother-in-law, letting out a cold laugh. Since Michael can’t keep his pants zipped, the three of them can go straight to hell together. … I never expected a sudden change of plans would lead me to this truth. I stood frozen, staring at the picture-perfect scene of mother and child, my hands clenched into tight fists. For the past year, Michael had insisted on dropping off and picking up Toby every single day. Now I knew why. It was his daily excuse to rendezvous with his mistress. My phone suddenly vibrated in my hand. I instinctively stepped back, hiding myself behind a thick oak tree before answering. “Honey, where are you?” Michael’s voice sounded slightly strained, a hint of urgency bleeding through the line. “The nanny said you drove out. Did you go to pick up Toby?” “No,” I replied, keeping my voice flat. “I had some errands to run.” “Oh, good.” He let out a breath, a faint, relieved chuckle escaping him. “Don’t stress yourself out over the kid. It’s not worth ruining your health. I can handle the school runs.” He paused, then added, “I’m taking him swimming tonight, so we’ll be home late. Don’t wait up for us.” After the line went dead, I stared at my lock screen, which showed a photo of the two of us. “Vivienne passed away from hemorrhaging. I just couldn’t bring myself to throw the boy into an orphanage.” That was what Michael had told me a year ago, on the night of our second wedding anniversary, right after we had remarried. He had ruined the dinner I spent hours preparing by bringing home his love child. “He’s three now, Evelyn. He’s starting to ask where his mother is. I already made one terrible mistake, but I don’t want to ruin the next generation.” He had taken my hands in his, his grip desperate. “Let’s raise Toby together. Didn’t you always want a child? I’ll make him call you Mom.” At that time, I had just received the report of my tenth failed IVF cycle, alongside the doctor’s stern warning that my body was too weak to continue. The three-year-old boy had looked up at me with watery, innocent eyes. “Auntie… I mean, Mommy Evelyn, I’ll be really good.” I knew exactly what kind of ridicule I would face among the city’s high-society elite if I accepted this child. “Fine,” I had said, forcing the word past my lips. “But remember this, Michael. I am not forgiving your affair. I am only doing this because he reminds me of myself back in the orphanage. Consider it my way of earning some good karma.” “Of course! Thank you, honey. I’ll love you forever,” Michael had cried, wrapping his arms around me. Even Toby had reached out, timidly tugging at the edge of my coat. “Mommy, I like you.” But now, the four-year-old boy spoke with a sharp, articulate venom, his face twisted in disgust. “That miserable woman at home is so annoying. She won’t let me play with my toys and only gives me fifteen minutes of screen time! I have to call her Mommy. It’s disgusting!” For over a year, I had done my absolute best to raise him. I wouldn’t call myself selfless, but I had been diligent. A three-year-old boy is a whirlwind of chaos. Toby was afraid of the dark, terrified of thunder, prone to wetting the bed, and incredibly hyperactive. He had turned our house upside down. I was the one who put my career on hold to teach him. I was the one who woke up multiple times a night to comfort him when he cried, neglecting my own recovery in the process. My doctor had been utterly baffled during my last check-up. “Why is your physical health worse now than it was a year ago?” At the preschool gates, Vivienne spoke in a sweet, soft murmur. “Don’t talk about Auntie Evelyn like that, sweetie. She looked after you, after all. Even if she didn’t do a perfect job, she still worked hard. When I become the next Mrs. Montgomery, we can always hire her as our live-in nanny.” 2 I stared at the scheming mother and son, a dry, mocking laugh escaping my throat. The papers in my hand crumpled under the pressure of my grip. Thankfully, my mother-in-law had handed me the family asset division agreement this morning. Since this happy little family wanted to play games, they could pack their bags and get out of my life together. I didn’t confront them immediately. Instead, I waited in the shadow of the trees near the preschool gates. A few minutes later, a sleek black Rolls-Royce pulled up quietly at the curb. “Hey, buddy! Did you miss Daddy?” Michael stepped out of the car, his face lighting up with a genuine warmth I hadn’t seen in years. “Yes! Mommy and I have been waiting for you forever!” Toby squealed, throwing himself into his father’s arms. Michael hoisted the boy up, then turned his gaze to Vivienne. He stepped closer and pulled her into a deep, familiar kiss. “I’m so sorry for making you wait all this time, sweetheart,” Michael murmured against her lips. “I booked a table at that bistro downtown. We’ll grab dinner, and then I’ll take Toby swimming.” He leaned in closer, his voice dropping to a suggestive whisper. “Tonight, my time is entirely yours.” Vivienne’s cheeks flushed pink, and she gave his shoulder a playful, affectionate shove. Michael took her hand with one of his, holding his son with the other, and led them toward the luxury SUV. The very car I had emptied my personal savings to buy him as a wedding gift. I watched them drive off, waited a moment, and then started my own car to follow. As the evening streetlights flickered to life, blurring past my window, fragments of the past flashed before my eyes. In the beginning, Michael had looked at me the exact same way. He had been passionate, attentive, and completely consumed by his love for me. Even though I was just an orphan with absolutely no family background to back me up, he had held my hand with unshakeable resolve. “I will only marry Evelyn in this lifetime. If I ever betray her, may I lose everything.” He had sworn that oath in front of his family’s ancestral altar, enduring ninety-nine lashes from his mother’s heavy cane as punishment. The very first thing he did after dragging his bloody body out of that room was take me to the courthouse to register our marriage. “I don’t want to wait another second,” he had gasped, pale but smiling. “I want to marry you right now, have kids, and build our own little family.” I parked two spaces away from them at the restaurant. I watched Michael smile happily as he guided Vivienne and Toby inside. “Yes, we have a reservation. Table for three.” I scoffed silently, entering the restaurant through a separate entrance and checking into a private room right next to theirs. A spread of exquisite dishes was laid out before me, but I didn’t have the slightest appetite. “Happy anniversary!” The muffled clinking of glasses and joyous laughter drifted through the thin wall. Today was their anniversary. No wonder Michael had slowly started forgetting my birthday after we remarried. A much more important date had taken over his heart. “I wish I could bring you home right now,” Michael’s voice carried over, thick with emotion. “But the timing isn’t right. For now, come to the company as my secretary. Once I get everything sorted out, I’ll marry you in a grand ceremony.” I poured myself a glass of dry gin and swallowed it in one gulp. Michael and I had dated for three years and been married for three. Over those six years, I had poured my blood, sweat, and tears into helping him build the family business, turning it from a failing enterprise into one of the top ten firms in the country. I had literally worked myself to the bone. Because of my efforts, he had transformed from a ridiculed, useless heir into a recognized business prodigy. On the night of our company’s annual gala, I had suffered a sudden, agonizing stomach spasm. I had asked a secretary to fetch Michael to take me to the hospital. But no one returned. Both of their phones were switched off. Fearing that something terrible had happened to him, I dragged my pain-racked body down to the parking garage on my own. When I opened the door of his car, I froze. The two of them were completely naked, locked in a passionate embrace on the back seat. Even after they realized I was standing there, they took their sweet time untangling themselves. “I’m so sorry, Evelyn… I was just so panicked, I forgot to tell you…” Vivienne had whimpered. “It’s my fault,” Michael had snapped, shielding her. “Don’t take it out on Vivienne. You’re scaring her.” I had looked at Vivienne’s swollen lips, and then at Michael, whose eyes were still dark with desire. “Fine. Let’s make this simple,” I had said. “Michael, we are divorcing.” The moment the words left my mouth, a metallic taste filled my throat, and I collapsed onto the cold concrete, unconscious. Back in the present, Vivienne’s sweet voice pulled me out of the memory. “Michael, is Evelyn still pretending to be sick to get your attention?” 3 “She’s still the same. Honestly, I’m getting sick of playing along,” Michael groaned, his voice dripping with annoyance. “Her stomach is a mess, her joints are bad, and now after all those failed IVF cycles, her entire body is practically useless. She’s nothing like you, sweetheart. You’re so soft, and you gave me such a smart, beautiful boy with barely any effort.” “Ssh! The baby is right here, don’t talk like that!” Vivienne giggled. I let out a cold, silent laugh. My stomach was ruined because I had spent years drinking with clients to secure contracts for Michael. My joints were damaged because I had personally run from warehouse to warehouse in the freezing winter to oversee our logistics. And my fertility? My body was ravaged by hormone injections because he had a low sperm count, yet I was the one who endured the physical agony of ten IVF procedures. And in the end, it was all dismissed as me being “useless.” “You’ve had a hard time, honey,” Vivienne cooed. “If it weren’t for getting me into the house, you wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of remarrying her.” “It’s fine, babe. I’d do anything for you. Just stay at the company as my secretary for now. Once I get her to sign over the assets she took in the first divorce, I’ll marry you.” “You don’t have to wait, Michael.” I pushed open the door of their private dining room, tossing the divorce papers my assistant had just rushed over onto their table. “Let’s divorce. And this time, there won’t be a second remarriage.” The room fell into a dead, suffocating silence. Three pairs of eyes stared at me in absolute shock. “Mommy Evelyn… did you come to join my swimming class?” Toby squeaked, his voice instantly switching back to his innocent act. “Evelyn, I… I can explain…” Vivienne stammered, turning pale. “Evelyn, you’ve got it wrong. Today was just a coincidence—” Michael started, scrambling to his feet. I cut him off with a weary smile. “Drop the act. You guys aren’t tired of it, but I am. Just sign it. I have nothing left to say to you.” Michael stared at me, his expression hardening. After a long three minutes, he finally spoke. “Are you sure about this?” He tilted his head, a mocking glint in his eyes. “Evelyn, you worked for years to secure your place in high society. Are you really willing to throw all of this luxury away?” “Absolutely.” Hearing my response, he picked up the pen and began flipping through the agreement. Vivienne’s eyes darted from the papers to Michael, her anxiety turning into a breathless anticipation. Her hand trembled so hard she could barely hold her glass. Then, with a slow, deliberate sneer, Michael ripped the entire document in half, tearing it into shreds before throwing the pieces into the air. “Michael! Don’t be reckless!” Vivienne gasped, her face falling. “It’s not that I don’t want to sign,” Michael said, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, taking a slow drag. “But the terms you wrote here are completely ridiculous. Evelyn, what makes you think I’m going to let you walk away with half of my assets?” I used to admire the sharp, calculating look in his eyes when we were negotiating business deals. Now, seeing that same look directed at me, I realized how incredibly ugly it was. “What makes me think that?” I asked, my voice calm and steady. “How about the fact that I saved your family business from bankruptcy and built it into a multi-million-dollar empire? Or the fact that I drank myself to near-poisoning at five hundred client dinners, took a bullet for you, and dragged you out of two separate kidnapping attempts?” I looked him dead in the eye. “Or maybe the fact that I actually believed your lies about wanting to make things right, remarried you, and raised your bastard child while the entire city laughed behind my back? Is that enough for you?” He let out a sharp, angry bark of laughter. “Enough? Sure, it’s enough. But since you’re so fond of playing the martyr, let’s get one thing straight.” He leaned forward, his eyes cold and venomous. “I don’t have a single penny to my name. Every asset I own has already been legally transferred to Vivienne. The company is registered entirely under my name, and you have no legal claim to it. Everything you did for me, you did voluntarily. So, if you want a divorce, you’re leaving with absolutely nothing.” Voluntarily. The passionate, devoted boy who would have given up his life for me had truly died, buried deep within my memories. I let out a soft laugh. “Fine. I’ll leave with nothing.” Michael’s face instantly darkened. To hide his sudden loss of composure, he snarled, “You were nothing but an orphan, Evelyn! I was the one who dragged you out of the gutter and gave you a taste of the high life. I gave you a platform, opportunities, and a status that other women would kill for! Without me, you are nothing. How do you have the face to demand anything from me?” The more he spoke, the more righteous he sounded, as if I was the one who had been caught red-handed. “You want a divorce? Fine! I’ll have my secretary draft the papers tomorrow. You will leave this marriage with nothing but the clothes on your back.” 4 “Now, if you’ll excuse us, I’m trying to have a nice dinner with my fiancée. Get out.” With a smug, provocative glare, he reached over and pulled Vivienne into his side, ostentatiously kissing her temple. A wave of intense nausea washed over me. I turned around and walked out of the restaurant, my assistant rushing to keep up with me. “Boss, he is out of his mind!” my assistant hissed, her face flushed with anger. “The company belongs to you! He’s just a spoiled heir who sat back and reaped the benefits of your hard work. How could you just agree to walk away with nothing?” “No one can predict the future,” I murmured, trying to offer a reassuring smile. “He wasn’t always like this.” But the moment I opened my mouth, a violent fit of dry heaving seized me. Terrified by my sudden pale complexion, my assistant immediately steered me toward the nearest hospital. The next morning, I was summoned to Michael’s office. “You’re fired,” Michael said, spinning around in his leather executive chair. He smirked up at me. “If you’re no longer my wife, you don’t get to share in my wealth. Your shares, your trust funds, and your bonuses are all being revoked. Your position and your entire team are being transferred.” He tapped a finger on the document resting on his desk. “The moment you sign this, it becomes legally binding. My secretary stayed up all night to draft this. She’s incredibly efficient.” Vivienne walked into the office carrying a tray. “Evelyn, here’s your coffee,” she said, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. Michael reached out, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her onto his lap, giving her hip a firm, intimate squeeze. “So, what do you think? Didn’t she do a wonderful job with the agreement?” I ignored his childish display, my eyes locked onto Vivienne. “Vivienne,” I said quietly. “Do you remember what you told me the day I helped you land your very first major account?” She froze, her smile faltering, but she didn’t speak. “You said you would be grateful to me for the rest of your life,” I continued, my voice steady. “You said that I didn’t just fund your college education for seven years, I also put your abusive stepfather behind bars, and personally taught you how to close a million-dollar deal. You said that without me, you would have died in some dark corner, and that you’d never forget what I did for you.” I took a step closer. “And now, you sleep with my husband and help him strip me of everything I own. Is this how you show your gratitude?” Vivienne’s lips trembled, her eyes instantly welling with tears. “That’s enough! Do you ever do anything besides guilt-tripping people?” Michael snapped, pulling her protectively into his chest. “I was the one who went after Vivienne. She’s too innocent to know how to say no to me. There’s no need to threaten her. From now on, I am the one protecting her. No one is going to hurt her again.” The very same promises he had whispered into my ear a thousand times were now being used to comfort another woman. I spared Michael a cold, passing glance, then read through the termination agreement line by line. “I knew you wouldn’t want to sign it,” Michael chuckled, confident. “Evelyn, you can’t survive without me. If you just behave yourself and stop meddling in my personal life, we can stay married. You can keep your title as my wife.” Without a word, I picked up the pen from his desk and signed my name with a swift, fluid stroke. As I walked out of the office, the sound of a heavy ceramic vase shattering against the wall echoed behind me. “Honey, are you still mad?” Vivienne slid onto his lap, her soft body pressing against his, the sweet scent of her perfume filling his senses. Three days had passed, and there had been absolutely no word from Evelyn. Michael knew he should be thrilled. He had finally gotten rid of her. Yet, an irritating, persistent anxiety clawed at his chest. In a desperate bid to drown out the noise in his head, he roughly tore at Vivienne’s blouse, losing himself in her touch. Just as they reached the height of their passion, the office door was violently flung open. “Mr. Montgomery! We have a massive problem!” his assistant gasped, pale and sweating. “The IRS is here! They’re raiding the offices!” The color drained from Michael’s face, his passion evaporating instantly. “Our operations are entirely legal. We have never engaged in any illicit financial practices,” Michael stammered, scrambling to adjust his rumpled suit. In his haste, he missed a button, and his shirt remained disheveled. “Vivienne, go pour some tea.” The lead investigator stepped into the room, his face carved of granite. “Mr. Montgomery, please cooperate with our investigation. You will receive a detailed explanation once we arrive at the bureau.” Michael frowned, trying to regain his footing. “We were audited at the beginning of the year and cleared. Coming in here like this without warning—what is the meaning of this?” “We received a formal report detailing corporate embezzlement, tax evasion, and malicious market competition.” Michael stared at him, dumbfounded. “Who reported us?!” “I did.”

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1 I had been back with the Smiths for six years when my parents and fiancé finally decided I had grown up. In the family group chat, Mom sent a voice message: “Diana, about the house we bought for your wedding—Samantha really loved it, so we’re giving it to her.” “When you get back, Dad and I will pick out another one for you.” Dad was quick to chime in: “Samantha is just recovering from her depression. She can’t handle any stress right now. Don’t fight her on this.” I replied instantly: “Okay, Mom and Dad. Samantha’s health is the most important thing. I can live anywhere.” Then, a notification popped up. A cash gift from Oliver. “Good girl, Diana. The day after tomorrow is your birthday. I’m picking you up from the airport, and I’m going to throw you the grandest birthday and engagement party ever!” What they didn’t know was… I had died three years ago. The obedient, understanding daughter and gentle, considerate fiancée replying to their messages… Was just an AI I had trained before I died. The day I was diagnosed with terminal bone cancer, I was less than twenty-four hours away from my eighteenth birthday. The doctor held up my X-rays, his eyes filled with a pity that made my stomach churn. “A month, at most.” I sat in the sterile exam room, staring down at my lower leg. For the past six months, the pain had grown sharper, more frequent. I thought they were just growing pains. I didn’t know my bones were dying. The doctor kept talking—transferring hospitals, chemotherapy options, forms my family needed to sign. I tuned it all out. I carefully folded the diagnosis report, slipped it into the pocket of my school uniform, and walked out of the hospital, step by step. It was a forty-minute walk from the hospital to the Smith estate. Three bus stops. I chose to walk. I needed the time. I wanted to cry out all my tears on the way and figure out exactly what to say. “Mom. Dad. I’m sick.” Just that one sentence. I spent fifteen years in the orphanage. I had never called anyone “Mom” or “Dad” before. And in the three years since I returned to the Smiths, I never learned how to act spoiled or ask for affection. But this time, I wanted to try. Maybe they would hug me. The way they hugged Samantha. My fingers curled around the crumpled paper in my pocket, and I walked faster, practically jogging the last few blocks. The moment I pushed open the front door, the rich scent of vanilla buttercream washed over me. A huge banner hung across the living room: “CONGRATULATIONS TO SAMANTHA SMITH ON WINNING GOLD AT THE NATIONAL YOUTH TECH AWARDS!” Samantha was sitting between Mom and Dad, clutching a gleaming trophy, her eyes crinkling into half-moons as she laughed. I froze in the doorway. The title of the winning project engraved on that trophy… I knew it. I knew it all too well. For the past three months, I had barely slept. From the initial concept to the final debugging—thirty thousand lines of code. I wrote every single one of them. When the pain in my leg became unbearable, I would bite down on a towel until it passed. Just get through it, I had told myself. It was the same thing I told myself back in the orphanage, when I burned with a 104-degree fever in the dead of winter and no one noticed. I used to fantasize about the day I won that award. I thought my parents would finally be proud of me. But now, the name engraved beneath my project was Samantha’s. Dad saw me first. His smile faltered for a second, and he cleared his throat. “Diana, you’re back? Come here, your sister won a huge award. We’re celebrating tonight.” I didn’t move. “That’s mine.” The living room fell dead silent. Samantha’s eyes instantly welled up with tears. She lowered the trophy, her bottom lip quivering in that perfect, pitiful way she always mastered. She didn’t have to say a word. Her tears did all the talking. Mom let out a heavy sigh, walking over to me and lowering her voice. “Diana, Samantha just found out she’s adopted. Her depression is flaring up, and she’s been crying every day.” “She feels so insecure in this house, and her grades aren’t great. She needs this college recommendation.” “You’re different. You’re so smart. You’ll get into a top school anyway.” I could hear my teeth grinding together. It wasn’t out of anger. It was the agonizing, gnawing pain in my bones flaring up again, so sharp I had to clench my jaw just to stay standing. I turned my gaze to Oliver. He was standing next to Samantha, a glass of juice in his hand. His brows pulled together in a slight frown. “Diana, you already have everything.” “You’re their biological daughter, you have your parents’ love, and you have me.” “Samantha has nothing. Just… have some pity on her.” He paused, then added: “Grow up.” 2 I stared at his face. Three years ago, in this exact same living room… He had knelt down to tie my shoelaces, looking up at me with a warm smile. “Diana, as long as I’m here, no one will ever bully you.” That was the first time in my life I had ever tasted what it felt like to be protected. I guess his definition of “no one” didn’t include himself. A metallic taste rose in the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. “Okay.” Mom exhaled, visibly relieved. Oliver’s frown smoothed out. Dad wiped away Samantha’s tears, cooing at her until she smiled again. The diagnosis report lay quietly in my pocket. No one asked where I had been all day. No one noticed I was limping. I stood by the door for a moment longer, then quietly went upstairs. I booted up my laptop, created a new folder, and named it: “AI_Diana_Behavior_Training_Data.” I sat there for a long time before typing the first line. “She never cries.” “She always says ‘okay,’ ‘it doesn’t matter,’ ‘whatever you decide is fine.’” “She never fights for anything. She never argues. She never makes them uncomfortable.” “She loves them. She understands them. She thinks they are always right.” Laughter drifted up from the living room. I heard Samantha thanking Mom and Dad. Her voice was soft, sweet, dripping with the confidence of someone who knows they are loved. I kept typing. The pain in my leg surged in waves. Whenever it hit, I would stop, wait for it to pass, and keep going. One month. That was enough. Enough to train the perfect daughter. The perfect fiancée. The Diana they had always wanted. My birthday was exactly the same day as Samantha’s. But to make up for taking my award, my parents promised to celebrate mine separately. I wore my first-ever princess dress. It was pale pink, the skirt shimmering with sequins like crushed stars. Mom picked it out herself. She had told me: “Diana, everything we owe you for the past eighteen years, Mom remembers.” They rented out an entire amusement park just for me. The entrance archway was suffocated with balloons, and a huge cutout of my face stood at the gate. Across the top, it read: “HAPPY BIRTHDAY DIANA.” I smiled. I smiled so hard I almost cried. Oliver stepped up behind me and covered my eyes with his hands. “No peeking. There’s another surprise.” His hands were so warm. Maybe they do love me, I thought. They just don’t know how to divide it. When they wheeled the cake out, my knees nearly buckled. Six tiers. Each tier represented a stage of my life. The bottom layer said “0-3 Years.” The top layer said “18.” Mom said: “Every birthday you missed in that orphanage, Mom is giving back to you today.” Eighteen candles flickered to life. The golden light danced across the smiling faces of my parents and Oliver. I clasped my hands together, closed my eyes, and made a wish. I wish this moment would never end. The very next second— A piercing scream echoed from the carousel. Samantha was sprawled on the ground, blood oozing from a scrape on her knee. She was trembling, sobbing uncontrollably. “It hurts…” The candles were still burning. But no one was looking at me anymore. Dad bolted toward her first, bumping into the cake table in his panic. The towering six-tier cake tipped over, half of it collapsing into a ruined mess of frosting. Oliver sprinted to Samantha’s side, shucking off his jacket and wrapping it around her shoulders. I reached out and grabbed Mom’s sleeve. She was the only one still standing near me. “Mom.” I heard my own voice trembling. “Today is my eighteenth birthday.” “It’s my last one.” “Could you… could you just stay while I blow out the candles?” Mom didn’t even hear me. Her eyes were locked on Samantha. Dad hurried back to grab the car keys. He caught the end of my sentence, and his face darkened. “Your sister is hurt, and all you care about is a birthday party?” “Do you have zero empathy?” 3 He shoved me aside. I hit the ground hard. My left leg slammed against the edge of the stone steps. It felt like someone was driving a rusted nail straight into the marrow and prying it open. God, it hurt. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. They were already carrying Samantha to the car. The amusement park was massive. With it completely rented out, I was the only person left. I dragged myself over to a giant stuffed bear, curling into its plush arms, and pulled out my phone. I booted up the AI testing program. A message popped up in the family group chat. Sent by “me.” “Mom, Dad, Oliver, take Samantha to the doctor! Don’t worry about me, I’m having so much fun at the park by myself.” Mom sent a voice memo back: “You’ve really grown up, Diana. Once Samantha is all bandaged up, we’ll come right back to celebrate with you.” Dad sent a thumbs-up emoji: “That’s my girl.” I stared at the screen, the corner of my mouth twitching in a hollow imitation of a smile. Muscle memory made me open Instagram. The newest post on my feed. From Samantha. It was a picture of her sitting in the ER, surrounded by people. Dad, Mom, Oliver. The caption read: “It feels so good to be loved.” Oliver was the first to comment: “Be more careful next time.” A sickening sweetness rose in my throat, and I violently turned my head. The blood splattered across the pink princess dress. The cake was ruined, the candles had burned down to stubs, but the speakers were still playing that cheerful music. Happy birthday to you. Happy birthday to you. The sky began to bruise purple and black. The park lights flickered on, one by one. In the distance, the Ferris wheel turned slow and steady. It was beautiful. I had never been on one. My phone buzzed again. The AI had sent another message to the group chat: “I’m on the Ferris wheel! It’s so high up! Mom, I’m so happy!” One teardrop after another fell onto the screen. Blurring out the heart emoji Mom replied with. They never came back. At eleven that night, I took a cab home alone. The living room lights were on. On the dining table, a note was scribbled in Mom’s handwriting: “Samantha fractured her leg. She’s admitted to the hospital, so your dad and I are staying with her. There’s food in the fridge, heat it up yourself.” I pulled open the fridge. It was leftovers from the night before. The massive feast they had cooked to celebrate Samantha’s gold medal, barely touched. My phone wouldn’t stop buzzing. In the family chat, Dad was spamming photos of Samantha’s hospital room. A private VIP suite, the windowsill overflowing with extravagant bouquets. Mom was peeling an apple for her. Oliver stood by the bed, his arms full of unopened gifts. Samantha’s cheeks were flushed pink as she tore into them, one by one. I locked my screen, leaning heavily against the wall as I dragged myself up the stairs to the second floor. The blood on the princess dress had dried into stiff, dark flakes. I folded it neatly and shoved it under my pillow. Then I lay down, squeezed my eyes shut. And pretended I had a wonderful birthday. At 2 AM, the pain ripped me awake. It felt like a million ants were burrowing into the cracks of my bones, gnawing the marrow into dust, bite by agonizing bite. I didn’t scream. In the orphanage, crying was useless. Screaming was useless. No one ever came. I rolled off the bed. Using my arms, I dragged my useless legs across the floor toward the desk. Three yards. It took me four minutes. I yanked the drawer open. Empty. The heavy-duty painkillers I had spent all my savings on were gone. There had only been ten pills left. I had been rationing them, only swallowing one when the pain pushed me to the absolute edge of sanity. Now, there were none. My phone lit up. A message from Mom, sent three hours ago. “Diana, Samantha’s fracture hurts so much she’s crying nonstop. I saw you had a bottle of painkillers in your drawer, so I gave them to her for now.” “Just go buy yourself another bottle tomorrow.” She ended it with a hug emoji. The AI had already replied. “Okay, Mom. Samantha is frail, let her have them. I’m perfectly healthy, don’t worry about me.”

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1 The garbage I asked Eason to take out three days ago was still sitting in the kitchen. It reeked. Flies buzzed over the rotting plastic in a frantic swarm. Right then, I knew. We needed a divorce. That night, I slid the drafted divorce papers across the dining table. He looked up from his glowing laptop screen. His eyes were dark and piercing, like he was trying to dissect my thoughts. “The day before yesterday, I was helping Molly fix her data models. She is a junior analyst, and her foundation is weak. I am the only one she could turn to.” “Yesterday, she thought someone was following her on her way home. She called me crying, begging me to give her a ride just this once.” “Today, her data had a massive error just three hours before the executive deadline. She is on my team, Stella. I could not just abandon her.” He paused, letting out a heavy sigh. “I know you have always had an issue with her. I can give you my phone. I can pull the office security footage to prove we are completely innocent. As for that bag of trash, I genuinely just forgot. I have explained everything. If you still want a divorce after this, fine. I will cooperate.” I looked at him, my heart perfectly still. In these past three days, he had done so much for Molly. A man who religiously guarded his sleep schedule had stayed up late three nights in a row for her. Yet, three mornings in a row, he completely forgot to take the trash out on his way out the door. I gave a slow nod. “Let us just get the divorce.” I waited at the lawyer’s office until the staff clocked out for the day. Eason never showed up. When he finally got home, it was almost eleven at night. He saw me sitting in the dark on the living room sofa, did not say a single word, and walked straight into the kitchen to pour himself a glass of water. “I called you thirteen times,” I broke the silence. “You did not answer.” He paused mid sip, pulled his phone out of his pocket, and glanced at it. His face was entirely blank. “I turned it off for a board meeting today and forgot to turn it back on. Was there an emergency?” His tone was incredibly casual. Like he was commenting on the weather. I knew it. He had forgotten our appointment again. He was always forgetful. In our seven years of marriage, this had happened more times than I could count. From small things like forgetting to bring the laundry in before a storm, or tossing the garbage on his way downstairs. To massive, life altering things. Like when I was three months pregnant. The ultrasound showed severe fatal complications, and the specialist advised terminating the pregnancy to save my life. We booked an appointment for the procedure together. But when the surgery was over and I woke up shivering in the cold recovery room, he still was not there. I found out later. That day was Molly’s first time leading a project presentation, and she was a nervous wreck. He had promised to stand by her side and be her anchor. That was the first time I realized my true weight in Eason’s heart. The realization felt like a dull plastic knife dragging across my chest. It hurt, but it would not kill me. I pulled myself out of the memory and kindly offered an explanation. “We had an appointment to sign the divorce papers today. Tomorrow is the weekend and they are fully booked, so I rescheduled for Monday morning.” Eason’s eyes stayed glued to his glowing phone screen. He did not even look at me. “Alright. See you there Monday.” I nodded. Monday arrived. We signed the papers. In thirty days, the mandatory state cooling off period would end, and we would get the final decree. After signing his name, Eason kept his head down, his thumbs flying across his screen as he rapidly replied to someone. From the corner of my eye, I caught a glimpse of his chat. A cutesy pink anime profile picture had sent him a long string of crying emojis. As we stepped out of the building, Eason turned to me. “I have an emergency at the office. I cannot drop you…” I nodded and pointed to the Uber I had called in advance. “My ride is here. Go do what you need to do.” The Uber was parked right next to his sleek Audi. I pulled the door open and slid into the backseat. I never looked back at the man standing on the sidewalk. 2 I called my best friend Harper to tell her the news and asked her to help me look for a new apartment. My hometown was Seattle, thousands of miles away from Chicago. The house I grew up in had been sold years ago to pay for my dad’s medical bills. The luxury condo I lived in now was bought by Eason, strictly under his name. After the divorce, I had to move out. I had nowhere to go. Harper was fast. Within hours, she had lined up three potential rentals. Just as we were about to hop on a FaceTime call for a virtual tour, a text from Eason popped up on my screen. [Thai basil chicken bowl and a berry smoothie.] [Come early. I have a meeting at one thirty.] I stared at the two messages, then calmly swiped them away. Eason worked brutal corporate hours. He never ate on time, and his diet was absolute garbage. After he collapsed from severe gastritis and ended up in the emergency room, I took matters into my own hands. I started scouring the internet for gut healing recipes. Ever since that day, I prepared fresh warm meals and delivered them to his office every single afternoon. He ate whatever I made. He never complained. I kept this routine up for three years, and his stomach issues never flared up again. Half a year ago, he suddenly started requesting specific dishes. I thought he was just getting bored of the bland food, so I poured my energy into tweaking the recipes to make them tastier. Until that afternoon. I saw a text exchange between him and Molly on his iPad. [Eason! What delicious food is Stella making today?] [Ugh, steamed veggies again? I do not really like that stuff.] [Next time, tell Stella not to make steamed food. I want something fried!] [Stella is so domestic. I do not know how to cook at all. You are so lucky to have her!] Eason replied: [You and her are different. Do not put yourself down.] [You are conquering the corporate world, she cooks at home. There is no comparison.] [A person has to be good for something, and since she stays home, this is all she can do.] Seeing those words had broken something inside me. I confronted him about it. He was slightly surprised I had read his messages, but he was not angry. He just looked at me with this calm, unshakable entitlement. “Oh. Molly has a weak stomach, she cannot eat takeout all the time. The food you make happens to be perfect for her, and it is nutritious. Why not?” His light, breezy tone hit me like a sledgehammer, smashing my warm beating heart into bloody pieces. I spent hours sweating in the kitchen, studying culinary books in every spare moment. The meals I poured my soul into, all my dedication… It had all become nothing more than casual banter to comfort another woman. And it was not like I did not work. In my spare time, I took on heavy freelance translation gigs. The foreign language dictionaries I used every single day were sitting right there on the living room bookshelf. He just never cared enough to notice. After finalizing a lease on a new apartment, a heavy weight lifted off my shoulders. Harper declared that since I was moving back to Seattle, she was going to drain my wallet on a massive welcome back dinner. I gladly agreed. When Eason finally called, I was dozing off on the sofa. “Stella, did you not see my texts?” I pinched the bridge of my nose, forcing myself awake. “I saw them. What is it?” The man on the other end of the line fell silent. A moment later, I heard him say, “I have not eaten yet.” “You can order something on UberEats.” “Do you not hate it when I eat takeout?” His tone was genuinely, utterly baffled. I let out a tired sigh, speaking from the absolute bottom of my heart. “Cooking for you was never an obligation. I did it because it broke my heart to see you in pain. I volunteered to do it.” “But Eason. We signed the divorce papers a week ago.” 3 After Eason hung up, I retreated to the guest bedroom and slept straight through until dusk. The moment I walked out of the room, the front door swung open. Molly was holding Eason up, helping him hobble inside. The fabric around his knee was torn. He must have taken a bad fall. Molly trailed right behind him, her eyes rimmed red, fussing over him with frantic, exaggerated worry. “Eason, slow down! Your leg is hurt!” The second she spotted me, she puffed out her cheeks, immediately playing the role of the innocent tattletale. “Stella, you need to talk some sense into him! We had a client dinner today, and the client insisted I take a tequila shot. Eason absolutely refused to let me drink it. When we were leaving, the client purposely bumped into him, and he fell down the stairs and cut his leg!” “It is just one drink, it is not like I cannot handle it. Why did he have to play the hero?” She was asking me to talk some sense into him, but the smug, triumphant curve of her lips was painfully obvious. Her fake concern was sickeningly transparent. So I did not say a single word. I gave a brief nod, turned around, and walked right back toward my room. I had lived in this house for five years. I had a lot of packing to do. Molly’s giggles drifted through the living room, punctuated by Eason’s low voice. A little while later, there was a knock on my door. I pulled it open. Eason was leaning heavily against the doorframe for balance. “Where is the first aid kit?” He pulled up his pant leg, revealing an ugly, bleeding scrape. I glanced at it, then looked back up at him, genuinely confused. “The first aid kit? Did you not give it to Molly?” Three months ago, Molly bought a Vespa, claiming it would make her commute easier. On her very first day riding it, she crashed. Eason got the hysterical phone call, abandoned me in the middle of my birthday dinner, and rushed to her side. Sometime later, I accidentally burned my hand on the stove. I could not find the medical box anywhere. I called Eason, but Molly answered his phone. “The first aid kit? Oh, Stella, I wiped out on my scooter, so Eason brought the kit over to my place! Can you bear the pain for a bit? I will have him bring it back tonight.” Now, standing in the doorway, a flicker of emotion finally cracked through Eason’s perpetually composed face. He clearly remembered. “I forgot.” I smiled, nodding in total agreement. “You really do have a terrible memory.” On that day, after Molly answered the phone, I had been furious. When Eason finally came home, I demanded to know why he was giving our household items away to another woman. He had not even looked at me. His eyes were glued to his laptop screen, his fingers typing away as he dismissed me. “It is just a first aid kit. It sits in the cabinet all year and nobody uses it. I gave it to her, so what?” But that medical box… every single month, I checked the expiration dates. I restocked the bandages, the burn ointments, the painkillers. Every single item in there was carefully curated by me, a physical manifestation of my devotion to keeping our home safe. And he handed it over to someone else without a second thought. Just like the meals I poured my heart into. With a wave of his hand, they became another woman’s lunch. I looked at his bleeding leg and offered a helpful reminder. “You can get first aid supplies delivered on DoorDash. If there is nothing else, I have packing to do.” With that, I shut the door, completely ignoring the man standing on the other side. Eason stared blankly at the closed wood. A sudden, hollow emptiness bloomed in his chest. 4 The days bled together. The boxes I packed were shipped off to Seattle, one by one. This luxury apartment gradually grew barren. The memories practically draining out of the walls. I thought the last few days would pass in quiet peace. But Eason suddenly changed. He became domestic. A workaholic who basically lived at the office, he suddenly started coming home right at five. A man who never once cared about my needs began buying me breakfast and bringing home late night snacks. Utterly baffled, I asked him what he was playing at. For the first time in his life, Eason seemed at a loss for words. It took him a long moment to reply. “My mom called. She wants to have a family dinner. Asked us to come over.” I hesitated, but eventually agreed. My own parents passed away when I was young. Marrying Eason was the first time I got to experience the warmth of parental love again. Since we were getting a divorce, it was only right to see them one last time. It was drizzling the day we went to the restaurant. His parents had already ordered, the table entirely covered in my favorite dishes. Eason’s mother used serving tongs to place a tender piece of roast duck onto my plate, chatting happily about the neighbor’s daughter having her second baby. Then, seamlessly, the topic shifted to me. “When are you two going to start thinking about having a baby? You should do it while your father and I still have the energy to help you babysit.” In the past, I would have smiled and graciously said we were not in a rush. But this time, I did not say a word. I kept my head down and ate the piece of meat sitting on top of my rice. A heavy, awkward silence descended over the table for ten agonizing seconds. His parents exchanged worried glances. Eason reached over and firmly grabbed my left hand. His voice was steady. “Soon.” His parents beamed. I quietly slipped my hand out of his grip. Eason was already staring at his phone, completely unbothered. After dinner, his mom pulled me aside to chat. Next to us, Eason’s phone rang three times in a row. He ignored it. The older woman gently kicked her son’s shin. “Turn that on silent! Stella cannot even hear me.” Eason glanced at me. “Emergency at work. I need to take this.” By the time the plates were cleared, Eason still had not come back. I called him. No answer. His parents called him. Still nothing. Looking out the window at the torrential rain pouring down outside, my mind drifted back to a day exactly like this. I had been walking past his office building when a sudden downpour hit. I could not get an Uber no matter how hard I tried. I waited until Eason clocked out and gave him a call. The second the line connected, I saw a familiar car pull up to the intersection right in front of me. Eason was behind the wheel. Molly was in the passenger seat. Over the phone, Eason asked what I needed. I told him it was pouring, and since I was not far, could he come pick me up? He replied, “Just wait a bit and call a cab. I am still at the office, pulling overtime.” The exact moment he said that, the girl in the passenger seat reached over, offering him a potato chip. He covered the phone’s mouthpiece, turned his head to decline, but eventually gave in and took a bite. He lied so flawlessly, so naturally, I actually thought I had identified the wrong car. I spent weeks torturing myself over that memory. But eventually, I figured it out. He did not love me, so he did not care. Just like he hated eating junk food, but he would never reject a chip offered by her fingers. Just like he hated eating cold food, but if my handmade noodles got soggy, he would not even touch them. The rain stopped. I hailed a cab and escorted his elderly parents back to their house. In the dead of night, I heard Eason come home. He was on the phone, his voice loud enough to echo. Through the thin drywall, I heard him let out an exasperated, affectionate sigh. “Molly.” When I woke up the next morning, I had a dozen missed calls from Molly. My notifications were flooded with her texts. [Stella, Eason and I have not crossed any boundaries! Please tell him not to transfer me to another department!] [He said you misunderstood and that you are divorcing him over it. I swear it was not on purpose! I will keep my distance from now on, just please do not make him kick me out!] I stared at the messages in utter bewilderment. I did not reply. I just placed my phone face down on the desk. I was packing the last few items of clothing left in the guest bedroom when Eason kicked the door open. He sounded frantic. “Stella, what did you say to Molly?” “She texted me saying she needed to explain everything to you, and now she is missing! I cannot reach her anywhere! What the hell did you say to her?!” His chest was heaving, his eyes burning into mine. Eason was a stoic, emotionally stunted man. He rarely ever lost his temper like this. But here he was, completely unraveled. Over another woman. I picked up my phone, opened Molly’s chat, and shoved the screen into his face. “I have no idea what kind of drama you two cooked up last night to drag me into this.” “When she sent those messages, I was asleep. And quite frankly, I do not feel obligated to reply to her anyway.” Eason opened his mouth to argue, but his phone started ringing. The moment he saw the caller ID, his furious expression melted into sheer panic, then relief. “Just come back first. We can talk about everything else later.” “The guys your parents are trying to set you up with are garbage. Come back to Chicago!” “Then stay with us!” “It is a huge apartment. It is just me and Stella.” He shot me a pointed look as he said that, then hit the speakerphone button and held it out between us. Molly’s loud, tear choked voice filled the room. “Stella, I am so sorry, I hate to be a burden.” “I already broke my lease to move back to my hometown, but Eason insists I come back. I cannot find an apartment on such short notice… can I crash with you guys for a little while?” “I swear I will move out the second I find a place. Please.” I met Eason’s deeply demanding stare. My fingertips felt ice cold, but a dark, hysterical urge to laugh bubbled up in my throat. “Sure. You are more than welcome.” Over the speaker, Molly let out a joyful cheer. Eason immediately shifted back into his gentle, protective tone. “Wait for me at the airport. I am on my way.” He hung up and looked at me. “I am going to pick Molly up. Could you clean up the guest room for her?” I gave him a look. “Eason, can Molly take an Uber? There is somewhere the two of us need to be.” He frowned deeply. “I already promised her. I am not going to back out now.” “It is only a three hour round trip. Whatever you need to do, it can wait until I get back.” “Okay.” “I am leaving.” He walked out in a hurry. Completely oblivious to the small duffel bag sitting right next to my feet. I waited for him for three hours. He never came back. I opened my phone and scrolled through my feed. A post from Molly, uploaded ten minutes ago. [I was so sad today, but Eason insisted on taking me to the amusement park! What girl can say no to a Ferris wheel? I know I cannot~] I hit the like button. I stood up. Picked up the duffel bag containing the very last of my belongings. And walked out of the house I had called home for five years. As I stepped out of City Hall, I snapped a photo of the finalized divorce decree, texted it to Eason, and hailed a cab to the airport. Seven hours later, I landed in Seattle. I slid into the passenger seat of Harper’s car. As she excitedly babbled about all the new restaurants that had opened up downtown, I powered my phone back on. Notifications flooded the screen like an avalanche.

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