My boss, Patrick Smith, was in a car accident. He’s been in a coma ever since. My best friend, Maya, who works in administration, used her position to assign his idle Maybach to me. I thought I’d hit the jackpot. Turns out, the car has a worse temper than my boss ever did. If I accelerated too slowly, a man’s voice would crackle from the speakers: “Are you part turtle? A snail could move faster.” If I braked too hard, the voice would snap: “In a rush to get reincarnated? Are you trying to send me to an early grave?” I just figured it was some cruel voice pack Patrick had installed before the accident. Until tonight. I was working late and had to change in the car. The moment I slipped off my blazer, that familiar voice echoed softly. “With a figure like that, you should really keep your clothes on. Don’t embarrass yourself.” I looked up in terror. In the rearview mirror, a translucent figure was lounging in the back seat, legs crossed, a look of utter disgust on his face. It was him. The office tyrant himself, currently lying unconscious in the ICU. 1 I slammed my foot on the gas, and the Maybach roared through the intersection. The voice was back. “Are turn signals just for decoration? Do you change lanes using telepathy?” I’d had enough. I slapped the steering wheel. “Shut up!” Three seconds of silence. “Your temper is bigger than your driving skills, I’ll give you that.” I took a deep breath, telling myself to stay calm. After all, this car was a perk Maya had arranged for me. The group’s CEO, Patrick Smith, had been in a coma for three months after a severe accident. His exclusive ride had been collecting dust in the underground garage ever since. “The car’s just sitting there,” Maya had said. “Your beat-up old Honda should’ve been scrapped years ago. Just take it. No one’s going to question Mr. Smith’s car.” I’d believed her. But the car’s built-in voice assistant was practically an AI clone of Patrick himself. Caustic, critical, and completely inhuman. I parked in a shadowy spot beneath the office building and checked the time. The company banquet started in half an hour. No time to go home and change. I glanced around, confirmed no one was watching, and raised all the sunshades on the windows. The cramped, private space gave me a sliver of security. I unbuttoned my blouse, shrugging out of my work clothes. Just as I reached for the evening gown on the back seat, an icy draft ghosted across my neck. “Is that what you chose to wear?” “Pink lace? How old are you? You need the right foundation to pull off ‘coy’.” My whole body went rigid. I slowly turned my head. The back seat, which had been empty moments ago, was now occupied. A man in a bespoke black suit sat there, broad-shouldered and trim-waisted, his long legs crossed. I’d seen that face countless times at company events. Cold, handsome. And currently twisted into a sneer of undisguised mockery. Patrick Smith. No. He was supposed to be in the ICU, hooked up to a ventilator. A scream lodged in my throat. Patrick raised a hand, his long, elegant fingers pointing toward my chest. “I wouldn’t recommend streaking in my car.” “I’m allergic to flat chests.” I snatched my jacket, clutching it to myself as I shrank into the corner of the driver’s seat, my teeth chattering. “Are you a person or a ghost?!” Patrick scoffed, leaning forward. His face passed right through the back of my seat, materializing inches from mine. “What do you think, Miss… assistant?” He got my title wrong. My name is Chloe. But he clearly didn’t care. “Get dressed.” He pulled back, leaning against the seat again, his expression one of pure annoyance. “Just looking at your idiotic face gives me a headache.” 2 I practically fell out of the car. The security guard on patrol gave me a look like I was a lunatic. I glanced back. The Maybach sat silently in the darkness, windows sealed, hiding its secrets. A hallucination. I’d been working too much overtime lately. It had to be a hallucination. Trembling, I put my shoes back on, forcing myself to calm down. Patrick was in the hospital, intubated, hooked up to an ECG. And besides, ghosts aren’t real. Taking a deep breath, I pulled the car door open again. The back seat was empty. See? Just as I breathed a sigh of relief and settled into the driver’s seat, a dark shape materialized in the passenger seat beside me. Patrick was turned toward me, his face a mask of impatience. “Are we playing hide-and-seek?” “Aaaah!!!” I screamed again. “Quiet.” He rubbed his temples. “You’re giving me a headache.” I pressed myself against the door. “But… aren’t you in the hospital?” “That’s what I’d like to know.” “I woke up in this damn car.” Patrick looked up at me, his gaze freezing cold. “And you. Who gave you the nerve to drive my car?” I stammered, “It… it was an arrangement from the admin department…” There was no way I was selling out Maya. Patrick snorted. “That pack of incompetents in Admin. I’ll fire them all when I get back.” He seemed to lose interest in pursuing it, pointing ahead. “Drive.” I froze. “To… to where?” “The hospital.” Patrick stared out the window, his profile hard and unforgiving. “I’m going to see if I’m actually dead.” I didn’t dare refuse. I started the car. And stalled it. Twice. Patrick’s scathing commentary was, as always, right on cue. “Did you get your driver’s license in a cereal box?” “The clutch goes all the way to the floor. Are your legs too short, or are you just weak?” “Put it in gear! What are you fumbling with?” He berated me all the way to the hospital’s underground garage. I parked the car and unbuckled my seatbelt, ready to flee for my life. “Mr. Smith, we’re here. You can… uh… go ahead.” Patrick didn’t move. He stared at the car door, his expression grim. “Open it.” I quickly got out and pulled open the passenger door for him. He swung his legs out to exit. The next second. He was thrown back into the seat as if by an invisible force. The car shook violently. I was frozen in shock. Patrick’s face was ashen. He tried again. The same result. He was trapped in the Maybach. Patrick leaned back against the headrest, his chest heaving, the pressure in the car dropping to a terrifying low. After a long moment, he turned to look at me. “Chloe.” He actually got my name right. “Come here.” I shuffled two steps closer. “Closer.” I pressed myself against the car door. “Get in.” I shook my head frantically. “I don’t—” “Get in!” I flinched and scrambled into the driver’s seat. Patrick stared at me, then suddenly reached out. His translucent hand passed through my shoulder. There was no touch, only a wave of spectral cold. “Drive,” he said. “Where to?” “Home.” “Wh-whose home?” Patrick’s lips twisted into a chilling smile. “Yours.” 3 I brought Patrick back to my apartment. Or rather, I parked the car downstairs. He couldn’t get out of the car, and there was no way for me to get him upstairs. “You live in a place like this?” Patrick surveyed the dilapidated old apartment complex through the car window. Overflowing dumpsters, stray cats darting about, hallway lights flickering like a horror movie. “The slums look better than this.” I pulled out the car key, mustering my courage. “Mr. Smith, it’s all I can afford. You’ll have to make do.” I was about to make a run for it. “Stay.” Patrick’s voice stopped me. “Roll down the window.” I did as he said. “Leave your phone.” “What?” “I said, leave your phone!” I didn’t dare argue. I offered him my phone. But he couldn’t grasp it; the phone passed through his hand and landed on the seat. Patrick’s face darkened. “Put it there. And open a streaming app.” I obediently found a reality show for him and propped the phone up on the dashboard. “I’m going upstairs to sleep now…” “Be down here at seven tomorrow morning. On the dot.” Patrick didn’t even look at me. “Be one minute late, and I’ll be crawling in through your window tonight.” I glanced up at my eighteenth-floor apartment, then back at his ghostly form. Somehow, I believed he could do it. I didn’t sleep a wink that night. My mind was consumed by the image of my ghost-boss sitting in the car downstairs. The next morning, I went down with dark circles under my eyes. Patrick was still there. The phone was dead. He was sitting cross-legged in the passenger seat, radiating a murderous aura. “Is this what you call a full charge? The screen went black in three hours.” “Mr. Smith, it’s last year’s model…” “Pathetic,” he spat. On the way to the office, he was his usual, relentlessly critical self. “Turn left, take the expressway. The streets below are a parking lot.” “Overtake him! That BMW driver is scared of his own shadow. What are you waiting for?” He directed my every move, and for the first time, I actually wasn’t late. As soon as I walked into the office, Maya rushed over. “So? How was it last night? That car is a dream to drive, right?” I forced a smile. “Oh yeah, a dream. Comes with a complimentary surround-sound verbal abuse feature.” Maya didn’t get it and was about to ask more when our department manager clapped his hands. “Everyone, listen up!” The manager’s face was grave. “We’ve just received word. Mr. Smith’s condition has worsened. It’s likely… just a matter of a day or two.” “The company has arranged for each department to visit the hospital in shifts to pay their final respects.” “Our department’s slot is at ten a.m.” My head started buzzing. Patrick was really going to die? Ten o’clock. The area outside the ICU was crowded. The air was thick with sobbing and hushed whispers. I hung back at the edge of the crowd, clutching a bouquet of chrysanthemums that no one would notice anyway. Through the thick glass, I saw Patrick on the hospital bed. His face was deathly pale, so thin he was almost unrecognizable, with tubes running in and out of his body. Lifeless. A world away from the arrogant bastard in the car. I instinctively glanced behind me. The empty hallway stretched out, silent. Of course. He couldn’t leave the car. “You can go in. Don’t take too long,” a nurse said, opening the door. I followed my colleagues inside. The rhythmic beeping of the monitors hammered against my heart. I walked to the bedside, staring at that familiar face. On a strange impulse, I reached out, wanting to check for his breath. The instant my fingertips brushed against his skin… ZAP! A powerful electric current shot from my fingers and coursed through my entire body. The pain was sharp, intense. I snatched my hand back. “What are you doing?” the manager hissed, glaring at me. I clutched my tingling fingers, staring at the bed in horror. In that brief moment. I had clearly heard a voice in my head. “Idiot, are you trying to kill me?!” It was Patrick’s voice. My head snapped up. The man on the bed remained motionless, his eyes sealed shut. But I saw it. His finger. It had twitched. 4 I all but fled the hospital room. When I got back to the car, Patrick was sitting in the back seat, his eyes closed as if meditating. He opened them as I slid in. “What was that just now?” he asked, straight to the point. I didn’t bother hiding it. “I touched you.” Patrick’s eyebrow twitched violently. “I felt it.” “What?” He sat up straighter. “When you touched my body, I felt it… here.” He pointed to the same spot on his ghostly form. I swallowed hard. “…Your body and your… spirit are still connected?” “It’s not just a connection.” Patrick’s eyes narrowed. He leaned forward, his face closing in on mine again. “Chloe. It’s you. You’re my power bank.” Patrick began experimenting with possession. As long as he was latched onto me, he could leave the car, maintaining a certain radius. I was his anchor. And so, my cubicle gained an invisible, spectral supervisor. “This PowerPoint presentation looks like absolute garbage. Are you trying to disgust the client into signing?” “That data point is wrong. Move the decimal two places to the left. Did a gym teacher teach your finance department math?” “Stop drinking that instant coffee. It tastes like dishwater.” I revised proposals while enduring his constant mental assault. That night, I just wanted to unwind with a TV show. “Change it. The male lead’s plastic surgery is distracting.” “Can’t you see those chips are expired?” “Turn the water temperature down. Are you trying to boil me alive?” I finally snapped. “Patrick! This is my home! I’m entitled to some privacy!” Patrick looked down on me, imperious. “Privacy? Is there a single part of you I haven’t seen by now?” “That’s because you were spying!” “I was subjected to visual pollution against my will.” He was so shamelessly self-righteous. And then he pushed it further. “There’s an important meeting tomorrow. Bring your brain, and do exactly as I say.” I wanted to ignore him, but he threatened to blow in my ear all night while I slept. I caved. At the meeting, I repeated Patrick’s words, systematically dismantling the arguments of a senior manager who had always targeted me. The entire room was stunned. Seeing the look of defeat on the manager’s face gave me a twisted sense of satisfaction. Patrick seemed to be in a good mood too, ending his possession early. After work, I went to the underground garage to get the car. As I reached for the door handle, I froze. Reflected on the window was…

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The night before the wedding, my sister brought me Bella’s death certificate. A climbing accident in the remote Alaskan interior. Survival rate: negligible. I shredded the paper. I flew out alone. I went to the Yukon and shredded myself, too. I battled altitude sickness, pulmonary edema, and the kind of isolation that makes you think you’re going mad. I faced down a pack of wolves, lost, staggering, all for a shadow on a horizon that held no one. Three years later, I came back—hair matted, skin like leather, a man aged a decade. All I’d found was her ID tag, buried in the permafrost. I passed a trendy bistro, and there she was. Not a ghost. Bella Keller, draped in a custom gown, laughing with Amelia, my own sister. Finn O’Connell, her junior, gave a soft, practiced laugh. “Thanks, ladies. Just because Cas said one harsh thing to me, you two went this far to back me up? And right before you were supposed to marry him, Bella.” Bella smiled, the kind of indulgent, maternal smile I used to love. “You’re our only one, Finn. You work so hard on those rescue missions, and Caspian had the nerve to call you irresponsible. This whole thing? It’ll humble him. Do him some good, really.” “But… he’s not actually hurt, is he? Cas?” “No, my people are looking out for him,” she assured him, a dismissive wave of her hand. “He’ll be fine. We’ll get married eventually. It’s what he wants most. The hardship he endured in the Yukon? He’ll forget it. It’s insignificant.” A draft blew through my empty right pant leg. The System cut in, its voice a hollow hum. [Target has agreed to marry. Mission accomplished. You may redeem one wish, guaranteed. Redeem now, Host?] A single, raw tear carved a clean path down my dirt-caked cheek. “Then let her,” I whispered, the words catching in my throat, “let her truly die in the Yukon.” [Wish received, timeline being replanned…] Through the bistro window, Bella answered a call. “Another climber is missing in the interior?” I saw her lips move. “Right. I’ll mobilize our team immediately.” I knew the System’s will was already at work. “And any word on my fiancé lately?” she asked the caller. “He’s volatile. He must have been frantic when he thought I’d vanished. It’s been three years, but keep an eye out for him.” She turned. And her eyes—eyes that hadn’t seen a real struggle in years—met mine through the glass. Her lips formed two words: Later. Talk. Bella and Mia burst out. “Cas? God, what have you done to yourself?” Bella reached up, her fingers grazing my rough, cracked cheek—a face that, three years ago, was only concerned with a clean shave for our wedding. Mia grabbed a single, broken strand of my hair, her eyes wide with shock. “You… you have gray in your beard?” I was dragged into a high-end salon. The stylist tutted, struggling to work a brush through the mess. “How long has it been since you washed this? And for a young man, your skin is so rough.” Mia and Bella exchanged a look in the mirror. Both quickly averted their gaze. The stylist glanced at Finn O’Connell, who stood by the door, observing. “But this gentleman is immaculate. Obviously a trust fund baby, no expense spared.” I gave a harsh, internal laugh. Of course he was immaculate. Bella looked after him. I remembered catching Finn three years ago, teasing her to use her expensive moisturizer. She’d pretend to scold him while meticulously applying the lotion to his face with her own hands. I’d snatched the jar away and dressed Finn down for his immaturity. Bella had smoothed things over, that same indulgent smile fixed on her face. “Finn had a rough childhood, Cas. No one to look out for him. He sees us as family in the squad. Don’t be like this.” I’d pushed back, the pain sharp and immediate. “A fiancé is family, Bella! More than a junior teammate! When have you ever fussed over my skin like that?” She’d frozen. Finn had stomped off and vanished for a month. Bella never mentioned it again, even before her “rescue mission” to the Yukon, when she’d held me tight and promised me forever. I’d thought it was over. But I saw it now. It was never over. It was the start of the plan. A cruel, calculated plan to punish me. And my sister, Amelia, delivered the weapon. I remembered Mia’s whispered words through the glass: ‘It had to be me. Cas trusts me more than anyone. It makes the illusion perfect.’ I stood up. Hair half-cut, a mess of tangled frustration. I walked out. Bella’s hand grabbed my arm. “Where are you going?” “You just got an emergency call, didn’t you?” I said, shaking her off. “I wouldn’t want to hold up the great rescuer.” A flicker of what looked like genuine pain crossed her face, her eyes welling up. “No, Cas, wait. Tomorrow is your birthday. You forgot, didn’t you? I can speed through the rescue trip. I won’t miss it.” Amelia’s gaze softened too, a sliver of sisterly concern. “Let us do this one thing for you, Cas. Let us celebrate.” I didn’t refuse. What did it matter? I knew my next destination, too. Early or late, the destination was the same. I turned to leave fully. In the reflection, behind Mia’s shoulder, I saw Finn O’Connell. His eyes were cold, calculating. Not the injured junior at all. The birthday party was lavish, an absurd spectacle. I felt like a museum piece, pulled onto a gilded stage. The warmth and smiles of the guests were a physical shock after three years of wilderness. My throat tightened. Before I could even speak, the main doors burst open. Finn O’Connell stumbled in, covered in blood, his expensive clothes shredded, collapsing in front of the horrified crowd. “Mr. Thorne,” he wailed, his voice breaking. “I promised I’d leave the two women alone! Why are you still trying to ruin me!” The “Happy Birthday” chorus died instantly. Bella and Mia lunged for him. One held him; the other ripped off her jacket to press against his wounds. Seeing the deep gashes, Mia’s face contorted with fury. “Caspian Thorne! What in God’s name did you do?!” The guests gasped, their disbelief a palpable wave. “Those cuts… they’re terrible.” “Mr. Thorne just returned, and this is what he does? His parents, God rest their souls, must be heartbroken watching this!” Bella glared at me, her teeth grinding. “I told you! I was rescued by a local guide! We spent these years searching for you! We didn’t keep my survival a secret, and Finn had nothing to do with it! Whatever you have against me, come after me! Attacking an innocent man is monstrous!” Finn crawled forward on his knees, a perfect picture of beaten puppy-dog remorse. “Mr. Thorne, I swear, I have no improper feelings for the ladies. I was abandoned as a child, starving for affection. I’m sorry. I promise I’ll never see them again. Why are you trying to destroy me?” Bella and Mia sucked in a breath at the mention of him leaving. I looked down at the pathetic creature kneeling at my feet. “You haven’t changed at all, Finn. You’re still a performance artist.” “Caspian Thorne!” Bella’s hand shot out, grabbing my throat and slamming me against the wall. She pointed at Finn’s wounds. “Who fakes injuries like this?! We told you we didn’t fake my death to hurt you! Why are you so relentless? Have you lost all decency? Did three years in the wilderness strip you of your humanity? Maybe you need three more to learn some manners!” Mia stepped in, her voice cold. “You will either apologize to Finn, sign a statement guaranteeing you’ll never harass him or try to force him out. Or, you take the same injuries he has.” The hand left my throat. I doubled over, gasping for air. The pulmonary edema I’d developed—and barely survived—in the Yukon was better, but the damage was permanent. The irony. “Stop the dramatics, Cas. We had a network watching you. You were never in actual danger.” Bella thrust a pen and paper at me. Sign the confession. I braced my shaking frame, took the pen—and snapped it clean in half. “No need,” I choked out. “I’ll take the second option.” Bella and Mia flinched. “You want to be injured? Are you insane?” The next moment, I reached down, unbuckled the socket, and detached my own right leg. I placed the prosthetic on the table with a dull thud, fighting for breath. “One leg,” I rasped. “Is that enough?” “Cas!” Amelia screamed, her hands flying to her mouth. “If not,” I continued, my voice gaining a terrible clarity, “how about an eye?” I reached up and pulled out my left eyeball. A glass prosthetic. The first time I met the pack, the fire failed, and the alpha ripped out the original. “Cas!” Bella’s voice was a ragged whisper. I clutched my chest. My lips were turning blue from the edema. I collapsed to the floor. “How… how is this possible!” Bella knelt instantly, clutching my arm, trembling violently. “I had people watching you! I told them to protect you! Why did they let this happen!” Before the blackness took me, I registered one thing: Finn O’Connell, the pathetic, injured victim, flinched when Bella said she’d had me ‘protected.’ His eyes flickered away. I woke up in a sterile room. Bella was by my side, clutching my hand. “It’s settled, Cas. It was a misunderstanding. Finn was attacked by thugs and thought you hired them.” I stared at her, waiting for the inevitable apology, the remorse. Instead, she sighed. “Don’t blame him. If you hadn’t always been so aggressive toward him, he wouldn’t have jumped to conclusions.” “Bella…” My voice was a choked sound. “It’s… over? All that suffering? Just dismissed as a misunderstanding?” “Cas!” She gently pressed me back against the pillows. Her voice softened, now a practiced coo. “Let’s get married. Now.” I froze. She traced the empty socket of my eye, her own eyes instantly glossy. “I’ve pushed my rescue trip back two days. Cas, I am so sorry I let you suffer. I will be your wife, and I will spend my life making it up to you.” She pressed my hands between hers. “Finn is just a teammate, a brother. If I had known you would be hurt this badly, I would have let him suffer instead.” “Bella…” Finn’s small, wounded voice came from the doorway. Bella tensed. She snapped her head toward him. “Get out.” “Bella!” “Get out!” Her brow furrowed. “I’m speaking to my fiancé. It has nothing to do with you.” Mia, still at the foot of the bed, looked surprised. “Bella…” “Get out!” Finn’s eyes were instantly red. Just like three years ago, when I’d first scolded him, he spun around and left. Mia watched him go, shaking her head with a sigh, but she didn’t follow him. “Marry me, Cas?” she pleaded. I looked out the window, a cold smile lifting the corner of my mouth. “Yes,” I whispered. Fine. She would die anyway, fulfilling the wish. And I would get half her estate in the real world. A single tear, hot and heavy, tracked down my cheek. Bella. You forced my hand. You promised me. You would never lie to me. And if you did, you deserved to die. You lied once. I won’t let you have a second chance. She didn’t wait. The news of our upcoming wedding—Caspian Thorne, the high-profile philanthropist, and Bella Keller, the heroic rescue captain—was plastered everywhere, dominating social media. The buzz didn’t last. It was quickly buried by another headline: Bella KELLER’S JUNIOR CO-WORKER: THE SECRET BOYFRIEND? The article detailed how Finn O’Connell allegedly pursued his married captain, sharing water bottles on missions, and how she applied his skincare products herself, all with photographic evidence. I blinked. I was the only one who knew those specific details. How had this leaked? The door slammed open. Bella stood there, spitting mad, a stack of the incriminating photos fluttering to the floor. “Why are you doing this to him?! He had a terrible childhood, he’s sensitive! If Mia and I hadn’t intervened, he would have killed himself!” Behind her, Finn was a mass of red eyes and tears, being cradled by Amelia. “Mr. Thorne, I only see the ladies as sisters! I’m sorry! I’m avoiding them! Why must you destroy me?” The pieces clicked. Finn had staged the whole media leak himself to provoke this exact reaction. Bella was frantic. “The media storm is out of control! Finn might be clueless about boundaries, but he’s worked hard to be where he is! You can’t just ruin an innocent person! Look at you, Cas!” I fought the urge to point out that they were the ones who pulled strings to get him into the squad. I just stared. “So what’s the solution? Do you want me to be pilloried by the media too?” “Yes,” she said, the word a flat stone. I flinched. “The only way to kill this scandal—since it originated because of you—is for me to marry Finn. A public, fast wedding to show he isn’t a homewrecker.” I thought I misheard her. Her eyes slid past my empty socket. A brief, fleeting moment of guilt. She softened her tone. “We’ll still legally marry, Cas. Me and you. After I get back from the Yukon. But for now, we have to save Finn. Don’t worry, I won’t actually sign the papers with him.” I fought for air, controlling the pulmonary strain. “Bella, do you remember the promise you made to me?” She paused. Avoided my gaze. She turned her back. “I said I’d marry you when I get back, Cas. I won’t lie to you.” Mia looked at me, her expression a mix of pity and annoyance. “You’re really testing my patience, Cas.” The two women shielded Finn and left. I watched Bella’s retreating back. My smile was a mask of coldness, but a tear slipped from my eye. Bella. You promised me. If I lie, may I die a terrible death. You lied once. I won’t let you have a second chance. The day before the “wedding,” Bella went to a quiet, gothic cathedral downtown. She looked up at the stained-glass image of Christ. She wasn’t religious. But she’d felt compelled to stop. The sorrowful figure looked down on her white gown. She whispered: “I am guilty. I deceived a man I truly love, Cas, and he suffered damage I never intended. But I had to do it. The other man—Finn—is innocent and vulnerable. I promised him my support. My sin was negligence, allowing a lesson to become a life-changing agony for my fiancé. I vow to spend my life atoning. Lord, forgive me.” A limping man entered the quiet space. Dragging my new prosthetic, I stood where Bella had been. It was strange. I was no believer, but I’d felt a pull, too. “I suppose I am also guilty,” I said, the words echoing off the stone. “I am about to cause a death. The death of my fiancée. I wished for her demise in the Alaskan wilderness. I once loved her deeply. Perhaps judging her sin is not my right. But I choose this anyway. She made the vow herself: If I lie, may I die a terrible death. If you called me here, Lord, I have only this to say: I will not recant. I will not regret. Lord, don’t forgive me.” I turned. The tap-tap of my shoe and the thud of the prosthetic were loud on the marble. I skipped the staged wedding. I only went to see Bella off as she left for her rescue trip. Finn came up, eyes red, but she ignored him, looking only at me. “Cas, a private goodbye?” Finn shot me a murderous glare. Her SUV stopped just before the freeway entrance. She got out and held me in a desperate, hard embrace. “I’m sorry, Cas. When I get back, I’m never leaving you again.” “I know,” I said, patting her back, cutting her off. “The wedding with Finn is a facade. I never wanted a life with anyone but you—” “I know,” I repeated, interrupting her again. “Go.” She walked toward the SUV, turning back to look at me three times, her face a mask of regret. As her car passed through the toll plaza, a tear slipped down my face, unnoticed by her. Goodbye, Bella. No. Farewell.

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My ex-girlfriend always had to be contrarian. I’d crave a slice of pear, and she’d shove an apple in my face. I’d bring up marriage, and she’d declare herself a devoted non-committalist. She used to say that sparring was her way of flirting, that she only pushed back because she found me adorable. It took me nine hundred and ninety-nine pleas, but she finally conceded to having a wedding ceremony—just to fulfill the dying wish of my critically ill mother. My mother, frail and already suffering, endured a grueling cross-country bus and train journey just to be there. She arrived, only for the bride to be a no-show. When I called her, Gigi’s voice was sharp and accusing: “Brooks’s fiancée bailed on him, so I’m stepping in to save his day! Your mother couldn’t be sick any other day, could she? The one day Brooks is celebrating, she’s demanding a wedding? How tasteless! I’m not going anywhere, Callan. I’ll come to your wedding, just wait!” But my mother, holding on by sheer willpower, never saw the bride. The guests cleared out at midnight, and my mother finally slipped away, heartbroken. Meanwhile, Gigi’s social media status had been quietly changed to “On Honeymoon,” with a geotag for Bali. “I’ll be back in ten days, maybe two weeks. Just tell your mom to hang in there, and we’ll go sign the papers then.” She didn’t know that the moment my mother died, I decided I was done with her. 1 A week after the funeral, the company sent me a notice: violating policy due to unauthorized absence, report for termination proceedings. As I boxed up my belongings at the office, the whispers followed me: “Isn’t that the guy who tried to force Miss Winslow to marry him? Unbelievable nerve. Firing him isn’t enough; he should be blackballed from the industry!” “I heard he shot himself in the foot and actually drove his own mother to her grave with the drama. Serves him right.” I paused, a half-packed file box in front of me. My ex, Genevieve “Gigi” Winslow, was the company’s CEO, my direct superior. She’d claimed I was just a supervisor and didn’t meet her mother’s standards for a suitable fiancé, which was why we had to keep our relationship a secret. To avoid suspicion, she constantly undermined me in the office. She’d dump the coffee I bought her or tear my meticulously prepared proposals to shreds. My colleagues considered me a pathetic, bootlicking annoyance. They treated me like a human dumping ground, constantly passing off their tasks to me. After my mother’s death, my tear ducts were dry, and their venomous whispers simply couldn’t touch me. A slow, cold smile spread across my face. “Apologies, but my absence wasn’t for a vacation,” I said, my voice empty of warmth. “I was scouting locations. I’m starting my own company.” Their jaws dropped. I got home just as Gigi called. The sound of the ocean wind howled through the phone, painfully scraping my eardrum, forcing me to hold it away from my ear. “Callan, get home right now! I need you to mail the gift box in my dresser drawer to the address I sent you—expedite it, overnight air freight! It’s Brooks’s birthday tomorrow!” Even when I had a hundred-and-four-degree fever, she wouldn’t let me call in sick. But now, she was ordering me home immediately to ensure her childhood sweetheart, Brooks, got his present on time. The dresser was right beside me. I pulled open the drawer, and there it was. Inside the ribboned box was a Patek Philippe watch, subtle yet devastatingly expensive. A month ago, I had pointed at a billboard on the street and casually mentioned how much I liked that particular model. Gigi had just given me a dismissive side-eye, asking if I even thought I was worthy of such a timepiece. I hadn’t asked her to buy it for me. I just liked it. I wasn’t worthy, but Brooks apparently was. It wasn’t the first time. A year ago, she gave him a luxury sports car the day he returned from overseas. For my birthday, she’d gone to the discounted section of the grocery store and gifted me a bag of snacks that were about to expire. She’d said: “You shouldn’t compare yourself to Brooks. My intention is so much more valuable than some ridiculous five-hundred-thousand-dollar car.” I had let her lead me by the nose until this latest stunt: Gigi skipping our wedding to stand in for Brooks at his, and then going on his honeymoon. The memory of my mother, fighting for every last breath, closing her eyes in final, silent despair because she never saw me with a wife, brought a sharp, clarifying pain. I bit down on my tongue. The pain grounded me. I tossed the gift box back into the drawer. “I won’t mail it.” Gigi was silent for a beat, then her voice spiked in rage. “Callan, do you have any humanity? Brooks is sick with culture shock, and he just wants to cheer up on his birthday!” Brooks’s gentle, understanding voice came over the line. “It’s okay, Gigi, really. No gift could compare to you being here with me.” Gigi immediately refuted him. “No! If you want it, I’ll pluck the stars out of the sky for you!” I was speechless. I had only ever asked for a pear. She’d insisted on the apple. She’d told me apples were cheap and filling—suitable for a man like me. In ten years, she had never once considered what I truly wanted. For Brooks, she was ready to move heaven and earth. Gigi huffed, indignant. “I will be good to him! You dare defy me?” Brooks sounded resigned. “As you wish, my little princess. I just worry Callan will get upset.” Gigi scoffed. “Who cares about him? The man has zero empathy! You were sick, your fiancée ran off—I just stepped in as a temporary fill-in and came on a quick trip to help you relax. And he throws a fit!” “I told him I’d marry him once I got back and make him the ideal son-in-law, but he’s still being petty and relentless. Honestly, he’s such a headache.” I lowered my eyes, utterly numb. Gigi treated Brooks this way because she was certain I would never leave her, no matter what. “Alright, I have to take Brooks to the clinic now. Just mail the package. Hurry.” She hung up after her perfunctory order. A minute later, I saw a new post on Brooks’s social media. A single, simple photo. The two of them building a sandcastle at sunset. Their hands were overlapped, and the brilliant sparkle of matching commitment rings on their fingers was blinding. This was their trip to the “clinic.” I couldn’t even summon the energy to confront her. If I did, I would only be berated for being small-minded and for questioning their “pure, platonic friendship.” Now, all I wanted was to leave this soul-crushing city, return to my hometown, and build something of my own. At my mother’s funeral, I’d reconnected with my old friend, Marcus. He had the capital and the location for a new business, and all he needed was a strong operations person—me. I had promised him three days to wrap up my life here before joining him. Thinking of this, I texted Marcus. We chatted until the sun set, and a genuine smile finally touched my lips. Just then, a different friend messaged me. “Callan, Gigi posted you for sale on that used-goods app! What is going on?!” 2 I clicked on the link my friend sent. The product photo showed me wearing an apron, focused intently on cooking. “Used-up Boyfriend for Sale. 90% New. 99 cents to the first bidder.” The comment section was flooded by Gigi’s friends, turning it into a group event. “Gigi, you’ve had this product for ten years; you can’t call him 90% new! He was a looker when he was young, but now he’s just old bark.” “Not the prettiest accessory, but buying him means a free housekeeper. Pretty good ROI.” The friend who’d sent me the link weakly commented: “Gigi, won’t Callan be mad if he sees this?” Immediately, everyone swarmed him: “If Callan gets mad, he can’t take a joke.” “Give it a rest. Callan’s just a country boy clinging to Gigi, hoping to cash in on her family’s wealth. He’s pretending to be a great lover!” My heart was like a stone in my chest. I felt nothing. I already knew Gigi’s friends looked down on me. They even had a private group chat where they constantly urged her to break up with me. Everyone assumed I was a gold-digger, never realizing that for ten years, I’d never spent a dime of her money. I’d handed over every paycheck and worked extra shifts just to buy her gifts and help with expenses. I was so broke that I had to borrow the money for my mother’s funeral from Marcus. I meant to close the app, but I accidentally hit the “Make an Offer” button. I watched, frozen, as a private message popped up: “Fine, you win. Offer accepted. Final price: 97 cents.” While I was still reeling, trying to figure out how to delete the transaction, Gigi called, sounding completely unconcerned. “It was just a game of Truth or Dare, Callan, don’t take it seriously. I’ll take it down tomorrow.” The background noise was a roar—she sounded like she was in a crowded club. Brooks’s voice, loud, cut through the din: “My bad, Callan! It was supposed to be me she put up for sale, but Gigi was afraid someone would actually bid on me, so she used you instead. But hey, that picture is great! Everyone in the group chat said you look so domestic and competent!” My grip tightened on the phone. Before the wedding, Gigi had seen me cooking and said my focused look was handsome, impulsively taking a picture. I’d been so touched, happily posing. I’d been nothing but a source of entertainment for her. Gigi sounded slightly chastened, a rare moment of weakness. “Look, I’ll be back in a few days. I’ll bring you a souvenir.” “You don’t have to. I’m leaving in two days—” —I’m leaving. The words caught in my throat. She had already hung up. I suddenly felt a profound, overwhelming sense of futility. The next morning, I received a call from a repair center. “Mr. Han? Ms. Winslow’s tablet is ready. She’s out of the country, so she asked us to contact you for pickup.” The tablet. After my mother fell ill, I had desperately begged Gigi to set a date. She ignored me, glued to her tablet, refusing to commit. I had snapped, asking her if her reluctance to marry me was because of Brooks. She’d immediately thrown the tablet, shattering the screen, then her face went cold and she mockingly agreed to my request. Now I knew. She hadn’t been angry; she had been guilty. Snapping back to the present, I decided not to make things difficult for the repair guy and headed to the center. The technician handed me the device. “Just the screen was broken. The data is all intact!” I idly swiped the screen twice and realized she hadn’t logged out of her messaging app. I looked closer. It was her burner account. Brooks was pinned to the top of her contacts. They shared matching pink-themed avatars. His nickname was “My Prince.” Hers was “The Prince Is Mine.” I swallowed hard and opened Gigi’s profile. The tablet froze for a moment. Then, a dense, unending stream of posts—all visible only to her, or Brooks—an archive of photos, messages, and every piece of information about him, erupted onto the screen. 3 I scrolled for what felt like an eternity before reaching the first entry. “October 29, 2015. Brooks’s first month abroad. I think I’m going through withdrawal. I saw someone in the cafeteria who looks just like him…” That was the day Gigi and I met. My family was poor; I was eating instant ramen in the school cafeteria. She suddenly sat down next to me, slid her full tray of expensive food toward me, and begged me to eat it. She added my contact info and asked me to tutor her for her finals. “January 1, 2016. Brooks’s third month abroad. I confessed to Callan. He was so happy, so shy. I feel a strange sense of guilt. He’s not Brooks, after all.” … The realization hit me with the force of a physical blow. The account Gigi gave me, the one we used for ten years, wasn’t her real account. It was the placeholder, the cover, maybe even just her work number. Frowning, I tapped on Brooks’s chat history. January 15, 2025. Brooks: “I’m craving a slice of watermelon.” I remembered that day vividly. It was a snowstorm, ten degrees below freezing, with strong winds. Yet, Gigi had agreed without hesitation and had driven all over the city to find one. Brooks had responded: “Winter watermelon isn’t great after all. Gigi, can you just take it and toss it?” That afternoon, Gigi came home holding half a watermelon, her nose raw and red from the cold, her eyelashes speckled with melting snow. She smiled as she handed the fruit to me. I was nearly in tears, vowing to devote my life to her. It had all been a performance. I had been a fool. In a self-destructive trance, I continued to read every thread. The patience, the encouragement, the gentle sweetness—the things I had always been denied—were all lavished on Brooks. I had always thought Gigi’s venomous tongue was just the result of a cold, elite education, that she was socially awkward and didn’t know how to be kind. Now I understood. It was simply because of two words. Not worthy. I took the tablet and left. When I reached my apartment building, a delivery guy was waiting for me, holding a battered, worn package that required a signature. Inside, resting on a bed of crumpled paper, was a thin gold chain. The delivery guy hesitated. “The sender said she wasn’t qualified to be your girlfriend and asked you to take back this family heirloom necklace. She insisted you verify the contents right here.” Gigi knew exactly how to manipulate me. Whenever we argued, she would return the necklace, our only meaningful token of commitment, claiming my temper was too much and she couldn’t handle me. It was her ultimate threat to end things. And every time, I would panic. I would refuse to sign for it, sobbing and begging her forgiveness, asking her to put it back on, desperate in my humiliation. But this time, I slipped the gold necklace into my pocket, took the pen, and signed my name. Just as I stepped out of the coffee shop, Gigi called, sounding triumphant. “Callan, did you see the package? That’s what you get for not mailing Brooks’s watch! I bought him a five-million-dollar villa as a birthday gift and promised to vacation with him there every year. Didn’t you just shoot yourself in the foot?” The next second, she shrieked. “You signed for it?!” “Yes.” She frowned, displeased. “Why did you sign for it? You said it was your family’s heirloom, to be worn only by your wife, only me, for life!” I simply asked, “Didn’t you send it back?” Gigi choked on her words. Before I could speak again, she spoke, her voice ice-cold: “Callan, you are despicable! You can’t take a simple joke. Fine, keep the damn necklace and wear it until you die!” She didn’t just hang up; she blocked me on every platform. I knew she was genuinely angry this time. But all I felt was silence. And peace. Two days later. I was planning for my long-haul flight and stepped out to buy some energy bars. When I returned, the front door was ajar. A thief? I peered through the peephole. Inside, Brooks was holding a fork and a slice of cake, licking the metal with a look of pure satisfaction before forking another piece and feeding it to Gigi. “Gigi, this cake is amazing. Only you would go all the way across town to get it.” “You were with Callan for ten years, though. Maybe you should talk things out when he gets back? Don’t stay angry.” Gigi, who was normally a germaphobe, tilted her head slightly and bit the cake off the fork, her eyes fixed on Brooks. “To be honest, ten years with him doesn’t compare to ten days with you.” Brooks froze. Gigi laughed, playfully punching his arm to mask the sudden intimacy. “Just kidding! Didn’t your mother line up another potential match for you? Let me vet her for you. We’re best friends, right?” In matters of the heart, everyone has insecurities. Even Gigi, normally so arrogant, feared rejection or disdain. A draft blew through the gap, slamming the door shut. I took out my key, ready to open it. Gigi beat me to it, yanking the door open. She launched a preemptive strike, demanding an explanation. “Callan, you’re not at work. Why didn’t you meet me at the airport?” 4 I put the keys back in my pocket and held up the snack bag. “I didn’t know you were coming home today.” Gigi frowned. “I posted the flight information on my socials!” “I was blocked.” “Well, couldn’t you ask your friends? Couldn’t you call my secretary? Your girlfriend was gone for two weeks, and you weren’t worried at all? What are you holding, anyway? Not only are you absent from work, but you were out spending money?!” When did she become so verbose? I nodded toward Brooks. “Worried about what? You clearly had company.” Brooks intentionally licked his fork again, offering the cake toward me. “Callan, why are you so tense this morning? Want some cake?” I felt a surge of nausea. “Apologies, I don’t share food, especially not saliva-laced cake.” Gigi’s body trembled. She stepped toward me to argue, knocking into the large shopping bags at her feet. Coffee pods and high-end wellness supplements spilled out. She angrily kicked a plastic bag toward me. “I even brought you and your mother souvenirs! Callan, you are utterly heartless!” I knew Gigi was lashing out because she felt guilty and was trying to deflect from the ambiguous intimacy she shared with Brooks. But there was something far more important on my mind. “Gigi, keep the souvenirs. Just hand over my payroll card.” I needed the money. I still had to repay Marcus for the funeral expenses. Brooks feigned shock. “Callan, what kind of man asks his girlfriend for money? I know you’re still angry about Gigi standing in as my replacement fiancée, and I’m sorry, okay?” The familiar manipulation. The old me would have lunged at him, demanding he drop the pretense. Now, I was too tired. Gigi was shaking with rage. “We agreed you’d hold all your savings with me so we could buy a house together! What do you mean, you want it back?!” “I always knew you were vain, always wanting to spend money or beg for a promotion. I’m the one who signs your paychecks, so what right do you have to ask for it? I’ll demote you if you keep this up!” I gave a self-deprecating laugh. “Gigi, a person with my skills would get a starting salary of twenty thousand a month at any other company. You pay me six thousand. Should I thank you?” Gigi looked at me, her eyes wide with disbelief and disappointment. “Callan, don’t be ungrateful! Do you think you would have gotten your foot in the door at a massive company like ours if you weren’t my boyfriend?” “You’re so shortsighted, a total simpleton. Why do you think I was marrying Brooks? It was to secure our networking, for our future! My mother finally agreed to hand over the company to me soon, and then I would have married you. Do you really need this paltry salary now? Are you really giving me the cold shoulder over this small amount of money?” Who was giving whom the cold shoulder? I said, cold and hard, “Gigi, I only want the wages I earned. And, we should—” Break up. The two words wouldn’t come out. Instead, Gigi pulled the card out and slapped it against my face. “Callan, everyone told me you were just after my money, and I was stupid enough to defend you. Now I see I was wrong. A provincial man like you is completely unworthy of my sacrifice!” The sharp edge of the card cut my cheek. I felt a sudden coolness on my right cheek. I touched it with my finger and saw the wet, crimson smear. She was right. I was unworthy. This toxic, broken relationship should never have started. Gigi looked momentarily panicked but quickly hardened her voice. “Serves you right.” Brooks gently patted her back, then looked at me with smug satisfaction. “Callan, just apologize to Gigi before you hurt yourself more! She waited for you at the airport for ages. It’s just a girl’s temper. A man needs to be the bigger person.” My attention was drawn to the familiar timepiece on his wrist. My pupils contracted. If they were in the living room, what about my mother’s portrait? I rushed into the bedroom. A sigh of relief. It was still on the bedside table, untouched. I picked up the portrait, ready to leave this disastrous place for good. Gigi snatched it from my hand and slammed it face down on the table. “I’m talking to you! Why are you in the bedroom? I told you, you can’t run away. You have to apologize! Otherwise, I won’t go through with the wedding, and your sick mother can just keep waiting!” Brooks walked over, ostensibly to mediate, but his eyes narrowed, and he suddenly knocked my mother’s portrait onto the tile floor. Smash! The frame hit the tiles, and glass shards flew. Brooks yelped. “I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to!” The world seemed to recede, focusing only on the portrait lying on the floor. I crouched down, eyes stinging, and started picking up the glass. My fingers were immediately sliced open by the tiny fragments. Gigi only cared about Brooks, checking him up and down. “Brooks, are you okay? Did any glass hit you?” She turned and cursed at me. “Callan, are you blind? Why do you keep such dangerous things in the house? Apologize to Brooks now, or I swear I will never marry you!” Seeing me stubbornly picking up the glass, my hands dripping with blood, she kicked me in frustration. “I’m talking to you! Stop picking that up! Aren’t you the ultimate filial son? Don’t you want to grant your mother’s wish?” Then her eyes landed on the black-and-white photograph. She froze. “Who… who is that?” I wiped the blood, my blood, from the photo with my shirt sleeve. My mother’s loving, gentle gaze was still looking up at me. Thankfully, the picture itself was undamaged. I looked up at Gigi and finally, finally finished the sentence I had started so many times. “Gigi, my mom passed away. There won’t be a wedding.” “We’re done.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “389121”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I’d been running on fumes for two weeks straight, sacrificing weekends and late nights, but it finally paid off. I landed that twelve-million-dollar deal, the one that snatched the company back from the brink of insolvency. My boss, Rick Graham, was ecstatic. At the victory dinner, he’d called me the “backbone of the firm” and promised me a substantial bonus. But when the end-of-month pay stub hit my inbox, I stared at the line item for commission, and the blood drained from my face. A debit of $250. My commission was negative? I actually owed the company two hundred and fifty dollars? I immediately called Finance. “Brenda, my pay statement—there must be a mistake.” Brenda, the payroll manager, sounded deliberately vague. “No mistake, Bella. That’s Mr. Graham’s specific cost-accounting method. He said you’d understand.” My heart sank. I bypassed the phone and knocked directly on Graham’s door. He handed me a sheet of convoluted figures, smiling benignly. “That twelve-million-dollar order you signed? After factoring in the resource concessions, the advance capital outlay, and hidden overhead, the company’s net loss was $150,000. Due to the, ah, personal way you structured the deal, you’re responsible for 5% of that loss, which is $7,500.” He gestured to the sheet. “We were generous and used your entire base salary to offset it. But since your salary wasn’t enough, you still owe the company two hundred and fifty dollars. Don’t worry,” he added with a wave of his hand, “the company is big-hearted. We’ll waive that.” Then, moments later, the firm announced a ten-thousand-dollar bonus for Piper Wells, the fresh-faced intern who had just started and was known to be a personal friend of the family. Watching the obvious favorite excitedly invite the whole office out to celebrate her windfall, something inside me broke. I was done. Utterly, irrevocably done. I started doing the bare minimum. Clocking in, clocking out. Nothing more. A few days later, a critical project faced a major flaw, threatening the company with a massive penalty. Graham begged me to fix it. I smiled back, just as benignly as he had. “My apologies, Graham,” I said, showing him a folder. “I just finished processing my resignation. I’m no longer an employee of this firm.” “You’ll need to find the person who received that ten-thousand-dollar bonus to clean up the mess.” 1 Listening to him casually use the phrase “the company is big-hearted, we’ll waive that,” my entire body went cold. Even my fingertips were numb. My voice shook. “Graham! To land that deal, I worked two weeks straight! I drank until I ended up in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer! Every single concession, every clause, was reported to you and got your explicit sign-off! Now you’re claiming this is a loss caused by my personal actions?” I pushed up the sleeve of my left arm. The red, fading scar, still clearly visible from when I’d scalded myself with coffee rushing a project report, was a perfect, angry testament. “This is the ‘backbone of the firm’ you mentioned at the dinner? My value is negative two hundred and fifty?” Graham’s face darkened. “Bella Steele!” He stressed my name, his tone a clear warning. “Mind your attitude! This is a professional environment. We affirm success, but we do not ignore problems! Your value isn’t measured by a headline contract amount, but by the net result! You need to think long-term, not just obsess over petty cash!” The company was collapsing. I’d single-handedly pulled them out of the fire with that deal. And this was the reward. My soul shriveled. All the grand visions, all the promises of a future and career path—they all became sickeningly ridiculous in that moment. I took the cost-accounting sheet and walked back to my desk. I’d barely collapsed into my chair when Brenda, from the opposite cubicle, leaned over with a smile full of nosy anticipation. “Bella, back so soon? Mr. Graham must have given you a huge bonus, right? A contract that big, your commission must be… this much?” She made a subtle hand gesture, her eyes wide with envy. I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. Negative two hundred and fifty. The sheer absurdity made me want to laugh hysterically. Before I could form a response, Ben, a younger colleague, walked by with a coffee cup and leaned in conspiratorially. “Bella, did you hear? Piper Wells, the new intern in Admin—she’s only been here a month, and Graham just personally approved a ten-thousand-dollar bonus! Ten grand! It’s supposedly for her ‘potential contributions.’ Some people just have all the luck.” Piper, the boss’s relative. Her potential contribution? Ten thousand? I landed a twelve-million-dollar contract and incurred a two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar debt. All the accumulated frustration and anger boiled over. “How much did I get?” I sneered, opening the company-wide chat. “I’ll show you how much I got.” I attached my pay stub and posted it. 2 I took a deep, shuddering breath and typed furiously. [Bella Steele] @RickGraham Rick, would you mind explaining to the team why, after signing a $12 Million contract for the company, your accounting method shows my commission as a negative $8,750, leaving me personally owing the company $250? [Bella Steele] And why is it that a new intern, Piper Wells, who has been here for one month, received a special bonus of $10,000? What specific, quantifiable contribution valued at $10,000 did she make to the company? I leaned back, my chest heaving, my hands still trembling slightly. Graham’s public response popped up in the company chat, the tone instantly harsh and disciplinary. [Rick Graham] @BellaSteele Who authorized you to discuss a colleague’s compensation in a public forum? This is a severe violation of company policy! As the CEO, I see and acknowledge Piper Wells’ contributions, and her compensation is entirely appropriate! It is not your place to question it! [Rick Graham] You caused the company a calculated, actual loss! The company chose not to pursue damages, which is an act of extreme goodwill! Do not be ungrateful, do not muddy the waters, and do not try to incite dissent! It turned out that twisting reality could be done with a straight face and full self-righteousness. My fingers shook as I typed my final reply: [Bella Steele] Since my hard work securing $12 Million is considered a loss, I will, from today onward, dedicate myself to being a quiet, compliant employee, ensuring I will not generate the company a single dollar of new, negative return! I closed all my work-related documents and webpages, and clicked open the system’s pre-installed game of Spider Solitaire. No orders, no negative returns. Simple. I was officially playing the corporate martyr. At five-thirty, the end of the workday. I didn’t, as I had countless nights before, glance over any pending tasks or strategize for the next day’s client calls. I shut down my computer and stood up to leave. “Bella… you’re leaving already?” Ben from the next cubicle asked instinctively, staring at his pile of unfinished work. “Yep,” I nodded, my tone even. “Clocked out. Why stay? To create new negative profit?” As I reached the main exit, Graham’s angry voice boomed behind me: “Bella Steele! Where is the client data analysis report? Mr. Thompson needs it first thing tomorrow!” I paused, turning back slightly. “Graham, I’m clearly incompetent. You should find a more capable colleague—or one whose contributions are valued—to handle it.” Graham’s face was dark purple. He roared, “Fine! Piper, you take over the Thompson account! And you’re out as Team Lead, effective immediately!” Piper’s voice was full of breathless excitement. “I won’t let you down, Mr. Graham!” I walked out, a cold smile forming. Let’s see her handle it, I thought. 3 The next morning, Graham’s voice was booming in the office. “Mr. Thompson, Bella’s been under the weather lately, yes. But we’ve assigned a more senior colleague to the follow-up. Absolutely no issues!” My heart gave a faint, cynical skip. It was Mr. Thompson, the twelve-million-dollar client. More senior? I scoffed internally. Who else in this company understood the complex, customized requirements of that project the way I did? Graham deliberately walked over to my desk. “Bella, the company has decided to focus on developing Piper’s skills, and she’s now Project Lead. You need to adjust your attitude and check your emotions at the door. The company keeps turning, with or without you!” I gave him a sweet, fake smile. “Understood, Graham. I’m completely unbothered.” Piper smugly took her place at my old Team Lead desk. The crucial project coordination meeting began precisely on time that afternoon. Mr. Thompson and his team were already seated in the conference room. I sat at my cubicle and could just faintly hear the muffled conversation, which, surprisingly, didn’t sound like the intense argument I’d expected. A long while later, the door opened. Graham walked out, accompanying Mr. Thompson and his team, wearing a look of relieved satisfaction. “Mr. Thompson, don’t worry, Piper is young, but she’s a quick study. We will absolutely deliver on this project!” Graham’s voice was sickeningly sycophantic. Mr. Thompson nodded faintly, then spoke to a clearly expectant Piper. “Ms. Wells, that initial report and your presentation outline were very clear. Good foundation. Keep it up.” It wasn’t a glowing review, but to Graham and Piper, it was the sound of a heavenly choir. “Thank you, Mr. Thompson! I’ll work even harder!” Piper’s voice trembled with excitement. After seeing off the client, Graham clapped Piper heavily on the shoulder and declared loudly, making sure the entire office heard: “Excellent! Well done! I knew you could do it! Some people, who think too highly of themselves, need to see the new guard taking over!” The office eyes shifted, intentionally or not, toward me. Piper, clutching a folder, walked over to me, her face alight with triumph. “Bella,” she said, flaunting the folder. “You heard Mr. Thompson, right? Honestly, it wasn’t much—just a basic analysis report. Maybe it’s complicated for some people, but I think, if you just apply yourself, it’s no big deal.” She deliberately held the folder up and shook it in front of me. “Looks like the company keeps turning just fine without anyone, doesn’t it? Maybe even better.” I recognized the report instantly. It was a draft file I had saved on my work computer. My voice remained calm. “That report you handed Mr. Thompson, that was a file from my computer, correct?” Piper’s face went rigid with indignation. “So what if it was? The computer is company property, so the files are company assets! As the Project Lead, what’s the problem with using company data?” “The problem is presenting someone else’s labor as your own, and using it to claim credit. That’s theft.” “You’re lying!” Piper shrieked, like a cornered animal. “I referenced it! I borrowed it! Graham said all resources must be used for the project! I already copied every single follow-up folder for this account from your computer! It’s all gone! Whether you’re here or not is irrelevant to the project now!” I allowed myself a small, internal smile. “Then I sincerely wish you success with the project follow-up.” The files on my computer were the initial, first-generation versions, with zero connection to the project’s actual core logic. A simple analysis report wouldn’t show the difference yet. But if she continued to use those files… The real show was just about to begin. 4 Under Piper’s lead, the project, supported by the foundational work and framework she had essentially stolen from me, continued smoothly for a while. This convinced Graham that he no longer needed me. The few remaining legacy clients still under my management were forcibly transferred to other colleagues under the guise of “unified management.” He began chipping away at me in public forums, his passive-aggressive hostility palpable. During the morning huddle, he’d randomly call me out: “Bella, I looked at your workload statistics for the month. It’s almost blank! We don’t pay people to sit around. Show some initiative!” If he walked past my desk and saw me browsing industry news, he’d sneer: “Well, look at you, so relaxed. Found a new job, have we? If so, pack up and leave. Don’t occupy a valuable seat.” He even had HR send an email, citing an “office space optimization” initiative, demanding I move my desk to a desolate corner by the breakroom, a space that never saw sunlight. I didn’t protest. I quietly packed my things and moved. I took every petty obstacle he threw at me, waiting. Graham, however, finally lost his patience and decided to force the issue. He called me into his office, getting straight to the point. “Bella, let’s be adults about this.” He leaned back in his CEO chair, looking down on me. “Everyone sees your recent behavior—the slacking, the zero work ethic. It’s severely damaging the team morale and the company culture.” I played dumb. “Graham, I don’t understand. When did I start slacking off?” He scoffed. “Still denying it? You clock in and out exactly on time, you refuse new assignments, you’re not communicating with your old clients, and you spend your day playing solitaire or browsing the web! What else would you call it?” “You misunderstand, Graham.” My tone was sincere. “I don’t dare answer client calls easily, for fear of saying the wrong thing; I don’t dare take on complex projects, for fear of miscalculating costs; and I certainly don’t dare work overtime, for fear of consuming more company resources and causing an even greater loss.” “I am strictly adhering to your explicit instructions to mitigate risk and avoid creating any new, actual losses for the company.” He pointed at me, sputtered for a full minute, and could not land a single syllable. Graham just wanted me to quit so he wouldn’t have to pay my severance package. I cut to the chase. “Graham, you just don’t want to pay the N+1, do you?” “That is slander!” He raised his voice, volume hiding his guilt. “The company adheres to policy! You have an attitude problem, you’re not keeping up with the company’s trajectory!” I looked at his flustered, paper-tiger expression and simply found it pitiful. Using the smallest possible cost to resolve the biggest headache—that was his guiding principle. I decided not to argue over the severance money. It was beneath me. I was simply waiting for the grand drama I had set in motion. I said lightly, “I’ll resign. In the next two days.” Two days. That was enough. Enough time for the stolen, outdated analysis report to detonate all the hidden issues during the truly critical project testing phase. Graham’s face lit up with satisfied triumph. He clearly assumed I was folding under the pressure, giving up the fight. “Hmph,” he grunted through his nose. “Smart move.” He waved his hand, dismissing me like a bothersome fly. “Process your paperwork quickly. Don’t drag it out and disrupt the others.” “Will do.” I turned and left his office. The project entered its most crucial testing phase right on schedule. On the morning of the test, the documentation described logic and data that were fundamentally inconsistent with the actual system. A critical, fatal flaw. The entire project team went into a panic. Mr. Thompson’s acceptance team was already en route. If we couldn’t demonstrate today, the partnership would be over, and the company would face massive breach of contract penalties. Graham roared, “Piper Wells! What the hell is going on? These reports, these proposals—didn’t you prepare them?” Piper flinched, tears instantly welling up. “T-these foundational reports and core modules were all done by Bella! I, I just built the follow-up work on her basis!” He bellowed toward the door, “Bella! Get her in here!” “No need to call, Graham.” I walked in, holding a slim folder. He lunged toward me. “Bella, quick! What’s wrong with this? Fix it, Thompson’s team is almost here!” I held up a hand, looking perfectly innocent. “Graham, I’m afraid I can’t. I just finalized my separation paperwork. I’m no longer an employee of this company.”

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Matt got into a fight at school. I only realized who the other kid was when I got there: my ex-wife’s daughter. The moment she saw me, the little girl’s eyes went red, but she stood her ground, chin stubborn and head rigid. She wouldn’t speak. My ex-wife stood behind her. Five years. I never thought we’d be able to exchange polite nods, much less in a school principal’s office. Emily’s gaze fell to the healed, jagged scar on my left hand. “Does it still hurt?” she asked, her voice a low, careful whisper. My eyes dropped to her right hand, missing its pinky finger. I smiled the empty smile I’d perfected and replied, “No. I don’t feel a thing anymore.” The principal blinked, a look of profound awkwardness crossing his face. “…You two know each other?” Emily acknowledged it with a quiet nod. My tone was just as flat. “Yes. I’m her ex-husband.” The one she used as a pawn, the one she had locked away in a private asylum, the one whose hand she purposefully maimed. The madman ex-husband. A cold drop of water slid from my hair and trailed down my neck. I’d run so fast I hadn’t even thought to grab an umbrella. The rain outside was coming down in sheets. The principal explained that the fight was over a pencil case, nothing serious. I pulled Matt into my arms, checking quickly for bruises. Only then did my eyes drift to the object on the desk. It was the pencil case I’d bought for him. A simple blue pouch, the same style most kids had. The one difference: I had personally embroidered a tiny rabbit onto the fabric. When I was still living in the house with the Emily’s family—when I was still Aaron—I’d had endless free time, which I used to sew a small rabbit onto every piece of our daughter’s clothing. Daisy, who wasn’t yet three, would always cry and turn away from me, burying her face into her mother’s skirt. Yet here she was now, years later, picking a fight with my son over that very rabbit. I felt a sting of familiar protectiveness for Matt, my son who had suffered this meaningless confrontation. Taking his small hand, I moved toward the door. “Aaron Drew,” Emily called out suddenly, stopping me just before I reached the hallway. “Have dinner with me. Daisy was wrong to hit your son. It’s only reasonable that I pay for the meal.” I didn’t break my stride. I pulled open the heavy office door, my voice cold and distant. “No, thank you, Emily.” The price of her “reasonable gestures” was always too steep for me. First, my heart. Then, my hand. Now, what does she want? I stepped out. From the corner of my eye, I saw the little girl silently wiping away tears, whispering the word “Daddy.” The door clicked shut behind me. The cold air hit my face, a welcome shock. The school was in the suburbs. Getting a ride now would be impossible, and my old moped was soaked through. I looked down at Matt. “Looks like we’re walking home today, buddy.” Matt didn’t mind. He shrugged off his own thin jacket and draped it over my shoulders. We eventually made it to Times Square. On the massive, illuminated screen, a man’s face was being projected on a loop. He was the nation’s current it-model, successful, famous, and married to the brilliant businesswoman, Emily Sterling. They had one adorable daughter. Matt saw the man and hissed out a harsh, “Bad guy.” I smoothed the wrinkle between his brows. “He looks just like me, remember? If you call him a bad guy, aren’t you calling your dad one too?” “No. It’s not the same.” Matt gently traced the grotesque, frightening scar on my left hand. “It’s not the same, Dad. He had surgery to look like you. He stole everything. He deserves to be called a bad person.” My eyelashes fluttered. Since I adopted him, I had never spoken a word about my past. No one knew I was the real Aaron Drew, the eldest son of the Sterling Group founder. And no one knew that the innocent-looking model on the screen was actually Rhodes Vance, a high school dropout who used to fly across the country for a thousand dollars. Matt looked up into my eyes, asking the question he’d held onto for too long. “Dad, why don’t you expose them? The Sterlings have so many enemies. They can’t all tolerate a fraud like Rhodes.” I stood up slowly and continued walking toward the tenement building I called home. Matt didn’t know. The Drew family died out seven years ago. My father, my mother, my sister—even the housekeeper Mrs. Zhang and the groundskeeper Mr. Wallace—they all drowned at sea, picked apart by fish until only brittle bones remained. To pave the way for Rhodes, everyone who could prove my identity was eliminated. After I escaped the basement, I couldn’t even build them a proper tombstone. I could only sneak to the coast and pour out cup after cup of whiskey to the relentless gray waves. By then, Rhodes had been acting as the Drew heir for half a year. He was loud, flashy. Using my identity, he frequented high-end hotels with Emily, and wave after wave of expensive luxury items were delivered to the Drew mansion. He even signed over the company my father had built his life around, handing it all to Emily. The entire internet celebrated their ‘enduring love.’ I was trapped in a cheap rental, unable to sleep night after night. My dreams were saturated with my parents’ bloated faces, their hands reaching out to me for salvation. Seven years ago, I was too young, too impulsive, too reckless. I’d stormed into the acquisition signing ceremony with a hoard of reporters. I was hysterical, screaming and shouting. I tried desperately to prove I was the one true Drew heir. Cameras flashed and bulbs popped. In the blinding light, I saw Emily give a subtle, dismissive smirk. She took a step forward, shielding Rhodes. Her voice cut through the chaos, cold and brutal. “I don’t know this man. My husband is the one I chose, the one I stand by.” Even my one-year-old daughter, Daisy, stood on Rhodes’s side, crying and pushing me away. “Daddy, that man copied your face! I’m scared…” While I stood there, stunned into silence, Rhodes smiled, his face exactly like mine, and swept Daisy into his arms. He had won. He had stolen my daughter, my wife, my entire life, becoming the undisputed heir. And I became the lunatic who tried to steal his identity through plastic surgery. The farce ended with the police hauling me away. In the precinct holding cell, I was manic, screaming over and over that Emily had killed my family and colluded with the imposter to steal my life. No one believes a madman. Especially since a credible police report required evidence, and I had none. I was held for a day. When I walked out, Emily’s sleek sedan was parked outside, a cigarette glowing fiercely between her fingers. “Aaron, you should have figured this out years ago. You can’t stop me from loving who I want.” She exhaled a plume of smoke, then softened her voice. “If you’d been a little smarter, a little more agreeable, I wouldn’t have had Rhodes get the surgery. You’d still be the CEO. You’d still be my husband.” She opened the passenger door. “Get in. Come home with me. You haven’t seen Daisy in six months. Don’t you miss her?” … “Dad, we’re home.” Matt’s voice pulled me out of the suffocating memory. I glanced at the dark, grimy stairwell and walked in, used to the squalor. Compared to my life back then, things were marginally better now. After Emily took me back, I became Rhodes’s permanent understudy. Any corporate dinner he hated, Emily would drag me along to, making me drink with the partners. Any party he found boring, she would bring me to, keeping me by her side as a decorative, silent puppet. During those two years, I tried to tell everyone the truth. The old Sterling board members, the friends I grew up with, the investigative journalism students I knew from college… I sought out anyone I could think of. I cried myself sick, laid out the entire truth, begged them to call the police with me, to tear off Emily’s perfect, deceitful mask. But every one of them looked at me with a strange pity. They didn’t believe me. My countless attempts to resist were simply confirmation of my supposed schizophrenia. My best friend was the one who personally delivered me back to Emily, asking her to get me help and take good care of me. From that day on, my reputation as a madman was sealed. Emily took my hand and slipped my wedding band back onto my finger. She smiled. “Aaron, no one believes you now.” “In this whole world, I’m the only person who knows your grievances and your anger. Now, let’s just have a quiet life. Don’t you want to stop being a madman?” I stared at her blankly. Tears streamed down my face, tasting bitterly of salt. After that, when I wasn’t needed as a stand-in, I was monitored by the staff and confined to the suburban compound. I would stand in the empty backyard, staring vacantly at the sky. And every time, Emily would be away on a trip, “honeymooning” with Rhodes. The private jets carrying them would streak overhead, leaving bright, painful lines across the pale blue canvas. Emily had once asked if I missed Daisy. I hadn’t been able to answer her then. Now, I could give her a clear, solid answer. No. I don’t. I led Matt up the stairs, step by step. The top floor, where the rain always leaked in, was our home. But now, two figures—one tall, one small—were standing outside my door. Emily immediately pinched out her cigarette and crushed it under her heel. She knew I hated the smell of smoke. When we were together, she never cared. Five years later, she suddenly remembered. “Aaron… you’re still living here?” I walked past her without a word. I unlocked the door, walked straight into the kitchen, and started boiling black tea. The apartment was small. With two more people, it would be suffocatingly crowded. Matt stood planted in the doorway, glaring fiercely at the pair outside, refusing to let them enter. His attitude was hostile, his small eyes filled with simmering resentment. I didn’t know how much he understood about my past. I didn’t know how deeply he felt my pain. But I did know that I couldn’t bear to see that much hatred in the eyes of a seven-year-old. I ruffled his hair, handed him the steaming mug of tea, and told him to drink it while it was hot. Then, I looked up at the two people in the hallway, my voice professional and detached. “Emily. Please leave. I won’t pursue this issue regarding your daughter stealing my son’s pencil case. I just need you to manage her and ensure she doesn’t bother us again.” At the phrase “your daughter,” the little girl’s eyes instantly filled with tears. She lowered her head, hoping I wouldn’t see her grief. I saw it. But I tightened my grip on the doorknob, ready to shut the door and send them away. Emily pushed her hand against the frame. Her eyes were fixed on the hideous scar on my left hand. She spoke suddenly. “Aaron, you don’t invite me in because you still hate me?” Hate? Seven years ago, the Aaron who scrambled out of that dark basement hated her more than anything. Two years later, the Aaron whose hand Emily personally mutilated hated her with a blood-red fury. But now, five years had passed. Time had smoothed the sharp edges of everything. The hate, truly, was gone. Emily was nothing more than a stranger to me. Under my placid, indifferent stare, Emily’s eyes slowly filled. She bowed her head, her voice trembling. “Aaron, how can you not hate me?” After escaping the basement, I was Rhodes’s stand-in for two years. I was numb. But Rhodes apparently wasn’t satisfied. He resented that Emily would still bring me gifts after a business trip or sit silently with me on my birthday. After two years, he couldn’t take it anymore. He came to the suburban compound and gleefully told me a cruel truth. He said that when I was locked in the basement, my parents were still alive. It was Rhodes, using my identical face, who had lured them onto a boat and taken them to the international waters. He laughed. “Aaron, you should have seen the look on their faces as they went into the water. It was hilarious. Right up until the very end, they thought you were the one who killed them.” The words hung in the air for a long time before I slowly lifted my head. A dense, sickening pain began to crawl through my dead heart. I remembered learning to ride a bike—my father postponing a critical meeting just to hold the seat and steady me. My mother filming every clumsy second, then scooping me up after I fell, gently inspecting my scrapes. The past flashed before my eyes. I shattered. I grabbed the fruit knife from the counter and lunged at Rhodes like a madman. He was prepared. He ran directly for the door and dove behind Emily, sobbing and shaking as he cried out. “Emily, he’s trying to kill me! D-did I do something wrong?” The bodyguards behind Emily easily intercepted my attack, their eyes cold. “Aaron. Do you want to go back to the hospital?” She had the guards drag me toward my room while she soothed Rhodes. I saw red. I snatched the knife off the floor and swung wildly at Rhodes. Blood splattered across my face. Emily stepped in front of Rhodes, taking the blow. My knife severed her pinky finger. Blood gushed out. I ran. That afternoon, many people saw the Drew heir running through the streets, bloodied and frantic. Afterward, Emily personally checked me into a private psychiatric facility. She was missing a finger, but she also took a knife to my hand, deliberately ruining it. “Aaron, you shouldn’t have run that day,” she said, calm and collected. “People saw two Aaron Drewes—one safe in the hospital with me, the other fleeing hysterically in the street.” “Rhodes can only live because of that face. You don’t need it. Once your hand is healed, I’ll bring you home.” I spent six months in that asylum. I was forced to take medication daily; if I resisted, I was given special “treatments.” My mind was constantly hazy. Emily’s attitude toward me, ironically, softened. I would often lean against her shoulder, staring blankly at the smooth, pale band of skin on my left ring finger. From eighteen to twenty-eight—a decade—that finger had worn the same simple ring. No one knew that Emily was a child I had essentially saved. She was the illegitimate daughter of the Sterling founder, thirteen years old, with nowhere to go. She had come to me, begging for a place to sleep. My mother, seeing her desperation, took her in. She was my companion, the most fiercely loyal person I knew. If someone picked on me, she was the first to fight them, not stopping until they were on their knees, crying for mercy. When I was kidnapped once, she found me, covered in blood, gripping a stained knife, her eyes full of the terror of nearly losing me. When I turned eighteen, she gave me a ring. A commitment, and a tracker. That kidnapping had terrified her so much that she designed it herself. My sister had laughed, patting Emily’s shoulder. “Your possessiveness is intense. Aren’t you afraid my brother will get bored and find a more agreeable girl?” No one knew that lighthearted comment would turn into a curse. The one who grew bored was Emily. The woman who would have died for me became obsessed with a male escort flying across the country for a few hundred dollars. She then used him to destroy my family. I fought her. I screamed, I begged, I tried every strategy I could think of. But Emily neutralized every move with unnerving ease. The pain in my hand was once so profound, so sharp. But as the scar tissue grew, the feeling simply went away. I looked at Emily standing in the rain, my gaze utterly vacant. She had lowered her head, much like her daughter, to hide her tear-filled eyes. I saw them. I just didn’t care. “Emily. Let’s just leave it at this. Whether you regret it or you feel guilty, we can’t go back to what we were.” I kept my hand on the knob, forcing her and Daisy back into the rain. The rain hammered down harder, spotting the walls with fresh mildew. In the kitchen, I could hear the drip, drip, drip of the leak. Matt sweetly handed me a cup of black tea. He looked at the water-streaked walls and let out a happy cheer. “Dad! It’s raining! Does that mean Sloane is coming over?” Sloane was the woman I was seeing—or, the woman I was almost seeing. She was a cold but genuinely good person who always appeared when I was in a crisis, never asking for repayment. Sometimes, when I couldn’t pick up Matt, she would be waiting in her black SUV outside our complex. She was usually quiet and reserved around me, but Matt claimed he’d seen her dressing down a contractor once, so intimidating that no one dared speak. Almost immediately, there was a knock on the door. Sloane had arrived. She was about to step in, just as she always did, when a hand shot out and stopped her. Emily’s face was utterly pale. She pointed at Sloane, her voice incredulous, ragged with shock. “Aaron Drew! Who is she?!”

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Eighteen times. Eighteen different lives, always short, always brutal. A soul stuck on a cosmic, deadly loop. After the eighteenth go-around—landing me here, in the womb of a woman destined to be the vicious female antagonist—I developed a severe case of deep-seated paranoia. While other fetuses drifted peacefully in the amniotic fluid, I was inverted, my tiny fists clutching my umbilical cord, maintaining constant, exhausting vigilance. Other babies greedily sucked up their mother’s nutrition; I sampled, spat out, and only dared to absorb the bare minimum once I confirmed it was safe. I had almost made it. I was so close to full term, already tasting freedom, when Brooks—my father—made his move. His Innocent Muse, the girl he should have married, had returned. At a society gala, my beautiful, heartbreakingly naive mother, Blair, was chatting and smiling, gently stroking her bump. Inside, I was thrashing in panic. [“No! No, don’t drink that! There’s poison in the champagne! I don’t want to die, not again!”] When Mom—Blair—finally turned to face the Muse, Dahlia, and began to utter a familiar, fatal threat, I went into full-scale emergency mode. [“No! Mom, stop! For God’s sake, she’s recording you! She’s baiting you so she can run to Dad and claim you’re weaponizing your pregnancy to bully her! We are going to die!”] My desperate, frantic silent screams finally broke through. The competitive glint in Mom’s eyes softened just enough. She pressed a hand to her swollen stomach, feigning a sudden, sharp pain, and let out a soft, defeated sigh. “Oh, baby,” she murmured, her voice laced with an exhaustion that was too real. “You can’t always imagine the worst.” But in the very next heartbeat, my blind, self-serving father strode through the double doors. 1 “Blair, Brooks loves only me. Can’t you just let us be?” Dahlia, the picture of delicate victimhood, lifted her chin across the cafe table, her eyes teary and defiant. She was clearly waiting for the predictable scene: Mom throwing a check across the table or, better yet, a cup of scalding coffee. But Mom was busy executing my plan, clutching her stomach and playing the part of the suffering mother-to-be. I was busy directing the performance from my cozy, high-stakes theater. [“Mom, Mom, bite your lip just a little harder! You need to look paler. And now, the fake blood capsule I made you buy! Do it now!”] Mom gave a low, exasperated chuckle, a sound that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “Honestly, baby, I really think you’re being dramatic. She’s a glorified gold-digger looking for a payout. I’ll just write a check and be done with it…” But the moment was over. The coffee shop door swung open and Brooks walked in. Before he could take a breath, Dahlia, with a lightning-fast, practiced move, grabbed the nearest coffee cup and dumped it over her own pristine, white dress. “Ah! It burns!” she shrieked, a sound of theatrical agony, and instantly launched herself into Brooks’s arms. “Oh, Brooks, Serena just can’t bear to see us happy, can she?” Serena. God, she always used that formal, icy tone. My scumbag father’s eyes immediately hardened with rage and concern. He gently set Dahlia aside and stormed towards my mother. “Blair Easton,” he snarled, fury building in his voice. “You apologize to Dahlia, right now!” [“Now, Mom! NOW!”] The instant his hand reached out to grab her, my mother performed a breathtaking maneuver. She didn’t fall; she slid from the leather seat like a fish escaping a net. A thick, crimson stain blossomed beneath her on the polished floor. Mom grabbed her belly, her face a mask of ashen terror. “Help… help me, please.” Bystanders immediately stopped talking, their gazes shifting from Dahlia’s damp dress to the horrified, accusing stare they leveled at Brooks. Brooks’s eyes widened, his face draining of color. He took a terrified step back. “It wasn’t me! I didn’t touch her! Blair, what the hell is wrong with you?” At my silent command, Mom’s eyes fluttered dramatically, and she went limp, fully passing out. Brooks forgot about Dahlia, guilt flooding his face. He scooped Mom up, tearing out of the cafe and towards the private hospital. Dahlia was left standing alone, a steaming cup of coffee in her hand and a look of pure, baffled fury hardening her features. At the hospital, the private physician confirmed Mom was experiencing stress-related spotting and required absolute bed rest. We slept, deeply and peacefully, for the first time in weeks. When Mom’s eyes fluttered open, Brooks was standing there, the very picture of remorse. Behind him stood Grandpa Robert and Grandma Eloise, the heads of the family, with Grandpa using his silver-tipped cane to viciously strike Brooks’s leg. “Brooks Hawthorne,” Grandpa Robert bellowed, “You are an utter disgrace!” Mom opened her mouth, ready to let the complaints spill out. I panicked. [“No, no, no! Mom, tell them it wasn’t his fault! Forgive him! We need the pity!”] She caught herself, the impending tirade transforming into a perfectly modulated, wounded sigh. “Mother, Father, please don’t hit Brooks. It wasn’t his fault. It was mine. I… I was foolish and almost lost the baby.” She tilted her head, a tear tracing a path down her cheek. “And don’t blame Ms. Lowe either. She didn’t say anything to me, I promise.” My father’s attempts at a defensive sputter died in his throat. He ran through a spectrum of colors—red with guilt, pale with fear, and finally settling on a sickly green of confused, overwhelming gratitude. “Blair,” he whispered, leaning in. “I swear I will make this up to you.” Grandma Eloise sighed, her stern face softening with concern. She immediately produced documents. “This is for the child,” she said, handing Mom the transfer papers. “Five percent of Hawthorne Industries stock, effective immediately. For the baby’s trust.” Dahlia Lowe’s name wasn’t mentioned again. Brooks’s subsequent tidal wave of guilt was our reward. He transformed into the picture of a devoted husband, attending to Mom’s every need. Inside, I fist-pumped my tiny hands. Yes! “One more day alive, Mom. We did it.” 2 Mom spent two blissful weeks recovering in the hospital. The day she was discharged, Brooks was there, beaming, to take us home. But, as always, an accident was waiting to happen. Halfway there, Dahlia’s tearful call came through. She was being “stalked by suspicious men.” “Brooks,” her voice trembled over the speaker, “I know I shouldn’t bother you and Blair, but I just don’t know who else to call.” Brooks glanced nervously at Mom, expecting the usual jealous outburst. He was certain she’d forbid him from leaving. But Mom simply smiled. “You need to go to Dahlia, honey. Her safety is more important. I can just take a cab home.” Brooks paused, a flicker of shame crossing his face, but he didn’t argue. He pulled over and opened the door for her. “I’ll be back to pick you up, Blair. Promise.” Mom stepped out, a poignant look of bitter resignation on her face until Brooks’s car was completely out of sight. Then, she sneered, signaled a sleek black car waiting behind a hedge, and got in. “My treasure,” she said, stroking her bump as the car pulled away, “how did you know Brooks would get called away?” Because in the last life, you got hit by a car while walking home. And the life before that, he left you, Dahlia pretended to be assaulted, and the subsequent rage led to a forced miscarriage. I proudly tilted my embryonic head. [“Just trust me, Mom. My gut instinct is finely tuned to impending doom.”] We headed downtown, where Mom spent two hours with Grandma Eloise’s corporate credit card, treating herself to a therapeutic shopping spree. Only then did she return to the manor. She tossed the bags of designer clothes into her walk-in closet, picked up her phone, and called Brooks. She called three times. He finally picked up on the fourth. From the other end, I heard a soft, feminine moan and the muffled sound of a man’s voice that was too deep, too hurried. Brooks was definitely up to no good. Mom’s jaw clenched, but my warning cry snapped her back into character. She forced a weak, breathy tone. “It’s nothing, Brooks. Just calling to say I’m home safe. I know you’re busy, so please don’t worry about me.” Brooks froze. “Blair, Serena, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to forget you. Dahlia wasn’t feeling well, so I had to stay with her.” “Oh, darling, of course. Ms. Lowe’s health is much more important.” Two hours later, Brooks showed up with a gift: the Hawthorne Ruby Suite, a ridiculously opulent set of vintage jewelry valued in the millions. “Blair, there’s… there’s one more thing I need to talk to you about.” Dahlia, dressed in an angelic white cotton dress, glided out from behind him. “Brooks’s place is getting vandalized. I’ve been scared to death.” “Sister,” she cooed, her eyes wide with false innocence. “It’s only for a few days. Please forgive the intrusion.” 3 Brooks couldn’t meet Mom’s eyes. He settled Dahlia into the guest suite, directly adjacent to our master bedroom on the second floor. Dahlia shot a small, triumphant, overtly provocative look at Mom while practically pressing herself against Brooks’s chest. Panic. I hammered frantically against the wall of the womb. [“Mom, don’t rise to the bait! We need a counter-move. Do this…”] When Brooks finally joined Mom in the master suite that night, she dropped the bombshell. “I think we should sleep separately for a while, honey.” Guilt quickly curdled into Brooks’s signature flash of defensive anger. “Blair, what is this? I’m just being charitable to a friend. What do you think I’m doing?” Mom deliberately exposed her bandaged foot. “Don’t be silly, darling. I just scraped my foot today. Plus, the baby has been restless. I’m up for midnight snacks, and I don’t want to disturb you. I think I’ll move into the first-floor nanny suite for a few nights.” Following my instructions, Mom moved down to the spacious first-floor suite, which had its own kitchenette and a large TV. She set up the security monitor feed and gave me a confused look. “Baby, why did we have to move down here?” A few hours later, the answer appeared on the monitor: Dahlia, sneaking out of her room with a full bottle of cooking oil, which she expertly distributed across the main staircase. “Wow,” Mom whispered, her eyes wide with impressed disgust. “She’s so calculated.” Dahlia knew Mom, the constantly hungry pregnant woman, would be the first one down for breakfast. Now, with us on the first floor, who would be the unfortunate person to go down first? I yawned contentedly. [“Go back to sleep, Mom. Show time is in the morning.”] Sure enough, the next morning, a high-pitched, desperate squeal echoed through the house. Brooks, rushing out for a crucial client meeting, stepped directly into Dahlia’s oil slick. He executed a full-body, rapid-fire slip-and-slide, culminating in a grotesque tumble down the entire flight of stairs. “My leg! Ahhh! My leg!” Dahlia, fearing Mom’s intervention, had wisely put on noise-canceling headphones. It was a full five minutes before Mom, walking slowly as a pregnant woman should, appeared in the doorway. “Oh, darling! Did you fall?” Mom asked, feigning concern. Brooks’s client meeting was history. His left leg was in a full cast, and he was livid. “Blair, someone poured oil on the stairs! There’s a saboteur in this house!” Mom clasped a hand over her mouth. “Oh, Brooks, how could you say that? It’s just me, the housekeeper, and sweet Dahlia here. She would never do such a thing.” “Honey, don’t blame other people for losing your footing.” Dahlia, seeing the ambulance speed away, quickly scrambled out of bed, grabbing a bottle of degreaser and frantically scrubbing the stairs. She hadn’t seen who had fallen and assumed her little plot had succeeded. When she found the hospital room, fruit basket in hand, she rushed in. Without a word, she dabbed her eyes with her sleeve. “Sister, I’m so sorry. You should have been more careful. But don’t worry, you can always have another baby… right, Brooks?” She looked up, a triumphant, challenging glint in her eyes—and found herself staring directly into Brooks’s shocked, suspicious face. “Wait, you’re here?” he stammered. “And what was that look?” She floundered, unable to speak. Mom couldn’t help but let out a small, quiet laugh. “Brooks, stop being so paranoid. Dahlia is clearly just worried about you.” Mom ignored Brooks’s mounting suspicion and happily handed over the full-time nursing duties to Dahlia. We, meanwhile, checked into a luxurious resort for a “babymoon.” Mom spent her days doing prenatal yoga, listening to classical music for the baby, and shopping. Occasionally, she’d bring Brooks a takeout container of fried chicken, placing a tiny bandage on her finger to pretend she’d cooked it herself. When Brooks was discharged, we stood at the front door in a scene of forced domestic bliss. Brooks, traumatized by the fall, had already ordered every step of the main staircase to be padded with thick carpeting. Dahlia watched her future opportunities to cause accidents vanish, her teeth audibly grinding. I noticed a subtle movement—she was gently rubbing her own stomach. Uh-oh. This is bad. 4 At Brooks’s insistence, Mom moved back up to the second-floor master suite. Dahlia tried several times to cause trouble, but Mom was unassailable. She ate, slept, and slept some more. She never left the room. Her two housekeepers, hired from Grandma Eloise’s family staff, kept vigilant watch over all the food, ensuring no opportunity for poisoning. Dahlia was furious. A few days later, it was Grandpa Robert’s birthday gala—a high-society event where Brooks would never dare bring his mistress. Mom, wearing a custom-made silk gown with a shawl draped to conceal her advanced pregnancy, looked every inch the perfect corporate wife as she presented the Hawthorne family gift. The room was crowded, and after an hour of forced small talk, Mom was tired. It was then we spotted Dahlia, dressed in a borrowed maid’s uniform, tearfully staring at Brooks from across the room. Mom snorted and started to head for a nearby rest lounge, but my internal sirens went off. [“No! No, Mom, wait! I have a terrible feeling about this room!”] Mom paused. Instead of heading to the lounge, she located her two powerful uncles and had them distract Brooks, plying him with expensive scotch until he was sufficiently incapacitated. Only then did we head to the exclusive family rest area on the upper floor. Sure enough, a few minutes later, Dahlia crept upstairs, carrying a glass of flat ginger ale. She found the bed, where she assumed Mom was heavily sleeping, covered by a plush duvet. Dahlia extinguished the high-end essential oil diffuser by the wall. A cold smirk played on her lips as she doused the duvet with the sticky drink. Then, she snapped her fingers, beckoning two large, seedy men from the shadows. “Get her,” Dahlia hissed, her voice low and venomous. “Let’s see if the Hawthorne family still wants Blair and her little bastard after she’s found like this at her father-in-law’s birthday party.” She backed out, closing the door softly behind her. Then, she ran down the stairs, making a spectacle of her anxiety. Twenty minutes later, a crowd was gathered outside the room, led by the frowning grandparents and several esteemed guests. “It’s this door,” Dahlia cried, pointing a trembling finger. “I passed by a moment ago and heard… strange noises. I’m worried that Mrs. Hawthorne might be in danger!” Facing the grandparents’ skeptical stares, she looked down. “I know you don’t approve of me, but I love Brooks. And the baby she’s carrying is still Brooks’s. I worry about them both.” Grandpa Robert hesitated, then reached for the doorknob, concerned for Blair’s safety. Dahlia couldn’t help but let a triumphant smile escape. Her eyes were wide, the thrill of victory practically spilling out. At that exact moment, the door next to theirs swung open. Mom stood there, freshly showered and perfectly composed. “What is all the commotion about?” Dahlia froze. Just then, Grandpa Robert pushed the door open. A deafening chorus of gasps, shouts, and terrified screams erupted from the crowd.

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My daughter, Paige, had pulled another all-nighter for her fandom. I found her slumped asleep over her laptop keyboard. I was reaching for a blanket to drape over her when I accidentally saw the forum post she had open—a fresh rant about me: “My dad, this ancient penny-pincher, will drop cash on organic brisket, expensive seafood, and gourmet coffee for the kitchen, but won’t spot me for my concert tickets or merch drops.” “I’m going to lose it. Seriously, if he can’t support me properly now, I swear I won’t support him when he’s old!” One anonymous user replied, trying to be the voice of reason: “You’re just in your rebellious phase. You don’t understand financial pressure. Your dad buys necessities. Stanning an idol doesn’t fill your stomach.” Paige shot back a reply: “Spiritual nourishment is nourishment!” “My bias is the best human being on the planet. Why shouldn’t I spend money on him?!” “He’s not even close to being as cool as my mom’s boyfriend. He actually comes with me for airport pickups and buys me limited-edition albums!” “He’s my biological father, but he’s never understood where my soul finds its escape. Why did my mother ever settle for a stiff like him?” I felt a cold dread creep into my bones. All these years, I’d hustled like a corporate slave, working myself into the ground, often fifteen hours a day, just so this family could have a better life—the best life. And now? I was just the butt of an online joke. I was a “tool man.” Why the hell was I still grinding? When did I ever get to enjoy my own life? 1 I lay down on my bed, still scrolling through her forum posts on my phone. She had updated the thread: “Honestly, I know it sounds awful, but I really wish I’d lost my dad early. He’s been such a total headcase lately.” Someone commented: “What’s he bugging you about now?” She replied: “Everything. Every. Single. Day. He just hired this elite, one-on-one tutor to hover over me. I’m not his daughter, I’m his prisoner!” “Tomorrow is my birthday. I’m going to ask him for $500 for my idol’s new sponsored merchandise. If he says no, he stops being my father and becomes a mere ATM machine to me.” My heart plummeted. All the long-term planning and sacrificial love I had poured into her future—she saw it as a cage. It was the sharpened edge of the knife she now held pointed at my back. Suddenly, Paige walked into the room. Her expression was perfectly normal. “Dad, I’m starving. What’s for lunch?” I turned my phone screen off and spoke, my voice a cold, unfamiliar sound. “I’m not making lunch.” She always complained that I spent money on food for the house but none on her idols. The truth was, every cent of that food budget was for her. If the prodigal child couldn’t be tamed, I wouldn’t bother trying. My remaining life belonged to me. Paige paused, surprised. Even when I was sick, I had always made her three meals a day. She’d never missed one. The surprise lasted only a second. The next moment, a look of unmistakable glee flashed in her eyes, as if a heavy coat had been shed, and she was finally free. “Oh. Okay. I’ll just order takeout then. You rest.” Normally, I banned takeout, worried about her nutrition and health. Now, I saw that control had only given her another reason to trash me online. If she didn’t want the good life I was offering, then she could go ahead and run wild. Paige didn’t leave. She shifted the topic. “Dad, tomorrow’s my birthday. You don’t need to buy me a gift. Just give me $500 for my idol’s new endorsement—the limited-edition drop.” I sat up on the edge of the bed and stared at her, my face flat and cold. “No. My money is spoken for. Go ask your mother’s friend.” She was stunned, then immediately angry, but she tried to hold the rage in. “Not even a birthday gift?” “That’s right. From now on, there are no more gifts.” She couldn’t control herself anymore. Her face flushed scarlet, her neck stiffened, and her eyes spit fire. “So, what? Unless it’s a perfect GPA, I’m just a mistake to you? You think everything I care about is wrong!” I looked at this daughter who had somehow become a stranger to me and felt a hollow ache. It hadn’t always been like this. Before, she was a kind, sweet child. Our bond felt unbreakable. She’d told me so many times I was the best father in the world. Diana, my wife, walked in, her face stormy. “Adam Keller, what in God’s name is wrong with you?” She looked genuinely confused. Every year, I’d made a spectacular feast and bought Paige an expensive, carefully chosen gift. This was the first time I had ever coldly refused her. Diana patted Paige’s shoulder, soothing her. “Don’t worry, sweetie. It’s your birthday tomorrow. Mommy won’t let you down.” 2 The next morning, I went shopping. I bought a PlayStation 5, a Tag Heuer watch, and a pair of Balenciaga sneakers—things I’d always put off buying for myself. I signed up for a year-long membership at a high-end gym and went out for a long, quiet meal at an Italian bistro. I did not spend hours in the kitchen preparing the elaborate birthday meal I used to make for Paige. Afterward, I checked Paige’s forum. She had updated again. “My dad is completely unhinged now. Seriously, the man is having a psychotic break. Suddenly won’t cook, stopped managing the house, and even skipped my birthday.” “But it’s fine. The three of us—Mom, me, and Blake—celebrated at Blake’s place. Watching my bias’s new drama on his huge screen was heaven.” A user offered an analysis: “Maybe your dad just got tired of seeing you chase an idol so hard and he’s disappointed?” The thread split. One side supported Paige, mostly saying: “If you don’t have passions, what’s the point of living? Who cares about a K-pop idol? It’s not like you’re doing drugs. Having a joyless parent is the worst.” A smaller group said: “Everything in moderation. Maybe if you focused until college, your dad wouldn’t have such a problem.” Paige replied to that: “That’s where Blake shines. It’s no wonder Mom is crazy about him; he’s so understanding. My dad doesn’t compare to a single hair on Blake’s head.” “Anyway, the parent-teacher meeting is next week. There’s no way I’m letting Dad go.” Someone followed up: “You’re not actually going to take Blake, are you?” She responded instantly: “Duh, of course, I am! Blake is the best man I know. Mom is going to divorce my psycho dad soon anyway, and I’m definitely picking Mom and Blake.” My heart turned to a bitter shard of ice. The kind of cold that chills you to the bone. I didn’t get home until late that night. Paige and Diana were already back. They had clearly had a fantastic birthday celebration, but they were still wearing expressions of injured pride. Diana immediately started in. “Adam, it was our daughter’s birthday. Why did you make such a scene?” I countered: “I’ve celebrated both of your birthdays every single year. Have either of you ever done anything for mine?” She was caught off-guard, but she quickly turned hostile. “You’re changing the subject. You’re being ridiculous and petty.” Paige played the good daughter, stepping in. “Stop fighting. I don’t even care about presents.” Her mood was obviously good. I knew why. I’d seen the posts. Blake had given her $1,000 for her idol’s merchandise. As I expected, she didn’t mention the upcoming parent-teacher conference. As luck would have it, a friend of mine needed someone to cover a meeting for his son in the same class. I volunteered instantly. I wanted to see for myself who this “Little Dad” was. When I entered the classroom, I saw him. He was Blake Ellis, the sales associate at Diana’s boutique consulting firm. The firm only had three people: a receptionist, him, and her. He was young, maybe 25, and yes, conventionally handsome. I sat right behind him. Neither he nor Paige noticed me. The guidance counselor’s main task was to discuss college applications and career aspirations. When she got to Paige, Blake smiled warmly and said: “Paige won’t be taking the SATs. Her grades aren’t really strong enough anyway. Her mother and I just want her to be happy and healthy. No pressure.” The counselor, Ms. Reyes, was confused. I had met with her several times, begging her to pay extra attention to Paige’s declining performance. She instinctively asked: “You are Paige’s…?” Paige jumped up, beaming with pride. “He’s my dad.” Ms. Reyes glanced at me, sitting directly behind them, and then introduced me, completely bewildered. “Paige, your father is sitting right there. What is going on?” The whole room turned to stare at me and Blake, a chorus of confused murmurs breaking out. Paige spun around as if struck by lightning, clearly shocked to see me. I smiled, a thin, cruel expression I’d never worn before. “Paige, who exactly is your father?” The crowd exploded in whispers. “What is happening? The nerve of that child!” “She’s completely out of control. Someone needs to discipline her.” “First, she hires a fake dad for a school meeting, what will she do next?” Paige’s face was a mess of shame and anger. She hesitated, then, as if making a final, desperate choice, she spoke. “I’m not lying. Blake Ellis is my dad.” Ms. Reyes pressed her. “But Mr. Keller has always attended your meetings.” “He’s my uncle,” Paige insisted, her chin high. “My real dad died a long time ago. My mother only just remarried. He was afraid I’d be bullied without a father, so he was pretending to be him.” She spoke with righteous indignation, not a hint of shame. Though I had already decided to cut this daughter loose, seeing the child I had nurtured with all my love plunge a knife into my back still twisted my stomach. It was a cold, sharp, and excruciating pain. Ms. Reyes looked at me. “Mr. Keller, is that true?” I didn’t hesitate. I was done playing a role for them. I would give them what they wanted. “Yes, Ms. Reyes. Blake Ellis is Paige’s biological father.” “Regarding Paige’s education, you should take all instructions from Mr. Ellis.” 3 Paige dropped out of all her college prep courses. When we got home, she tried to cover her guilt. “Dad, don’t misunderstand. I lied because I was trying to save face.” “You don’t want the whole school to know I was lying and had a stand-in, do you? I wouldn’t be able to look anyone in the eye again.” I let out a flat, indifferent laugh. “I know you were trying to save face.” She saw my smile, relaxed instantly, and, breathing a sigh of relief, probed me. “Dad, I stopped the SAT prep. You’re not mad, are you?” I gave her the same blank smile. “No. Not at all.” She wasn’t my daughter anymore. Getting angry would just be punishing myself. From now on, I wouldn’t have to pay for an elite education, fund college tuition, save for a down payment on a car or a house, or set aside a nest egg for her wedding. The truly relieved person was me. I was finally, profoundly unburdened. That evening, Diana called me. “Honey, can you wire me some cash? I’m networking out of town, and my expense account is running low.” Over the years, she had always demanded money as her birthright. I made 5,000 a month at my corporate job, but she felt her “genius” was wasted on that. She’d been trying to launch her own consulting startup for years, always traveling. She took a reliable 2,000 from me every month. I gave it without complaint, supporting her dream. But the knowledge that she had a lover out there made my stomach turn. “No money,” I said, my voice clinical. “I bought myself a macbook with this month’s pay.” Diana and I had started with nothing. Over the years, I’d hustled and worked my way up from a low salary to a stable, comfortable one. But I never bought anything I truly wanted, always putting the family first. Diana exploded when she heard I spent the money on a graphics card, furious that I hadn’t consulted her. I couldn’t stand her emotional torrent, so I hung up. She immediately sent me dozens of 60-second voice notes and a scathing, thousand-word text message. This was the first time in our marriage she had ever sent me so many messages. Before, I was the one sending them, and she would reply with a terse “K,” “Got it,” or often, nothing at all. Middle-aged marriages can retreat from passion into a polite numbness. I had gone from being hysterical about her indifference to becoming numb myself. I didn’t listen to the voice notes. I didn’t read the essay. I would now treat her the way she had treated me. Two days later, the cemetery director called me. “Mr. Keller, we had an unexpected situation. Your parents’ remains were removed, and the plot has been sold to a client who is very eager to buy it.” “I’ve been trying to reach your wife, but the line is constantly busy. Could you come in to sign the paperwork and finalize the sale?” I felt like I’d been struck by lightning. I gripped the phone, shaking with fury. “What did you say? The remains were sold? Who sold them?” The director realized I had no idea, and his voice shrank to a terrified whisper. 4 “Your wife, Mrs. Diana Keller. She came in yesterday with two other clients.” “She… sold your parents’ cremains as a kind of morbid ‘posthumous arrangement.’ Your mother’s to a recently deceased elderly gentleman, and your father’s to a single, wealthy woman who passed away recently.” “Your wife instructed us to sell the plot now that the urns were gone, and we have a buyer ready.” My blood pressure spiked. I warned him: “Do not sell that plot. Do you understand? If you do, I will sue the cemetery into the ground.” My parents had loved each other their entire lives. Now, that lowlife Diana had sold their remains. I was about to call the police when Diana and Paige walked in. The first thing Diana did was grab a phone charger. “That was annoying. My phone died.” Neither of them noticed the volcanic fury on my face. One fiddled with her phone; the other threw her backpack into her room and called out to me like I was a servant. “Dad, I want Shrimp Scampi tonight.” Diana didn’t look up. “I have a business dinner. I’m eating out.” I couldn’t hold back any longer. I looked straight at Diana. “Where did you sell my parents’ remains?” She finally looked up, her expression briefly flinching with guilt, before she forced a soothing tone. “Oh, that. I was going to tell you later.” “Your parents lived a hard life, honey. I just wanted them to have an easier time in the next life, you know? I found them wealthy ‘partners’ for their eternal rest. It’s my way of showing them respect as a daughter-in-law.” Her preposterous lie snapped my control. I hit her. The slap echoed through the silent house. Paige heard the noise and burst out of her room, screaming at me. “Dad, what is your problem?! Mom is trying to run a company! Why didn’t you support her? She wouldn’t have had to sell the ashes otherwise!” “You never look at your own faults. You only ever blame others!” Shaking from the inside out, I backhanded my daughter. It was the first time I had ever struck her. She couldn’t process the shock. Her face turned crimson, and she ran screaming out the front door. Diana immediately chased after her. I stood alone in the center of the living room, trying to extinguish the inferno in my chest. Then Diana’s phone vibrated. I snatched it up and checked the screen. It was a text from Blake Ellis. “Wifey I love you so much! And our daughter! I can’t believe you bought me that $5,0000 Rolex for my anniversary. I couldn’t bring myself to buy it, so I put the cash towards Paige’s fan club event instead. As long as she’s happy, I’m happy. I love you both.” “Tell our girl I’ll stay up all night with her watching her idol’s new reality show. When we’re done, I’ll give you your real reward (kiss emoji).” She had sold my parents’ ashes to buy her lover an expensive watch. My entire body felt hollow, burned out. It took me a long time to regain my equilibrium. The first thing I did was call my lawyer. I initiated a criminal complaint and filed for divorce. The second thing I did was call a realtor. I was listing the house immediately. If they wanted a bad life for me, I would make sure no one walked away unscathed. It didn’t take long for the police to confirm the buyers of the remains had already left the country, and the ashes were not recoverable. The next day, Diana rushed back, clutching two generic urns, trying to smooth things over. “Honey, I have a surprise for you! Ta-da! I got the ashes back! See? All better. Don’t be mad anymore.” I smiled, a meaningless expression. “Honey, I have a surprise for you, too. Close your eyes.” Diana was relieved, thinking she had successfully manipulated me back into place. She happily closed her eyes. She trusted me completely; I had always asked her to close her eyes when I gave her a gift. I counted silently: Three, two, one. A massive, authoritative sound of approaching footsteps echoed outside the door. This time, I was ensuring a final resolution.

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Not long ago, a son of one of my high-level subordinates got tangled up with one of those ‘damsel in distress’ types—a classic American “Ingenue.” That boy, a National Science Olympiad gold medalist, had a guaranteed spot at Caltech. He suddenly volunteered to give up his early admission, and the night before his final AP exams, he was out watching the sunrise with her. When the scores came out, he’d slid from a top-tier guaranteed slot down to a mediocre state university. It was a drop so steep it took the color out of my subordinate’s hair overnight. Today, while cleaning out Miles’s laundry, my fingers brushed against a sticky note with the faint, sweet scent of jasmine. “Miles, you are the only light in my dark, dark world.” The name signed at the bottom—Alice Bloom—made my heart hammer. That was the exact name of the girl who derailed Gary Peterson’s son. I knew, instinctively, that this was wrong. I clenched the note and strode toward my son’s room. I was about to demand an explanation when my bespectacled, sweetly clueless boy looked up from his desk and scratched his head. “Mom, perfect timing. Could you just look at this? This stupid circuit board won’t light up!” He spotted the note in my hand, and his brow furrowed deeper. “Ugh, Alice Bloom again. My circuit’s dead; I barely have light for me, let alone enough to share with her. Honestly, I think she’s just trying to coast on my group project grades.” I watched his mind, which was clearly consumed by schematics and academic frustration, and I felt a wave of relief wash over me. I tried to sound casual. “Does this girl… contact you often? Are you two close?” Miles Maxwell’s frown intensified, his voice thick with genuine annoyance. “Mom, don’t even get me started. She’s just a classmate in an elective—the kind you get lumped with for a group project. Her foundational knowledge is nonexistent, and she’s constantly texting me the most ridiculous, elementary questions.” “Last week, she insisted on bringing me these homemade cookies. I told her I don’t eat that stuff, and she got all weepy. I had to dump them all on my dorm-mates.” His complaints were authentic, his eyes clear and utterly devoid of romantic sentiment. The only emotion in them was anxiety over his assignments. I realized I had overreacted. Years of my emphasis on education had successfully walled off his brain. For now, it seemed to be entirely occupied by science and circuitry. As for Alice Bloom, while my suspicions lingered, I knew that matters of the heart were tricky. As long as she wasn’t malicious, I was prepared to let Miles navigate his own social life. I also wasn’t going to ruin her feelings—not with Miles’s current lack of social tact. If he knew she had a crush, he’d probably humiliate her trying to be “honest.” But my sense of relief was premature. The very next afternoon, Miles stormed back into the penthouse, tossing his backpack onto the designer sofa. He gulped down a huge glass of water before he spoke. “Seriously, is that Alice Bloom insane?” His face was flushed, his neck red. The complaints fired out like a machine gun. “Today, in the library, she spilled an entire latte—an entire latte—all over my hand-written lab report! It took me two hours to rewrite that thing!” Miles pointed to a suspicious brown stain on his cashmere sweater, his jaw tight. “And then she got teary-eyed, insisting she had to buy me a new sweater. It was this whole dramatic scene that completely made me miss my slot at the lab! I swear she did it on purpose just to sabotage my submission!” He paced back and forth, gesturing wildly. “And the week before, when it was pouring rain, I was waiting for our driver, and she shoved her umbrella at me, saying she’d just sprint back. I told her no, I was fine, but she wouldn’t let up, acting like I was bullying her if I didn’t take it!” “The result? I stood there like an idiot holding this tiny, frilly, lace-trimmed parasol. Then she instantly ducked under some other guy’s umbrella and walked off! My roommates made fun of me for three days!” “But the absolute worst!” Miles slammed his hand on the mahogany table, startling Rob, my husband, who was trying to stifle a laugh on the nearby armchair. “She brought me a homemade lunchbox! Said she was worried about me eating takeout! Mom, you don’t even worry about me eating takeout!” “I wouldn’t take it, and she gave me that pathetic, on-the-verge-of-tears look. ‘Don’t you like my cooking, Miles?’ she whined.” “I didn’t! I absolutely didn’t! Her beef strips were black and her bell peppers were yellow! That’s what’s actually unhealthy! Is she trying to poison me to get the high grade all to herself?” I watched as his focus completely derailed, turning a girl’s desperate attempt at an ‘affectionate’ gesture into a biological weapon and an academic conspiracy. For a moment, I didn’t know whether to mourn my son’s absolutely terrifying lack of emotional intelligence or pity poor, misguided Alice Bloom. To Miles, she wasn’t a sweet, lovesick girl; she was a clumsy, boundary-crossing, tear-wielding liability—a complete mess of a human being trying to moral-leverage him. But as I listened to her tactics, a chill ran through me. It all sounded horribly familiar, like the story Gary Peterson, my subordinate, had tearfully recounted over drinks. I acted on instinct and fired off a text. “Gary, do you still have that photo of Alice Bloom?” Gary responded instantly. I clicked on the photo: a timid-looking girl in a simple white sundress, with large, sorrowful eyes. She certainly cultivated a look of vulnerability. I turned the screen toward Miles, who was still muttering angrily. “Is this her?” He glanced over, his distaste evident, and went right back to his complaints. “Yeah, that’s her. Always looking like someone just stole her puppy. Why do you have her picture, Mom?” My heart sank. It was the same person. The nature of the situation had just fundamentally changed. This was not an innocent college crush. Alice Bloom was calculating, the methods she used were practiced, and her target was clear. She must have done her homework, realized that the Maxwell family had deeper pockets than the Peterson family, and executed a clean swap, rebooting her ‘damsel in distress’ playbook from step one. I looked at my still-fuming, oblivious son. He found Alice irritating now, but what if? What if her persistent, clingy performance of “pure love” finally broke through his defenses? Kai Peterson’s destroyed academic career was a horrifying premonition. No. I had to prevent this. I pulled Miles onto the sofa, my expression dead serious. “Miles, listen to me. This Alice Bloom. She targeted Gary’s son, Kai, first.” Miles went still, clearly confused. I had deliberately kept this sordid story from Miles, hoping to shield him from the ugly side of relationships. Now, I had no choice. “Your Uncle Gary’s son, Kai, had his future wrecked. He went from a guaranteed spot at Caltech to a decent but completely average state school.” “It was Alice Bloom. She used these exact same tactics—the feigned clumsiness, the emotional blackmail—to first get his attention, and then to get close. At first, Kai was annoyed, just like you. But she pursued him relentlessly, and with a few friends egging him on, he gave in.” “Once they were a couple, she became a complete emotional parasite. She slowly manipulated him, convincing him to sacrifice his Caltech spot for her.” “And now, she’s after you.” I laid out the Peterson family tragedy in one heavy stream of words. Miles’s anger slowly drained away, replaced by stunned disbelief. He opened his mouth, but only a few syllables came out. “So… she’s not clumsy, Mom. She’s vicious?” My husband choked on his herbal tea. My own worry morphed into bitter disappointment. “Yes, Miles. She is vicious,” I affirmed, my voice sharp. “And highly motivated. She doesn’t want you, Miles. She wants the Maxwell name and the Maxwell resources.” He looked up at me, his eyes firm with the intense, righteous conviction only a young adult can possess. “You guys don’t have to worry. I’ll go straight to her tomorrow. I’ll tell her, publicly, that I am not interested. She needs to know that this manipulative behavior is unwelcome and inappropriate.” However, we gravely underestimated Alice Bloom. A normal girl, publicly rejected, would be mortified and retreat. The next evening, Miles returned. His face held no relief, only a miserable blend of confusion and raw hurt. “I did it, Mom. I told her. I told her in front of several classmates. I was clear: ‘Alice, thank you for your intentions, but please stop. I don’t like you, and I don’t want your things. You’re making me uncomfortable.’” Seeing the genuine injury in his eyes, I felt a knot of dread tighten in my stomach. “And? How did she react?” “She… she just stared at me blankly for a second. Then, the tears came instantly. Like a faucet.” Miles took a shaky breath, trying to recount the suffocating scene. “She said, ‘Miles, I know I’m not good enough for you. My family is poor, I have nothing to offer… but is it a crime to love someone?’” “‘I got up at 4 AM to make you that lunch. When it rained, I gave you the only umbrella I owned and walked home soaking wet, and I ended up getting sick—’” “‘I gave you my best, and you won’t even give me a chance? Is my affection worthless just because I’m poor? Do I deserve to be publicly humiliated like this?’” Miles looked at me, his eyes wide with a sense of the absurd. “How—how could she say that? This has nothing to do with money! I just don’t like her!” “I love my takeout, and I didn’t need her umbrella… but the way she spun it, it was all suddenly my fault.” He grew agitated, his voice thick with unanswerable frustration. “After she said that, everyone around me looked at me differently! Like I was some rich jerk, a ruthless snob who crushed a poor girl’s pure, sincere heart!” “I just rejected a girl I don’t like. What did I do wrong? Why am I the bad guy?” Rob and I exchanged a grim look. Our hearts sank. Alice Bloom’s game was high-level. She was shameless, and she was an expert at leveraging public opinion and moral blackmail. She twisted Miles’s completely reasonable rejection into an act of classist cruelty, instantly casting him as the villain. I frowned. In the small ecosystem of a college campus, public opinion is a dangerous weapon. I couldn’t allow my son’s reputation, his focus, or his future to be destroyed by this opportunistic manipulator. “Leave this to me, Miles.” “People’s minds, especially students’, are easily swayed. Tomorrow, your mother will solve this.” The next day, I had our armored Maybach deliver Miles to campus. Immediately, I had our family liaison contact the university administration. The Maxwell Group made a significant, immediate donation earmarked for campus infrastructure: a new batch of state-of-the-art A/C systems for Miles’s dorm hall, installed first. Concurrently, I directed the HR department of the Maxwell Group to offer a new, annual set of highly competitive, high-value internships and a fast-track recruitment pipeline—specifically noting this was a gesture of support for Miles’s alma mater. The effect was instantaneous. Overnight, the campus climate shifted violently. The whispers of Miles being a cruel snob vanished. Students now greeted him with excessive friendliness, bordering on obsequiousness. “Dude, thank you! The A/C is saving my life! You’re a legend!” “Maxwell Group internships are insane. Now our school gets priority? The other schools are going to be furious!” No one mentioned the embarrassing public rejection from the day before. The incident was scrubbed from memory. In fact, new champions for Miles emerged. “That Alice Bloom is delusional. She knows the class difference is huge. Why corner him like that? It’s embarrassing.” “Seriously, they’re worlds apart. Different values, different lives. How could they possibly work?” The accusations against Miles were now precisely aimed at Alice Bloom. Her performance of “deep affection,” set against the massive disparity in wealth, was instantly re-read as brazen opportunism and self-delusion. But Alice’s fixation on the Maxwell family was unyielding. The enthusiastic crowd surrounding Miles gave her no chance to get close. So, she tried a different path. She brought her seventy-year-old grandmother to campus. The old woman, frail, with thin white hair and tattered clothes, spotted Miles, and without a word, dropped to her knees. “Miles! Please, I beg you! Look at my Ali! She went home and cried, she won’t eat, she won’t drink—she’s withering away!” “She’s my only granddaughter. We’re all we have. If anything happens to her, what will become of me?” “Just take pity on us! Just try dating her! Please, I beg you!” Her voice was a desperate, screeching wail. The scene instantly devolved into chaos. Students and campus security were horrified. They couldn’t pull the elderly woman up, and they couldn’t console her. They just stood there, sweating and helpless. Miles froze. He had never seen anything like this. He could only repeat helplessly. “Grandmother, please don’t do this. Get up. We can talk calmly…” Simultaneously, I received a live video feed from the school administration. Watching that elderly woman throw herself around, my blood boiled. To attach herself to our family, they had descended to this utterly despicable, gutter-level tactic! “This is too much!” I shot to my feet. If they were going to play dirty and weaponize an old person, I would call in my own nuclear option. I called the family estate and summoned the one person who saw Miles as the sacred heir to the dynasty: my mother-in-law, Eleanor Maxwell. She was fiercely patriarchal, utterly merciless, and her combativeness was legendary. Eleanor listened to the situation and erupted. “What?! Someone dares to corner my grandson like that? They’ve lost their minds!” The next day, just as Alice and her grandmother were setting up their weeping spectacle, a luxury sedan screeched to a halt. Eleanor didn’t need my assistance. She opened the door herself and swooped out, charging forward like a whirlwind.

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I was doomscrolling through a late-night advice thread on Reddit when a post stopped me cold. “Hired a college girl. How do I get the worn-out wife to sign the divorce papers without losing the house?” The top-rated comment was chillingly specific: “Tell her you gambled away a fortune and only divorce can protect the family assets.” “Convince her to divorce but keep living with you. You get to party with the mistress while she takes care of your parents and kids.” “Come back when you’re old and let the kids take care of you.” I was so disgusted I logged into a burner account and slammed the commenters for being inhuman. The very next morning, my husband, Travis, was kneeling at my feet, his face a mask of counterfeit agony. “Liz, I’m so sorry. I gambled everything away. I owe ten million dollars.” “We have to get divorced. I can’t drag you down with me.” 1 Hearing those words from Travis Miller, my first thought wasn’t fear—it was that toxic Reddit thread. Just to be sure, I kept my tone light. “Honey, you’re joking, right?” Travis flashed a text on his phone—a picture of a generic, threatening collection notice. “I’m serious, Liz. They said if I don’t pay up, they’re going to cut off my hands.” His face was contorted in terror, but if I looked closely, past the trembling lips, his eyes were eerily calm. I still didn’t want to believe he was that kind of man—the kind who posted for advice on how to ruin his wife. “Okay,” I conceded, forcing a sigh. “So, how do you want to handle the divorce?” Relief—a flicker too quick, too bright—flashed across his face. “Liz, I’m wiped out. I can’t split any money with you, but I’m leaving you and Piper the house, no question.” He paused for the crucial line. “We’ll get a fake divorce. I’ll go out of state, earn back the money, and we’ll remarry as soon as the debt is settled.” I swallowed hard. His speech was a verbatim recital of the Reddit thread’s hot-take strategy. When my expression darkened, Travis rushed to soothe me. “Honey, you have to trust me. Even if we divorce, I still love you.” My heart sank with every empty, earnest word. The more he pleaded, the more certain I was: He was the poster. He had played me for a fool. I pulled the corners of my mouth into a frozen smile and decided on one final test. “Of course I trust you, Travis. How about this: we sell the house and the cars to pay off part of the debt, and we tell your parents everything so they can help, too.” The color drained from his face. Selling the house and, worse, involving his parents, Robert and Eleanor? That would derail his entire plan to take his mistress and walk away clean. “No! We can’t tell Mom and Dad. You know Dad’s heart is bad. If he hears I lost that much money, it will kill him.” He grabbed my hand. “And the house stays! Where will you, Piper, and Mom and Dad live?” He leaned in again, trying to manipulate my motherhood. “Liz, Piper is still so little. Do you want her to grow up in constant fear of debt collectors?” “Just give me a few years, and we’ll be a family again. Ten years of marriage, Liz. Don’t you believe in me?” A fake divorce. In the eyes of the law, a divorce is just a divorce. There’s no such thing as fake. But if he wanted a divorce, I would give him one. “Fine,” I said, my voice eerily calm. “Let’s go file now.” We still had the mandated one-month cooling-off period. As soon as we left the courthouse, Travis made a rushed excuse and peeled away. I quietly followed. I watched him pull a dozen deep-red roses out of his trunk and stride toward a university gate. A tiny, blonde girl came running out and melted into his arms. I took out my phone and captured a dozen shots of them kissing, oblivious to the world. 2 That same night, the Reddit post was updated. “Update: The worn-out wife agreed to the divorce. She gets the house, but not a dime of money.” The comments underneath were a vile chorus of praise. “Bro, 666. A drone at home, a little flower outside. A real inspiration.” “When you’re tired of playing, you just return to the family. You don’t have to raise the kids, and they pay for your retirement.” I was sickened, but I couldn’t resist commenting from my burner account again. “Aren’t you afraid of karma for calculating your wife like this?” Travis’s (or the poster’s) reply was instant: “Having to live with a worn-out wife forever is karma.” Another commenter mocked me: “Why are you defending her? Are you a worn-out wife too? Poor you. Maybe your husband is planning to divorce you right now.” Furious, I screenshot the entire exchange. For the next month, Travis used his fabricated debt as an excuse to be out of the house. When Bob and Eleanor asked, he claimed he was “traveling for work,” but I knew he was shacked up with the college girl. I kept my mouth shut. Finally, the day came to finalize the divorce. As he handed me the final paper, Travis struggled to hide his glee. “Liz, I quit my job. I’m heading out of state to hide from the debt collectors. Mom, Dad, and Piper are all yours.” “Remember, don’t let my parents try to contact me. It’ll just put them on the debt collectors’ radar.” Before I could even agree, he was gone. Watching his retreating back, I let a cold, slow smile spread across my face. Travis Miller would never know what he had truly lost today. Later that day, the Reddit post updated one last time. Travis gloated: “Guys, I told the company I applied for an overseas transfer.” “LOL, the worn-out wife actually thinks I’m running from debt. I’m heading overseas to live the high life.” “Eventually, I’ll fake my own death—say the collectors found and killed me. Then I’m free as a bird.” The accompanying picture was a pair of hands, clasped together, both wearing matching rings. The background was an airport gate. I shut off my phone, my face devoid of emotion, and began to think about the next steps. Bob and Eleanor were from old-money families. Years ago, Bob had made a fortune in real estate development. But they believed in poor-parenting for Travis, so he never developed a sense of entitlement. He thought we were merely comfortable middle-class. He had no idea of the true family fortune. I had only stumbled upon an old newspaper clipping that revealed the depth of Bob’s wealth. If Travis was willing to abandon his parents and daughter for a fling, then his parents were now mine. I was an orphan. When I married Travis, it was because I genuinely loved his parents. They were the parents I had always dreamed of. Starting that day, I found three part-time jobs on top of my full-time work. I was often busy until midnight. I lasted only a month before my body gave out. I collapsed one evening right in front of Bob and Eleanor. When I woke up, I was in a hospital bed. Eleanor was hovering over me, her eyes full of worry. “Liz, what on earth have you been doing?” she whispered, tears welling up. “The doctor told me you fainted from severe malnutrition. Malnutrition, Liz! I couldn’t believe it.” I pretended to look guilty and nervous. “Mom, I’m fine. Let’s just check out. We don’t need to waste money.” Eleanor’s expression hardened. “I tried to call Travis earlier. His number is disconnected. Are you two keeping something from us?” I only looked more guilty. “Mom, please don’t imagine things. Nothing is wrong.” Eleanor’s face went grim. “If you don’t tell me, I’m going to go find him and ask him myself.” Panicked, I grabbed her hand. “You can’t, Mom! You’ll get him killed!” Bob and Eleanor exchanged a long look, both realizing the situation was serious. “Eliza,” Bob said firmly, using my full name. “Tell us what happened. Whatever it is, we’re a family, and we’ll solve it together.” Feigning being forced, I broke down and told them the edited story: Travis’s gambling debt of ten million dollars and the desperate, fake divorce to protect them. 3 Bob and Eleanor were apoplectic with rage and shock. I quickly composed myself and started my comfort act. “Dad, Mom, please don’t worry. I’ll work more hours. I’ll pay it all back so Travis can come home sooner.” Eleanor’s face softened, filled with intense pity. “Oh, darling, you poor child. Why didn’t you tell us sooner?” I shook my head. “It’s fine, Mom. You and Dad are getting older. I didn’t want you to live in fear because of this.” Eleanor was even more moved. “Your father and I have some savings. We’ll call Travis home, and we’ll sell everything to pay off his debt.” I offered a bitter smile. “I wish we could, but he didn’t tell me where he was going. He was afraid the debt collectors would follow me.” “You rest,” Bob commanded. “Your mother and I will find him.” My eyes gleamed for a brief second before I obediently agreed. The next day, Eleanor went to Travis’s company. When she returned, both she and Bob looked sick, and there was a new layer of deep, wrenching guilt in their eyes when they looked at me. I already knew what they knew, but I played the part of the confused, abandoned wife. “Mom, did you find Travis?” Eleanor spoke slowly, her voice thick. “He… he didn’t owe any money. His company said he applied for a transfer overseas.” She paused, then added the dagger. “He left with his girlfriend.” I forced out a smile that was more of a grimace. “Why would he lie to me?” Bob’s voice was heavy with shame. “Eliza, it’s all on us. Travis wronged you. I’m calling him back right now. He’ll come home and beg for your forgiveness.” Bob took the overseas contact number from the company and dialed it immediately. “Son, it’s your father. Where are you? Get back here now!” A pause stretched on the line, followed by a voice that was clearly Travis, but thick with annoyance. “You must have the wrong number. Who is your son?” Bob was stunned. “Travis! You tricked Eliza into a divorce, and now you won’t even acknowledge your own father?” The voice on the other end laughed derisively. “You must be crazy. I’m not your son. Maybe your son died a long time ago!” The line clicked dead. Bob was breathing hard, his face fiery red, clutching his chest. I started to rush to his side, but before I could, Bob’s face went slack, and he collapsed—a brain hemorrhage. The hospital quickly issued a critical condition notice. Eleanor grabbed my hand, frantic and lost. “Mom, we have to call Travis again,” I urged. “If Dad… if he doesn’t make it, he has to see him one last time.” Eleanor called back immediately. “Son, your father is dying. You—” Travis cut her off immediately. “Lady, even if your son died, you can’t just call any man and claim he’s him. I am not your son.” Eleanor was sobbing now. “Son, I’m begging you. Please come home and see your father one last time.” “I told you I am not your son! Don’t call this number again!” Travis hung up. No matter how many times Eleanor called, he refused to answer. Finally, he blocked all our numbers. Fortunately, Bob’s surgery was successful. Learning that his son refused to return even when faced with his possible death was the final straw. “That animal,” Bob choked out, struggling to breathe. “Since he says his son died a long time ago, fine. From this day forward, I have no son named Travis Miller!” 4 I felt a small surge of vindication, but kept my outward demeanor soft. “Dad, I know Travis didn’t mean it. Please don’t be angry.” Bob turned his head toward me, guilt written all over his face. “Eliza, the Miller family has failed you.” He tried to get out of bed to kneel. I quickly stopped him. “Dad, please don’t say that. I was an orphan. In my heart, you and Mom are my parents. A daughter would never blame her own parents.” Bob’s eyes welled up. “Good, good. Eliza, if you don’t mind, from now on, you are our daughter.” Eleanor gripped my hand tightly. “Eliza, will you call us Mom and Dad?” Tears streamed down my face. This time, they were genuine. “Dad. Mom.” Eleanor wiped her own tears. “I may have lost a son, but today, I gained a wonderful daughter. Eliza, you are officially our family.” With my dedicated care, Bob recovered quickly. The day he was discharged, Bob and Eleanor took me straight to a realtor. They paid cash for a luxury condo and put it entirely in my name. I started to object, but Eleanor cut me off. “Eliza, it’s a gift from your parents. Do you like it?” I swallowed my refusal, replacing it with a tearful, grateful smile. “Thank you, Mom. Thank you, Dad. I love it.” It was their ultimate seal of approval. From that day on, Bob and Eleanor never mentioned Travis again. Eleanor even threw out every picture and souvenir of him. I slowly and surely took his place in their hearts. Five years passed. My bond with Bob and Eleanor grew stronger. To anyone who didn’t know our history, we were a real, loving family. One evening, after I came home from work, Eleanor called me over. “Eliza, you’re not getting any younger. Have you thought about dating, maybe remarrying?” “Bob’s friend has a son, about your age. He knows your situation and doesn’t mind that you have Piper.” I shook my head gently. “Mom, I just want to focus on raising Piper and taking care of you and Dad. I don’t need to get married again.” Eleanor was touched, but I saw the self-reproach in her eyes. She thought I was still heartbroken over Travis. On the contrary, I had moved on a long time ago. I had a house, a car, and financial security. Why would I invite the complication of marriage back into my life? Besides, while I didn’t want to get married, I had a secret. I did have a boyfriend. He was only twenty-one, full of youthful energy and life. “If you don’t want to, then don’t,” Eleanor said, pulling me into a hug. “You and Piper will never go hungry as long as your father and I are around.” “Mom, you are so good to me. Having you for a mother is the greatest fortune of my life.” I hugged her back, making her smile beam. Two days later, Bob called me into his study. “Eliza, take a day off next week. We’re going to a notary. We’re putting all the assets in my name into a trust for you and Piper.” I kept my expression neutral, simply nodding. Over the years, the stream of gifts from my parents had been constant. This was when I truly grasped the depth of their wealth. The ten million dollars Travis lied about was a mere rounding error to them. But that very night, Travis’s Reddit post updated. “Bored with the life. Preparing to return to the family.” The attached photo was an airline ticket. The date was three days away. I quickly checked the calendar. He was due back the exact day Bob was planning the asset transfer.

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The day Marcus Cole realized I hadn’t filed an expense report with the family office for a whole week, he assumed I’d finally grown out of my ‘small-minded’ habits. With a dismissive, almost charitable air, he tossed an American Express Centurion Card onto the mahogany dining table. “I’ve covered your father’s final dialysis bill,” he said, his voice flat. “Just try not to bore me with these pathetic peasant dramas anymore.” He paused, sipping his twenty-year-old single malt. “I know that bottomless pit of yours is hard to fill, but as a Cole, you need to learn to manage your appetite. Your manners are hideous.” What he didn’t know was that the moment I reached for the black card, I had already signed the divorce papers and my full-body organ donation consent form. The clothes on my back were the same pilling, five-year-old college hoodie he’d once mocked me for wearing. No one would believe that the wife of Marcus Cole, the man who controlled half the resources in the entertainment industry, had to snap a photo of a receipt for a five-dollar box of tampons and upload it to his assistant’s phone for approval. It was his ‘rule.’ He believed that a gold-digger like me would instantly go feral and start spending wildly the second I held real money. A week ago, my father needed an emergency procedure after a massive stroke. I knelt and begged Marcus for twenty thousand dollars. His executive muse, Cassidy Shaw—the woman he’d almost married in college—had deliberately pulled my transfer application from the queue. She’d even smiled as she did it, claiming she was helping me break my habit of “insatiable greed.” Marcus had no idea I endured this humiliation only because my father was dependent on the state-of-the-art life support in his private hospital wing. Now, they’d pulled the plug after a missed payment. My father was ashes in a box. I had no reason to keep playing his obedient, caged pet. 1. My phone vibrated on the reclaimed wood of the kitchen island. Marcus’s message popped up, dripping with that usual air of lofty condescension. “Your father’s treatment is reinstated. Now be a good girl and stop inventing emergencies to demand extra funds. I know where you come from, but my money isn’t that easy to fool.” I stared at the two lines, feeling a startling, almost transcendent calm. I typed a single word: “Understood.” I set the phone down and slid the signed divorce agreement across the counter. Marcus probably thought my three days of silence and lack of expense reports meant I was attempting a ‘cold war.’ It was his favorite word for any attempt I made at asserting myself. For three years, I had lived like a dog on a leash for the sake of my father’s medical bills. I had no independent income. Marcus had forbidden me from working, claiming the Cole name was too prestigious for a wife who ‘paraded herself in the marketplace.’ Yet, he gave me no allowance. Every single cent I spent had to go through his corporate Expense Reporting System. Groceries required approval. Toiletries required approval. Even the three dollars for a subway ride necessitated a photo of the receipt. The Approver? His personal, long-time Executive Assistant: Cassidy Shaw. The woman who had been his “Red-Headed Confidante” since college, the one everyone knew was the Perfect Standard I could never meet. Three days ago. The hospital delivered a Code Blue. My father’s stroke had worsened, requiring immediate, emergency brain surgery. Two hundred thousand dollars. To Marcus, it was the cost of a single bottle of wine for one of his parties. I called him, frantic. Ten, twelve, fourteen calls. When it finally connected, it was Cassidy’s voice. “Ellie, honey, Marcus is in a high-level strategy meeting. Is everything okay?” Her voice was smooth, like warm honey poured over ice. I didn’t care about propriety. I sobbed into the phone. “Cassidy, please, let me talk to him! My father is dying. I need two hundred thousand dollars for the surgery now!” I heard a soft, pitying laugh on the other end. “Ellie, you know the Cole Corp protocol.” “Two hundred thousand is a major withdrawal. You have to run it through the ERP system, darling. Marcus hates rule-breakers, especially when money is involved. You’ll just upset him if you try to bypass me.” “Hurry up and submit the request. I’ll look at it as soon as I can.” The line went dead. My hand was shaking so badly I could barely hold the phone. I logged into the damned ERP system. Reason: Emergency Brain Surgery. Amount: $200,000.00. Attachment: Critical Condition Notice. Submit. I stared at the screen. One second. Two seconds. Ten minutes later. The phone dinged. Not a bank alert, but a system notification. REJECTED. Rejected by: Cassidy Shaw. Reason for Rejection: Attachment format unclear. Please re-scan and upload. All the blood in my body turned to ice. 2. I re-photographed the notice. My hands were trembling, the image slightly blurred. I took another one. Every second was a hammer blow against my father’s life. I submitted the request again. Five minutes later. REJECTED. Reason for Rejection: Requested amount is excessive. Must supplement with detailed itemized breakdown of costs, accurate to the exact price of each medication. I felt a surge of hysterical madness. The surgery hadn’t even started; the doctors were fighting to stabilize him. How was I supposed to get an itemized breakdown accurate to the milligram? I messaged Cassidy on her private line. “Please, I beg you. Approve it first. It’s life-or-death money!” “I’ll send the breakdown later. Cassidy, this is a human life!” She sent back a cute, animated bunny emoji. “Sister, I want to help, but I can’t. Financial policy is financial policy. You used to be so lax with money. Marcus is trying to help you, you know. He said we have to teach you some discipline.” I sank to my knees outside the operating room doors, the phone still clutched in my hand. I felt like a stray mutt whose spine had been pulled out. I texted Marcus. I sent him voice notes. “Marcus, I’m begging you.” “Just approve the money, and I’ll do anything you say. I’ll never fight with you again. I won’t be jealous of Cassidy. Please, save my father.” Half an hour later. Marcus finally sent a short voice note. The background was loud and boisterous—music, laughter. His voice was slurred with an impatient annoyance. “Do what Cassidy says. Don’t bother me.” At that exact moment. The light above the O.R. door went out. The surgeon walked out, pulled down his mask, and shook his head with profound regret. “I’m sorry. If the payment had gone through even ten minutes earlier, we could have administered the clotting agent…” I didn’t hear the rest. The world went eerily quiet. The man who had raised me, the man who had worked two jobs and sifted through trash to pay for my physics tuition, the only family I had left—he was dead. Killed by a piece of paper that wasn’t in the “correct format.” The body grew cold. My love for Marcus Cole chilled along with it. For the last three days. I handled the funeral. Cremation. The scattering of ashes in his favorite park. I didn’t tell Marcus. There was no need. He was so afraid I would cheat him out of money. Now, I would never ask him for a single cent again. I looked at the ‘charitable’ text message he’d sent moments ago. A tiny, cold smile touched my lips. He thought I was angling for attention again. He had no idea this was the final courtesy I was offering him. A red notification popped up from social media. It was Cassidy. The photo was a shot of an exclusive sushi bar, and a man’s hand wearing the limited-edition Patek Philippe watch I had once planned to save up and buy Marcus for his birthday. The caption: “Thanks to the Boss for improving my dining experience. Some people just keep reaching for handouts, so distracting.” I tapped the ‘like’ button. It was the first and last time I would ever endorse Cassidy Shaw. The phone rang immediately. Marcus. He must have seen the ‘like’ and thought I was being passive-aggressive. I didn’t answer. He texted. “Ellie, who are you being sarcastic to? Don’t let people misunderstand Cassidy. She was only doing her job.” “Un-like that post immediately, or I’ll shut down your primary credit line.” Doing her job? Doing her job murdering my father? I laughed, a dry, rasping sound. I clicked back to the post, and under Cassidy’s arrogant caption, I typed a comment: “Cassidy, the secretary who got ahead by holding up the Boss’s wife’s emergency medical payment until her father died. That’s some smart career climbing. Enjoy your blood-money apartment. You and the Boss are a match made in hell. Lock it up, you two deserve each other.” Post. Block. Power off. The world was finally, blessedly quiet. 3. I started packing. There wasn’t much to gather. I had lived in this so-called home for three years. The things that were truly mine were laughably few. The dressing room was immense. The left wall was a monument to Marcus’s bespoke suits. The right side held several locked glass cabinets. They housed the jewels, the designer bags, the limited-edition shoes. The keys and biometric access were controlled by Cassidy Shaw. Every time I had to attend a high-profile gala, I had to request the items from Cassidy, like borrowing a costume from a prop house. When I was done, I had to return them. Once, I accidentally snagged the hem of a gown. Cassidy, in front of the housekeeper, made me write a three-thousand-word letter of apology and docked my allowance for the following month. Marcus had watched, unmoved. He’d just said, “Cassidy is teaching you a lesson, Ellie. These things are expensive. You can’t afford to replace them.” He was right. I couldn’t afford it. I was the orphan, the working-class girl in their eyes. I pulled open the door to my own small corner of the closet. Inside hung a few pilling sweaters and a couple of faded pairs of jeans. The only piece of clothing that felt significant was the plain, off-white cotton T-shirt I had worn three years ago on the day I married him. Back then, I wasn’t just Marcus’s wife. I was State University’s youngest Physics Ph.D. candidate, a genius prodigy with an open-ended career in academia. Marcus had said he loved that cool, clear fire in my eyes. “Ellie,” he’d promised, “marry me. I’ll give you a real home.” I had believed him. I gave up my chance for an international research fellowship. I ignored my professor’s pleas. I traded my lab coat for an apron, and in this golden cage, I had made myself a walking joke. I peeled off the cheap, pilling hoodie Marcus hated. I pulled on the faded white T-shirt. My jeans felt a little loose. I had lost twenty pounds over the last three years. I hauled out a battered old suitcase. Inside, I carefully placed a few heavy textbooks, a handful of family photos, and my father’s small, black wooden urn. Everything else in the mansion—the art, the crystal, the silk—was irrelevant to me. I walked down the grand staircase. Mrs. Gable, the housekeeper, was polishing an antique vase. She spotted me dragging the suitcase and rolled her eyes. “Leaving us again, Mrs. Cole?” “Mr. Cole said if you walk out this time, don’t bother coming back.” She straightened up, dusting her hands. “Oh, and the Boss wants his miso soup for dinner. Don’t forget to make it.” Even the help looked down on me. They knew their monthly salary was higher than my personal spending allowance. I stopped and looked at Mrs. Gable. “Make your own soup, Mrs. Gable.” “Or better yet, ask Cassidy to make it.” She froze, stunned by the coldness in my voice. “What kind of attitude is that? Do you want me to report you to the Boss—” “Be my guest.” I pulled the suitcase to the massive, wrought-iron front door and walked out. The afternoon sun was blinding. I raised a hand to shield my eyes. Three years. I had finally walked out of that mausoleum. 4. Marcus returned faster than I anticipated. He must have seen my comment and the steam had burst out of his ears. He wasn’t here to reconcile. He was here to defend his precious Cassidy. I couldn’t hail a taxi at the gates of the exclusive Cole Estate. A black Maybach screeched to a halt in front of me. The door flew open. Marcus stepped out, his face a mask of furious frost. Cassidy scurried out behind him, her eyes red, playing the part of the deeply wronged victim. “Ellie, what the hell is wrong with you?” Marcus grabbed my wrist, his fingers biting into my skin. “Apologize to Cassidy. Now!” “What kind of insane lies are you spreading on social media? What good does it do you to ruin her reputation?” I looked at the face that had once made my heart do acrobatics. Now, I only felt revulsion. “Am I lying?” I wrenched my arm free and turned my gaze, cold and steady, on Cassidy. “Cassidy, you tell him. Am I lying?” Marcus was momentarily taken aback. He didn’t know the exact details—only that I was asking for a huge amount of money and Cassidy had advised against it on principle. He instinctively looked at her. Cassidy’s body trembled, and tears welled up instantly. “Marcus… I didn’t mean to…” “I was only following the company’s strict financial policy, Marcus. And… and Ellie’s tone was so hostile; I didn’t realize it was life-or-death money at the time.” She sniffled. “Besides, I told the finance team to prepare the funds right away, and I was going to push it through, but Ellie never resubmitted the form!” What a flawless performance. What a cunning spin on “never resubmitted.” The man was dead. Was I supposed to resubmit the form to the Grim Reaper? Marcus’s frown deepened. He turned back to me, his eyes full of crushing disappointment. “Ellie, you have truly let me down.” “Cassidy was professional. How can you be so vicious? Your father had a chronic condition; how critical could it have been?” “You’re slandering Cassidy online over this paltry amount of money. Where is your dignity? Your breeding?” Dignity? I was supposed to have dignity when facing a killer? I laughed, the sound hollow. “Marcus, you are hopelessly blind.” “Since you trust her so implicitly, there is nothing left to discuss.” “The divorce papers are on your study desk. Sign them.” I reached for my suitcase. My attitude enraged him. He snatched the battered case and slammed it onto the asphalt. The old zipper burst. My few belongings spilled onto the pavement. A few threadbare sweaters, a stack of books. And one small, black wooden box. The urn rolled a few times, stopping right at Marcus’s Italian leather loafer. Marcus froze. He stared at the box, his pupils contracting violently. “What is this?” I bent down, carefully retrieved the urn, and brushed the dust from the simple wooden surface. “It’s my father.” “Marcus, are you satisfied now?”

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