Bella Maxwell, the undisputed queen of Blackwood Academy, cornered me by the lockers, demanding to know why I’d left the final question of the calculus exam blank. “Don’t try to pretend you know how,” she asserted, her voice layered with condescension. “Only a handful of people—and I mean only me—could crack that problem. Just admit it, Reed.” That single, arrogant sentence put five thousand dollars into my bank account. My deskmate, Tess Riley, immediately chimed in. “Yeah, stop lying, you Swamp Thing. Always putting on airs.” Another five thousand dollars. I had meticulously curated this role—the ugly, gap-toothed, low-achieving liar—and relied on their daily barrage of scorn and insults. It had allowed me to quietly amass $14.8 million. I continued to play the part. Until the day world-renowned artist and choreographer Corinne Sinclair arrived at school for an exclusive audition, insisting that all male participants be completely bare-faced. Jax Donovan, the resident football star and supposed school heartthrob, smirked with open malice. “Better skip this one, Asher. You don’t want to scare Corinne Sinclair away, do you?” Only I knew how catastrophically wrong they were about to be. 1 I was sixteen when I discovered my ability to monetize malice. I had missed the freshman orientation and retreat due to a sudden illness. By the time I returned to class, the rumor that I was “the ugly kid” had already spread through the entire grade. Jax Donovan and his entourage were the primary sources. “Asher Reed? Yeah, I went to middle school with him,” Jax told his buddies, loud enough for me to hear. “The kid practically lived under a baseball cap and a mask. Guess he knew he couldn’t show his face.” Someone beside him always agreed. “Right? Jax is the school’s golden boy. The fact that the Gargoyle was even in the same building was a privilege. Gross that he followed Jax here for high school, too.” The rumors evolved. It started with me crushing on the most popular girl. Then, somehow, it morphed into me having a secret, sickening crush on Jax himself. I did nothing, said nothing, yet two days into the school year, I had forty thousand dollars deposited into my account. I tracked the amount—it corresponded precisely to four distinct insults aimed at me. Because Jax had established the narrative first, no one ever considered that my appearance was a disguise. I was simply the “Gargoyle” who’d followed the “Golden Boy.” I had operated this peculiar, profitable system for nine hundred and sixty-four days. The balance in my bank account was a number most people wouldn’t see in a lifetime. When I looked at that number, the vile words seemed less important. They weren’t insults; they were a program executing a transaction. I reorganized my life around it. I woke up at four a.m., two hours before everyone else. I spent ninety minutes on my studies and the remaining thirty on meticulously applying the “ugly mask”—the careful arrangement of makeup, hair, and clothing that would reliably provoke the insults and trigger the deposits. For a kid who had to budget every meal, the money was useful. A few words wouldn’t hurt me; my psychological tolerance was high. Besides, in three months, I would graduate, and my life would diverge completely from theirs. 2 Today, Tess Riley brought in a new “Ugly Guy Leaderboard.” My stolen, unflattering photo sat at the top, marked with a huge, angry red ‘X.’ “Congratulations, Asher Reed,” she drawled, her voice a sickly sweet imitation of a TV host. “You’ve clinched number one again.” She turned to the students in the front row. “What can I say? The Swamp Thing is a natural-born winner.” Jax Donovan threw his head back and laughed. I glanced at the photo and tried to focus on my notes. The final college-prep mock exam results had just been posted. Bored students had started a “Guy Rating Scorecard,” and as it circulated, I was consistently awarded the lowest score: two points. In their cruel, coded slang, two points was the rating for “The Gargoyle.” Tess, my deskmate, snatched the form and tossed it onto my desk. “Can’t be helped. Your teeth jut out, your skin is like asphalt, and your personality is worse. I lost a bet, otherwise I wouldn’t sit next to you.” Last month, I’d been accused of cheating. My test paper and Jax’s had suspiciously identical answers, down to the punctuation. I sat in front of him, and my average scores were always better. But Jax had only to wrinkle his nose and squeeze out a few crocodile tears—he had eyes that weirdly resembled the famous TikToker “A.R. Sings”—and the girls immediately decided I must have copied him. The scandal only died when the Math department head found the definitive proof: a complex problem involving the Greek letter Beta (β) that only I had solved correctly. But after that, the negative chatter only intensified. I went from an overlooked nobody to their definite “Swamp Thing” or “The Rat.” The small harassments started: being locked in a bathroom stall and having a bucket of dirty mop water poured over me, or simply walking past the art wing and setting off a chorus of mocking catcalls and invented rumors about me crushing on one of the cheerleaders. Teenagers are brilliant storytellers, and their vocabulary of cruelty grew daily. Anyone else would have crumbled. I remained perfectly calm. 3 My score on the first mock exam put me second in the entire school. The only person ahead of me was Bella Maxwell, the Dean’s daughter, an accomplished violinist who already had an acceptance letter from Juilliard. But she insisted on taking the college exams, and until then, she’d been the undisputed number one. Since I no longer needed to work odd jobs, I had more time to study, and my scores had finally closed the gap. Sera and I began trading the top spot. I checked my score, confirmed I was well within range for my target school, and started to pack up. Rank didn’t matter to me. But after class, Sera came looking for me. “Asher Reed, the Queen wants a word,” Jax informed me, a venomous edge of jealousy in his tone. I met his gaze and walked out into the hall. The familiar ‘+5,000’ dinged in my head. Sera stood leaning against the wall. Even in the plain school uniform, she looked immaculate, her gold-rimmed glasses perched perfectly on her nose. Her brow immediately furrowed when she saw me. “Asher, why didn’t you attempt the final problem on the calculus section?” I recalled the question. I had solved that exact derivative three times the previous week. I had a rule: if I’ve solved a difficult problem twice, I won’t waste time writing it out again. I told her simply, “I was being efficient.” Her frown deepened, and she reached out, grabbing my wrist. “You can have bad character, Reed, but don’t lie about your intelligence,” she said, her eyes, magnified behind the lenses, were ice-cold. “I spent twenty minutes on that problem. In this entire school, I’m the only one with the capacity to solve it.” She delivered her verdict. “You just couldn’t do it. Don’t make excuses.” Tess followed us out, backing her up. “She’s right, Asher. You’re desperate to save face.” I didn’t know how to respond to such absolute, unshakeable arrogance. Just then, Jax burst out of the classroom, practically vibrating with excitement. “Guys, the National Dance Fellowship is holding an unprecedented audition at our school!” 4 “The notice says this is a fast-track invitation!” Jax waved a flier. “If you get selected, you’re guaranteed a fellowship and a chance to share the stage with Corinne Sinclair!” Corinne Sinclair was an icon. She achieved fame young, studied in Vienna at seven, and was internationally known by fourteen. She was stunningly beautiful and universally acknowledged as an artistic genius. Her immense fame, however, had led to a serious invasion of her privacy. She had retreated to the relative quiet of our state, rarely appearing in public. Jax clutched the flier, his voice ringing with fervor. “Corinne Sinclair… If I could just be on the same stage as her, even as an extra, I’d die happy!” A few boys reached for the flier, but Tess swatted their hands away. “Look at yourselves. This is clearly for Jax. Don’t waste your time. You want to dance with Corinne? Dream on.” Jax lifted his chin, already certain of his success. “I’ll be sure to hand out signed photos later.” Tess instantly fawned. “Oh, Jax, when you’re famous, promise you won’t forget me.” It was only then that Jax seemed to notice me. “Oh, Asher Reed. You’re still here.” He smiled—an awful, fake amiability. “Are you going to try out? The notice says all boys are required to attend. You can sign up with me.” Before I could answer, Tess cut in. “Him? The Fellowship is looking for dancers, not… cautionary tales. Don’t embarrass the class, Asher.” Jax chuckled, a sound like scraping metal. “Yeah, man, you need to know your limits. You definitely shouldn’t go. Especially if Corinne shows up… you might terrify her.” I ignored them, pulled a new set of practice tests from my backpack, and started working. Sera, who had watched the exchange with an unreadable expression, finally asked me, “Asher, are you going?” “No,” I said, without looking up. “Why?” “I have to study.” 5 The day of the Fellowship audition, every boy in the school went to the main yard. Except me. I sat alone in an empty classroom, working through my practice tests. My seat was by the window, giving me a clear view of the proceedings. Jax had preened for the occasion. He’d spent a fortune on his hair, getting a specialized stylist to craft it into an artful sculpture. All the boys had put on their best performance attire, hoping to seize the opportunity. I kept writing. After the Dean’s introductory remarks, Corinne Sinclair walked onto the stage. She wore a simple white gown, and her presence was as cool and distant as her public image suggested. The first step of the audition, she announced, was mandatory: every boy had to completely wash off all makeup, foundation, and hair products. It was, she explained, a non-negotiable requirement from the Fellowship Director. Jax’s face went pale. He shot a frantic glance at Corinne, but resignedly grabbed a cleansing wipe. “Wait,” Corinne suddenly said, her voice cutting across the silence. “Are all the male students present?” The Dean was flustered. “We… we believe so.” Tess piped up eagerly, “Yes, sir! They’re all here, Jax was one of the first!” Corinne frowned. “No. I sense one is missing.” The Vice Principal said, “The hall monitor just checked the classrooms. They were empty.” Bella Maxwell, who had been standing silently nearby, finally spoke. “There is one person missing,” she said, her voice flat. “Someone who did not want to come.” 6 I finished the final problem and closed the test booklet. “Ms. Sinclair, the student is right here.” The Vice Principal ushered a group of people into the room, knocking on the open door. “Asher Reed, still studying? Why miss an audition this important?” He moved to pat my shoulder. I subtly moved out of range. “No need, sir,” I said calmly. “I know I won’t be selected, so I didn’t want to waste anyone’s time.” The Vice Principal’s hand stopped in mid-air, his expression slightly unnatural, much like the last time he’d cornered me privately and asked to “talk” about my “poor attitude.” “Nonsense, son. You can’t know if you don’t try.” A cool, detached voice came from behind him. I looked up and saw Corinne Sinclair. She was exactly as I remembered her: pale lips, long lashes, and an aura of remote perfection. My heart gave a quick, sharp beat. I allowed myself a small, knowing smile. “I won’t trouble you,” I paused, and used the name only she and I ever used. “Corinne.” “Hmph,” she actually responded. “Since you still acknowledge me as your sister, you will come with me now.” Her tone permitted no argument. The Dean and the other teachers exchanged shocked glances, but the Dean quickly recovered, his eyes now alight with a strange new enthusiasm. “Well, Asher, let’s go! You heard Ms. Sinclair!” I had no choice but to follow them to the yard. The boys waiting on the field had been muttering for a while. I caught Tess’s voice on the edge of the crowd. “This is pointless. Why drag Asher Reed out here? Doesn’t he look even worse without his heavy clothes?” Another girl laughed. “Yeah, the first round is looks. He’s already disqualified.” “I thought the Queen had a thing for him, but she just wanted to watch him squirm.” The whispers seemed to soothe Jax, whose color had started to return. The Dean led me back to the stage and addressed the crowd. “We had a small clerical error. We’ve found the missing student. The audition will now continue.” I was escorted to a corner where a basin of water waited. This was no gentle wipe; it was industrial-strength makeup remover. Tess, standing nearby, was triumphant. “That’s from my uncle’s lab! It dissolves anything! Get ready for the freak show, everyone!” Jax, who had finished his own removal, was still covering his face with his hands. Someone shouted, “Hurry up, Asher! Wash it off!” I took a deep breath and plunged my hands into the water.

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“Mom, why does Dad have two phones?” My son, Max, asked me in a small voice, clutching a piece of candy. “What two phones, sweetie?” “Just… the one in his briefcase. It’s not the one he usually uses. Last time he answered it, he called that person his wife.” Max blinked his large eyes at me. “But, Mom, you’re his wife.” My hand froze mid-air. The smile was still plastered on my face, but the blood had already turned to ice. “Honey, why don’t you go watch cartoons for a bit?” I stroked his hair, keeping my voice steady. Only one thought burned in my mind: I need to see for myself what’s inside that phone. 1. Marcus came home very late that night. The door clicked shut at eleven p.m. I lay in bed without moving, listening to his routine. First, the shower, then about twenty minutes in his home office, which he always claimed was to “decompress.” Finally, he came into the bedroom. He moved silently, careful not to wake me. I kept my eyes closed, my breathing even and slow. He settled into his side of the bed. His phone—the black-cased one I recognized—was placed on the nightstand. But Max said there was another one. I waited. One minute, two minutes, five. His breathing deepened and evened out. I opened my eyes, rolled over slowly, and slipped out of bed. Before leaving the room, I glanced back at him. He was fast asleep. I walked to the living room. His leather briefcase was by the sofa. I opened it, sifting through the contents. Folders, a charging brick, a packet of tissues. And then— A second phone. Silver, sleek, completely unlike his primary device. My hands were shaking slightly. I pressed the power button. No password. I tapped the messaging app. The first thing I saw was the pinned chat at the top. The contact name was simply two words: My Wife. The profile picture was of a woman. Long hair, a side profile. I couldn’t make out her face. I clicked on the chat. The most recent message was from 5:43 p.m. that afternoon. From him: “My Wife, I have to work late tonight. Can’t make dinner. Miss you.” Her reply: “Okay, hurry home then. I made soup.” His response: “Good girl. Wait up for me.” I stared at those last three words for a long time. Good girl. Wait up for me. He had never once said those words to me. Not in our ten years together. I scrolled up. Yesterday. “My Wife, taking you to the movies this weekend.” “Yay! I want to see that new rom-com.” “Anything you want.” The day before. “My Wife, long day? Are you tired?” “Not too bad. Just missing you.” “Missing you too, honey. Video chat tonight?” “Definitely.” I kept scrolling, one message after another. Every single one began with “My Wife.” Every single one was laced with “Missing you,” “I love you,” “I can’t wait to see you.” Every single one was a sentence I hadn’t heard in a decade. I had been married to him for ten years. I had borne his child. I had given up my career. I spent my days revolving around the kitchen and the school pick-up line. He didn’t call me My Wife. In his contacts, I was listed by my full name. Audrey Sullivan. Two words. Cold and functional. And this other woman— He called her his Wife. I scrolled back to the earliest message. Two years ago. A full two years. I kept going. Transfer records. $800, $600, $1,200, $800. Memos: “Treat yourself to something nice,” “Wife is working so hard,” “For clothes.” I counted. This year alone, he had transferred over $30,000 to her. Thirty thousand. My monthly household allowance was $1,500. I still hesitated to buy a $40 t-shirt. Last month, I asked him for a new coat. My old parka was four years old. He said, “Can’t you still wear the old one? We need to be sensible with money.” Sensible. He told me to be sensible. He gave this woman thirty thousand dollars a year. I slipped the phone back into his briefcase. I walked to the balcony and stood there for a long time. It was cold outside, and the wind was sharp. I didn’t cry. I just stood, staring at the lights of the city. A million lights. Which one was mine? Was this house, this home I had spent ten years maintaining, even mine? No. It never was. I was just a housekeeper. A free, stay-at-home, child-rearing, unpaid nanny. At one a.m., I returned to the bedroom. I lay down. Closed my eyes. Marcus’s breathing was close, even, and steady. I stared at the ceiling, counting the seconds. The sun came up. I hadn’t slept. But I knew this much— I couldn’t say a word. Not yet. I needed more. I needed to know exactly how much this man had taken from me. 2. The next morning, Marcus was up early. I pretended to wake up, rubbing my eyes. “Up so early today?” “Yeah, something came up at the office.” He dressed quickly and walked into the living room. I heard the sound of him picking up his briefcase. “Want some breakfast?” I called out. “Can’t. Too rushed. I’ll grab something on the road.” The front door opened, then closed. I didn’t move from the bed. Max was still asleep. At seven a.m., the only sounds were the birds outside the window. I got up, showered, and made Max’s breakfast. Everything was routine. At eight, I drove Max to preschool. At nine, I was back home. I turned on the computer. I was going to find out who this woman was. I had set up Marcus’s email account, so I knew the password. I logged into his work email. I checked “Sent Mail.” I found it. A hotel invoice. The Hilton, King Suite, two nights. The date was last month. Last month, he told me he was on a three-day business trip. I kept searching. Then, flight information. Two tickets. Same flight, same day, same destination: Laguna Beach. The name on the second ticket: Jenny Lin. Jenny Lin. I ran the name through my mind. Never heard of her. I opened a new tab and searched the company’s internal employee directory. Found her. Jenny Lin, Marketing Department, hired two years ago. The photo showed a young woman. Late twenties, long hair, perfectly made-up, eyes crinkling in a bright smile. She was stunning. Younger than me. Prettier than me. I stared at the photo for a long time. This was his “Wife.” His colleague. His subordinate. His— I took a deep breath. I shut down the computer. I didn’t call him to confront him. I didn’t rush to his office to make a scene. I didn’t even cry. I just sat on the sofa, staring out the window. Ten years. I had married him ten years ago. I quit my job for him, gave up my career, transitioning from a professional earning $60,000 a year to a full-time homemaker. He had said, “You stay home with the kids, I’ll earn the money. Clear division of labor.” I believed him. He had said, “Once Max’s older, you can go back to work.” I believed him. He had said, “I’ll provide for you. Don’t worry.” I believed him. And the result? He was providing for another woman. Missing you, My Wife, Wait up for me. Not one of those words was ever meant for me. I leaned back on the sofa, tracing the last two years. When did he change? It must have been two years ago. The business trips increased. The late nights became routine. The time spent at home decreased. I thought he was busy with work. Once, I asked him, “Why are you working so much overtime lately?” He had been impatient. “You wouldn’t understand. It’s complicated.” I wouldn’t understand. He was right, I didn’t understand. All I understood was doing laundry, cooking, raising our child, and catering to his mother. I understood how to keep everything running perfectly so he had a hot dinner, clean clothes, someone to pick up our son, and someone to fulfill his filial duties. What I didn’t understand was— His second phone housed a second life. At three p.m., I left to pick up Max. On the way, I asked him, “Max, how many times has Daddy brought you to see that lady?” Max thought about it. “Twice, maybe… or three times? One time we went to the amusement park, and she was there too. She bought me an action figure.” My heart clenched. “What did the lady look like?” “She had long hair. She was pretty. She said I looked like Daddy.” She said I looked like Daddy. She had seen my son. She knew I existed. She knew he had a wife and a child, and she stayed with him anyway. “Mom, what’s wrong?” Max tugged at my sleeve. I looked down and smiled at him. “Nothing, sweetie. Mom was just thinking.” Back home, I put on a movie for Max. I went into the bedroom and closed the door. I needed to clear my thoughts. First, Marcus and Jenny had been together for at least two years. Second, he spent significantly more money on her than on me. Third, he had introduced my son to her. Fourth, it was likely an open secret at the company. I couldn’t make a scene. A scene wouldn’t help. I needed to be strategic. I needed to figure out my next move. That evening, Marcus returned home.

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The only condition I set for marrying Harrison Locke, the heir to the Locke Group empire, was that he buy my mother a seven-figure life insurance policy. Beyond that single term, he insisted on keeping our finances strictly split the bill —a bizarre, non-negotiable stipulation for a man with his staggering wealth. We were an agreement, not a couple. We clicked, precisely because we never crossed the line into emotional entanglement. That is, until my mother had a devastating car accident during a torrential storm, and I desperately needed the emergency funds. I worked up the nerve to go to Harry’s office to beg for a loan, but he slammed his hand down on the table, the sound echoing through his pristine executive suite. “Hundreds of thousands, just like that? My money doesn’t just appear out of thin air, Scarlett. We agreed: it’s strictly AA!” Defeated, I raced to the insurance company, only for the representative to inform me, without mercy: “The policy is indeed your mother’s, Mrs. Locke, but she is not the beneficiary.” A cold dread prickled my skin, and I frowned in confusion. I had been there. I’d watched my mother sign the papers myself! The staff member tapped a polished nail against the policy’s beneficiary line. The recipient of the multi-million-dollar payout was clearly listed as Genevieve White. 1 I didn’t even have time to process the shock before the five million dollars in the account was swiftly drained to zero. My final shard of hope was extinguished. I went back to Harry’s company. He was engrossed in a meeting, not even lifting his head. “I forgot to ask earlier,” he said, his voice flat. “What exactly did you need to borrow money for?” Twenty minutes earlier, the hospital had called. My mother was gone. If I had just gotten that insurance money. If his precious childhood sweetheart hadn’t swooped in to empty the account to fund her extravagant shopping spree. Maybe things would have been different. My entire body trembled, and every breath tore through my chest. “Harrison,” I choked out. “We’re getting a divorce.” The words finally got his attention. He looked up, a momentary flicker of surprise in his icy eyes. Meeting his confused gaze, I placed the insurance policy statement squarely on his mahogany desk. A shadow of guilt crossed his face, but he wouldn’t look directly at me. “They must have made a clerical error. Is this really worth threatening divorce over?” I let out a desperate, bitter laugh. He was lying. I’d heard the exchange myself at the insurance company just moments before. The manager had called him. “Mr. Locke, your wife showed up trying to claim the funds. Thankfully, I stalled her in time. Ms. White just completed the transfer.” Harry’s voice, cold and dismissive, had crackled through the phone. “Well done.” “I told you her family were grifters. First, they strong-armed my parents into pushing Scarlett onto me, and now her mother tries to pull an insurance scam. What’s the difference between her and some back-alley fraudster?” “I’m glad I had foresight. I promised Gigi—no matter who I married, my money would only ever go to her.” The blood in my veins turned to ice. I was merely an obligation forced upon him, and my mother was a “scam artist.” This was why, for years, he had guarded his wealth from me like a thief. I would cook a meticulously planned, romantic candlelit dinner, only to have him insist on splitting the bill for the ingredients at the end of the meal. Meanwhile, Genevieve White—Gigi—could casually use his unlimited black card, and I never saw him question a single charge. Suddenly, a wailing sob broke the brittle silence. “Please, don’t fight over me! I shouldn’t have spent your money, Harry. Mrs. Locke, I’ll return everything right now.” Gigi began dramatically ripping off her designer bags and shedding layers of jewelry. A sharp edge of a diamond bracelet grazed my cheek, and a thin line of blood traced its path down my face. Harry didn’t even flinch. He glared down at me, anger radiating off him. “Gigi can spend my money however she likes! I earned it running my company; it has absolutely nothing to do with you!” he roared. “And for God’s sake, there are countless old women trying to pull these stunts. You should check the facts before you come here crying!” He flung the words at me, then spun on his heel, ushering a tearful Gigi into a nearby changing room. The physical sting of the cut on my face was a fraction of the agony in my chest. I withdrew my gaze, picking up my phone and dialing the single hidden contact: Connor. “Help me get out of this,” I whispered into the phone. “I’m ready to fulfill our five-year agreement.” 2 I spent three days weeping through my mother’s memorial service. Harrison spent those same three days commissioning an extravagant, top-tier fireworks display to cheer Gigi up. I posted my grief, a raw, endless stream of memories and pain, on my private social media. He never once looked at it. I used to be like any girl, begging him to just hit ‘like’ on a photo. The response was always a cold, sharp sarcasm. “My time is valuable, Scarlett. It supports an entire company and the Locke name. Can you split the bill for that minute?” Just like when I had swallowed my pride and begged for a loan for my mother’s medical care. I wanted to tell him the terrifying reality of the situation, but his face was an impenetrable mask of annoyance. “Hundreds of thousands, just like that? My money doesn’t just appear out of thin air, Scarlett. We agreed: it’s strictly splitting the bill!” When I tried to speak again, Gigi stepped in, playing the perfect diplomat. “Mrs. Locke, you don’t need an excuse to buy designer bags, but ladies of our stature need to develop good habits! Harry is just looking out for you.” Hearing that, Harry had immediately looked at me with a flash of undisguised disgust, seeing only a greedy social climber. “Stop talking. I have a meeting in five minutes.” That was the moment I ran, grabbing for the final straw—the insurance company. I discovered it was a mere shroud, concealing the ugliest, most rotten part of our marriage. An inexpressible, suffocating ache lodged in my throat. Exhausted, I dragged myself back to the house. Harry had a housekeeper bring me a glass of milk. It was his pathetic attempt at an olive branch. Harry sighed, an air of put-upon martyrdom around him. “Did you really have to disappear for three days over a few hundred thousand? When did you get so childish?” “I finally managed to calm Gigi down. Don’t start another scene.” Holding the warm glass, a wave of coldness washed over my soul. My father had been Harry’s father’s driver. He’d been mortally wounded during an unexpected work accident. On his deathbed, my father entrusted me to the Lockes. I agreed to the marriage, honoring his last wish and sacrificing the path I had already been on. We went from initial sharp-tongued rivalry to what everyone assumed was a slow, enviable development of love. No one knew the truth. Aside from that one insurance policy for my mother, I had never once been interested in Harry’s vast fortune. It wasn’t until Gigi permanently returned to our lives that I truly understood my negligible value to him. If even a single insurance policy—my sole request—was a lie, then what about the rest? What was real? I was too tired to fight. I placed the milk down, the glass clicking softly on the marble counter. “She’d be much happier if you divorced me.” The next second, Harry exploded, slamming his fist on the table, his face a mask of fury. “Scarlett Reed! Your father’s remains had nowhere to go, and I built him a private memorial garden! Your mother was in and out of the hospital, and who do you think was discreetly footing the bills? I haven’t even confronted you about her insurance fraud yet!” “Scarlett, are you brave enough to actually leave?” My heart gave a heavy, painful lurch, and I finally forced myself to tell him the truth. “She’s already…” Before I could finish, his phone shrilled. Gigi’s sickly sweet voice, full of artificial concern, spilled from the speaker. I couldn’t bear to hear it. I turned and retreated to the bedroom to pack my things. That’s when an anonymous number sent two texts: [Harry was desperate to keep me from leaving the country after our last fight. He grabbed the steering wheel from your father, which is why he crashed.] [Why else would anyone build a mausoleum for a low-life driver, or marry a low-born woman like you?] 3 My body froze, my mind a terrible, echoing void. My father’s death was not an accident. It was the collateral damage of their selfish, reckless game. The door swung open behind me. Harry stood in the doorway. I stared into his eyes, my voice a broken rasp. “Did my father’s death have something to do with you?” A tiny, foolish piece of me still hoped. Maybe the text was a cruel prank. Maybe he wasn’t capable of such callousness. But the words he spoke next shattered that last fragile hope. “It was just a fluke accident. I paid a massive settlement, and he’s at peace now.” Boom. The sound was internal, the total collapse of everything I had hoped for. His eyes held no panic, only a faint, condescending sense of beneficence. A simple settlement, casually trading away my father’s life… Harry spoke again, his voice layered with sharp warning. “Don’t you dare bother Gigi with this. Tomorrow is her birthday. Put on something festive.” The next day, running a high fever, I was hauled out like a puppet by Harry and brought to Gigi’s birthday gala. The hot-pink dress he’d chosen for me felt grotesque, a sartorial insult. Gigi, the picture of innocence, wore a breathtaking princess gown on stage while Harry serenaded her with a painfully sincere rendition of her favorite song. Envious murmurs floated around the room. “If Scarlett hadn’t elbowed her way in, those two would be the perfect power couple.” “It’s heartbreaking. Their childhood romance destroyed by a gold-digging interloper. Why is she wearing that grim expression today?” … My heart felt like it was being sliced apart as I listened, while Harry continued his passionate tribute on stage. Then, the massive screen behind him, which had been showing vintage photos, suddenly flickered to black. It came back online, displaying a sequence of Gigi’s private, intimate photos. A collective gasp swept through the crowd. Before anyone could react, Gigi started shrieking and lunged at me. “Mrs. Locke, what did I ever do to you? You’ve destroyed my reputation in all of Manhattan!” I stumbled backward, a bewildered knot forming in my brow. “What are you talking about—” The words died in my throat. She snatched a decorative blade from a table and quickly scored a tiny, theatrical line on her wrist. The scratch was barely three centimeters, yet Harry’s face crumpled in panic. When he looked at me, his eyes were full of icy disappointment. “Scarlett! I told you to leave Gigi alone! Why are you always stirring up drama?” “Apologize to her. Now.” I stood stubbornly still. “I didn’t do anything. I won’t apologize.” Gigi began to sob louder, dropping dramatically to her knees. “Mrs. Locke, I know you hate me. I’ll never bother Harry again. I’ll leave you both in peace!” With a flourish, she scrambled up, dragging her skirt behind her, and ran onto the balcony, a terrifying ten-story drop to the street below. “Gigi, stop! Don’t do anything rash! This isn’t your fault!” Harry was in utter turmoil. He violently grabbed my arm and forced my knees to the floor. I looked up into his crimson, terrified eyes. He ground out the words through clenched teeth. “Apologize. Right now.” “What if I don’t?” Seeing my rigid defiance, a dangerous darkness swirled in his eyes. He slowly pulled out his phone. “I think you remember exactly how you paid for your father’s funeral expenses. Do I need to refresh your memory?” 4 In that instant, my blood ran backward. The night my father died, I had been unable to secure the medical funds, knocking on every door. A low-end fixer—a nightclub owner—found me. His proposition was to talk and drink with his clients. When I refused, they broke my wrist and photographed my degradation. Harry, seeing the chaos, had intervened. He confiscated the pictures and saved me from that hell. I had been naive enough to see him as my savior, my hero. I was wrong. He’d kept the images—every last one—stored on his phone, ready to be weaponized. I stared at the screen, every cell in my body trembling uncontrollably. Harry’s gaze was soft, but his words were utterly venomous. “Don’t make me do this. Just apologize. It’s Gigi’s birthday.” He began to mouth a silent countdown. An overwhelming wave of pure degradation crashed over me. I forced myself to stand and walk to Gigi. “I’m trash. I spread your private photos. I am sorry.” I bowed deeply, a gesture of absolute surrender. Seeing this, Gigi finally smiled in triumph and stepped safely back onto the patio. “But… everyone saw my body. An apology won’t fix how hurt I am…” Harry lovingly tapped her nose. “What will make it better, my little birthday girl?” Gigi didn’t answer. She grabbed Harry’s phone and tapped furiously on the screen for a moment. The next second, the most explicit photo of me was projected onto the colossal screen. I was stripped, immobilized, with someone forcing liquor down my throat. The room erupted in vicious, sneering laughter. “I never thought the supposedly ice-cold Mrs. Locke was this kind of trash! Stripping for anyone, huh?” “Look at that figure! She must be a D-cup. Never could tell under all those clothes.” “I guess she came here tonight to give us a show! Maybe she’ll strip again, ha ha ha!” … Staring at the nightmare on the screen, my tears finally broke. That night was the trauma that I could never, ever forget! “Gigi, delete the photo now!” Harry hesitated for a brief, agonizing moment, then moved to protect Gigi. “She’s just being playful, Scarlett. Don’t make a scene. We’ll handle this after the party.” I lunged, trying to snatch the phone, but Harry shoved me back with brutal force. I lost my footing and tumbled backward, crashing down the ten-step staircase from the stage. In that single, shattering moment, it felt like my internal organs had ruptured. All I could do was watch the humiliating image cycle across the screen. Harry’s absolute indifference shattered the final fragments of my heart. I don’t know when the music stopped. I weakly opened my eyes. Gigi was standing over me, looking down with a vicious, triumphant smirk. “What are you doing…” She tossed the heavy, decorative candelabra in her hand onto the highly flammable stage decorations, watching the flames lick up the fabric. I dragged my useless legs, trying to crawl away. But a colossal decorative pillar, its base already engulfed in flames, swayed, then crashed down onto my body. Harrison, who had casually turned to leave the stage, caught the shockwave of the scene. His heart seized in a sudden, violent terror. “Scarlett is still in there!”

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My diagnosis turned me into the family’s greatest burden after I had poor coagulation, their Glass Doll. The doctor had given me five years. Because of that sentence, my parents’ entire world revolved around me. They poured every cent, every moment of their lives, into keeping me alive. The one day we had a faint sound of laughter was my fifth birthday. Only my little sister, Willow, was too young to understand the relief. “Aubrey,” she asked, her voice small and bewildered, “is this the last birthday we’ll ever have with you?” That was the first time Dad ever hit her. Mom collapsed onto the floor, weeping and praying for some impossible extension of my time. But on the morning Willow was supposed to start kindergarten, I whispered that my chest hurt a little. Mom’s face shattered. She struck me, the sharp slap echoing in the silence. “Why are you so awful?” she screamed, tears streaming down her face. “Do you have to make your sister miserable just to prove a point? Can’t we have five minutes that aren’t about you?” “Go on! Go die, Aubrey! Just stop torturing us already!” She grabbed the medicine bottles from the counter, sending them crashing onto the tiled floor, then hauled Willow away and slammed the door behind them. I didn’t say a word. I just stared at the small cut on my forearm, watching the blood well up, feeling the cold seep into my body. 1 I’d instinctively raised my arm when the prescription bottles smashed, and a shard of glass had found me. I watched the slow, thick welling of red for a full two seconds before the doctor’s long-ago warning finally surfaced: “Honey, you cannot have any cuts. Even a scratch might not stop bleeding.” In a rush of panic, I fumbled for the first-aid kit. I slapped on a Band-Aid, but half a minute later, the white cotton was saturated. I turned to grab a gauze roll, but the blood was already dripping onto the clean hardwood floor. Mom always kept the house immaculate. I couldn’t stand to give her one more thing to be angry about. Frantically, I ripped at the sleeve of my pajama top, trying to wipe the floor clean. But the blood seemed to be actively spreading, painting a wider, messier smear with every swipe. Finally, I just grabbed a hand towel, wadding it around the wound. A chill began to set in, starting at my fingertips and burrowing deep into my bones. I stumbled into the bathroom and ran the tub, letting the water get almost scalding hot. Only when I slid into the steaming bath did I feel a fraction of relief. The blood was still flowing, instantly clouding the water and staining it a deep, alarming rose. Suddenly, I desperately needed them. I fumbled with my watch and dialed Dad’s number. It rang and rang. No answer. Then, Mom’s. The background noise was deafening—music, kids laughing, a kind of manic energy that felt miles away from my quiet bathroom. “What is it, Aubrey? Make it fast. Willow’s about to go on.” “Mom, I don’t feel well. I’m bleeding a lot…” Her impatience sliced through the line. “Not well again? Seriously?” “Is it physically impossible for you to be okay for twenty minutes when we’re not right there? Aubrey, you’re eight years old. You’re a big girl. Can you please just act like one?” The sharp click of the dial tone was deafening in the empty bathroom. I looked at the water, which was slowly, inevitably turning crimson, and wanted to cry so badly it hurt. Mom was right. I was always a problem. My illness was a problem. My sadness was a problem. Now, my very blood was a problem. Her favorite cashmere-blend sweater, left draped over the side of the tub, still smelled faintly of lavender. I pulled it over my face. For a moment, it was like being little again, back when I had a high fever and she’d stay up all night, her face close to mine. The water cooled. The bleeding seemed to have slowed a bit. Maybe it was almost done. As my head started to feel fuzzy, a thought settled: Maybe if the blood stops, the trouble stops too. Maybe then, I’ll finally be fixed. My parents wouldn’t have to spend every second worrying about their sickly daughter. My sister wouldn’t have to always concede to her fragile older sibling. I wouldn’t have to always be careful, always pretending to be the grown-up girl, biting my tongue to stifle a gasp of pain in the middle of the night. Curled up in the tub, I felt safe—the way I imagined a baby must feel before it’s born. 2 When I opened my eyes again, all I saw was a very pale, very small girl floating in a tub of dark water. Was this it? Was I already gone? The front door opened. Willow’s high, excited laugh rang out. “Aubrey! I’m home!” I rushed out. Mom and Dad walked in, holding Willow’s hands, Dad carrying a box for a strawberry birthday cake. He paused, looking at the mess of the shattered pill bottles on the kitchen floor. “What is this?” Mom’s brow furrowed in exhaustion. “She threw a tantrum at lunchtime.” “She lied about being sick because I had to take Willow to her first day of school.” Dad’s face hardened. “She’s getting completely out of hand.” I tried to explain, waving my hands frantically in front of their faces. “No! It wasn’t on purpose! I wasn’t lying!” My hand passed right through Dad’s shoulder. They didn’t feel a thing. Willow ran to my bedroom door. She knocked gently. “Aubrey, come on out! It’s cake time!” Silence. Utter, complete silence from inside. Willow looked up at Mom. “Is she sleeping?” I floated close to my sister. “Thank you, Willow.” Mom’s voice was cold. “Sleeping? She’s just trying to ignore us. Leave her. We’ll eat first.” Dad set the cake on the kitchen island. Willow peered at it, her small voice soft. “But I want to wait for Aubrey.” Dad ripped open the box and exchanged a look with Mom. “If Aubrey were half as reasonable as you are, we’d both sleep a lot better.” The five candles were pushed into the soft frosting and lit. Mom hoisted Willow onto a stool, and under the spotlight of their gaze, she blew out the flickering flames. It was Willow’s fifth birthday. Mom smiled warmly. “Did you make a wish, sweetie?” Willow’s eyes sparkled. “Yes! I wished that Aubrey—” Dad quickly ruffled her hair. “Shh. Wishes don’t come true if you tell them, kiddo.” I watched them from the edge of the counter. In previous years, my birthdays had always been heavy with the smell of hospital sanitizer and guilt. The candles on my cake were always a countdown. But Willow’s birthday finally looked like a Normal Birthday. When it came time to cut the cake, Willow insisted on the biggest slice. “This is for Aubrey!” She carried the plate to my closed bedroom door and knocked again. “Aubrey, come share the strawberry cake with me!” Still nothing. The tiny smile on Willow’s face faded. She returned to the island and whispered, “Aubrey won’t talk to me.” Dad suddenly reached out, snatching the plate from Willow’s hand. He didn’t just move it; he slammed the perfect slice of strawberry cake and the plate into the garbage can. “Fine,” he growled, hitting the table with his open palm. “Then no one eats it! No one calls her again. If she wants to act like this, she can starve until she decides to be a decent kid.” Willow was terrified, her eyes instantly filling with tears. Mom pulled her close, glaring at Dad. “Don’t yell at her!” Then, she softened for Willow. “It’s okay, sweet girl. We’ll eat ours. When Aubrey figures out she’s being ridiculous, she’ll come out.” I knelt by the trash can, staring at the discarded slice. The strawberry on top was still glistening, but now it was mixed with damp paper towels. What a waste. It was my favorite. Willow ate her small slice in quiet bites, constantly glancing at the closed bedroom door. Mom and Dad ate in silence. The dining table was meant for four, but one seat was empty. I sat in that empty space and quietly wished Willow a happy birthday. 3 That night, Mom was bathing Willow. I hovered in front of the shower curtain, my ghost-heart clenching, terrified that she would pull it back and see the horror of the tub. Steam filled the room. Mom was making soap bubbles for Willow. Willow looked up, her wet hair plastered to her forehead. “Mommy, why hasn’t Aubrey come out yet?” Mom’s hand stilled on the back of Willow’s head. “She’s probably sleeping, honey.” Willow’s voice was small. “But I miss her. I haven’t seen her all day.” Mom turned off the water and wrapped Willow entirely in a massive bath towel, pulling her into a hug. “Willow, do you ever get mad at Daddy and me?” “Mad about what?” Mom squeezed her tighter. “Mad that we always focus on Aubrey, that we give her all the best things, that sometimes we forget to give you enough time.” Willow reached her wet little arms around Mom’s neck. “No. Because Aubrey is sick.” “My teacher said that sick people need the most looking after. Daddy, Mommy, and I have to take care of her.” Mom’s shoulders gave a small, almost imperceptible shake. She buried her face in Willow’s hair, and for a long moment, she didn’t speak. “You are so grown up, sweet girl.” “Aubrey is very fragile.” I stood pressed against the cold tiles, listening as Mom continued. “She was born with a weak heart. The doctors told us she might never grow up.” Mom inhaled sharply, wiping her nose on the towel. “We’ve been so terrified of her hurting, of her being in pain, that we’ve almost smothered her with everything we have.” Her voice dropped to a choked whisper. “But sometimes I get so tired, Willow.” “Sometimes, I just… I wish I could be a normal mother. A mom who didn’t have to be so scared. I wish I didn’t have to be so tired, sweetheart.” Willow, only half-understanding, patted Mom’s back with a small hand. I crouched in the corner, silent, clear tears of the dead falling onto the tiles. “I’m sorry, Mom. I was the one who was selfish…” “If I had never existed, if you only had Willow, how much easier would it all have been?” But they couldn’t hear me. After tucking Willow into bed, Mom walked to the door of my room and stood there for a long time. Finally, she raised a hand and knocked softly. “Aubrey? Are you asleep?” I drifted toward her, trying to reach out, but my ghostly fingers passed through empty air. “I shouldn’t have yelled at you today. That was my mistake.” “It was Willow’s first day of school, and I was so stressed. I didn’t mean to be cruel.” She paused, waiting for a reply that would never come. Mom sighed, defeated. “I left a slice of cake on the counter. It’s strawberry. The one you like. Please eat it.” She stood there for another few seconds before walking back to the master bedroom. The door closed. I went to the kitchen and saw the small slice of cake on a plate. It was just a tiny piece, and the strawberry on top was slightly tilted. I looked back at the small girl submerged in the tub. The water was now freezing cold. My face was white as paper. Mom never pulled back the curtain. She didn’t know the cake was already too late. She didn’t know that I could no longer hear her apology. 4 I followed Mom into the master bedroom. Dad looked up from his book. “Did Aubrey come out?” Mom sat on the bed, folding laundry. She shook her head. “No movement. She’s being stubborn. She’s a big girl now, she has pride.” Dad took off his glasses and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “She’s hurting, too. She’s never been to a real school, never made real friends. Seeing Willow go off must be hard.” “Maybe we could hire a tutor? Get her some lessons at home?” Mom froze, her hands stilling over a shirt. “A tutor? Where will we get the money? We’re already behind on her medication bill from last month.” Dad sighed, turning onto his side. “I’ll start driving for Uber. I can do a few hours every night after the office. We can pull it together.” Mom turned to look at him. The bedside lamp highlighted the deep, dark circles under his eyes. “You’re exhausted enough from your day job. That’s dangerous.” He waved it off. “I’ll be fine. I’m strong.” “But my shoulder is a little tight lately. Could you put a patch on it for me?” Dad turned over. Mom lifted his pajama collar. The skin on his shoulder was angry, red, and swollen. I stood by the bed, staring at the raw irritation on his skin. Ghost-tears fell onto the duvet. I always complained about him coming home late, about him not having time to play with me. I never stopped to think about what he was doing for those missing hours. I threw myself into his empty embrace. “I’m sorry, Daddy. Please forgive my selfishness.” Mom applied the heating patch, and they lay down, turning off the light. I slipped in between them, just as I used to do when I was little. On my left, Mom’s warm, even breath. On my right, Dad’s slow, steady heartbeat. I reached out, my incorporeal arms loosely circling them both. In that quiet moment, I felt an impossible peace. The next morning, Mom called out for breakfast. Passing the island, she saw the strawberry cake—still sitting on the plate, completely untouched. The whipped cream had started to sag, the strawberry shriveled. The faint tenderness on Mom’s face vanished, replaced by a cold fury. She put the plate down and stormed toward my room. She banged twice on the door. “Aubrey, come out now.” No response. Her eyes began to well up. “I apologized yesterday! What do you want from me now?” “You won’t eat the cake? Are you going on a hunger strike to spite us? Who are you trying to punish? Do you want to kill me with stress?” Still no sound. Mom gripped the doorknob and threw the door open. The room was empty. Her face went bone-white. She spun around, terror seizing her. “Jack! She’s gone!” Dad scrambled out of bed. “What? No, Laura, don’t panic. She must be somewhere in the house.” That’s when Willow’s voice came from down the hall. “Mommy, Aubrey’s in the bathroom playing in the water!” I panicked. I screamed at Willow. “Willow! Go! Don’t let them see me!” But Willow couldn’t hear. She marched into the bathroom and pulled the shower curtain all the way back. Mom sighed, relieved, then the air completely emptied from her lungs. “Aubrey! You have crossed the line! I am truly angry now—” The next second, she saw me, submerged in the bloody water.

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After getting back together with my stepbrother, I stopped pushing to go public. Our nights were a catalogue of secrets and desperate, frantic pleasure; our days, a perfectly scripted show of sibling affection. He’d rub my hair, a small, smug smile playing on his lips. “See? If you’d been this compliant earlier, we never would’ve broken up.” “Our relationship will always be under wraps, but as long as you don’t make a scene, we’ll never have to end it.” I’d just nod, docile and agreeable. Later, my mother, Eliza, asked me to help Bradon pick out an engagement prospect. I pointed to the photograph of the one with the most conventionally innocent, ‘Golden Girl’ look. “That one,” I said. “Bradon will probably like a clean slate.” Bradon Reid walked in just as my mother, beaming, was telling him about the choices. He didn’t seem to register her words. His smile froze, piece by piece, as he looked at me. He met my placid, obedient gaze, his eyes narrowing in a silent, chilling threat. “Are you absolutely sure you want me to meet her?” I kept my smile soft and compliant. “Mom has excellent taste. She introduced me to some men too, you know.” “You should go, Bradon. Give her a chance.” He was right. Our relationship could never stand in the light. So, I decided to exchange him for someone who could. 1 That night, my mother was asleep just on the other side of the wall. Bradon’s arm wrapped around me from behind, cutting off my breath. His voice sounded scraped raw. “Anya Wells, what was that stunt this afternoon?” “When did Mom introduce you to anyone? How long have you been talking?” I didn’t answer right away. My mother wasn’t the type to act without permission. Just as she’d consulted me before handing out contact information, she must have asked Bradon before compiling a list of potential brides. He had given his consent, yet now he had the nerve to corner me and demand answers? He insisted on forcing a response, his movements rough and impatient. With Mom next door, I didn’t want him to completely lose control. I clung to his shoulder and murmured, “It was just to placate her.” His brow softened slightly, but the darkness in his eyes remained. He flipped us over, clutching my waist, dragging me into the predictable oblivion. Mindful of my mother, we finished quickly, without lingering. The moment we were done, his phone screen lit up. The name displayed was sickeningly familiar: Rebecca King. —His oldest friend. The reason for our last breakup. Once, seeing those two words would have sent me into a blind panic. I wouldn’t let him lend her a jacket. I’d forbid him from taking her video calls. I’d never permit them to meet privately. What did he say back then? “Anya, we are the secret. She’s innocent. Don’t assume everyone is as messed up as we are.” Now, he almost instinctively hung up the call. His voice held a trace of urgency. “Anya, I explained everything to her. She won’t come between us again.” I simply curved my lips into a gentle smile, showing an almost charitable understanding. “It’s fine, you guys talk. I’ll take a shower.” My wrist was suddenly seized. His voice was thick and grating. “I only love you. I only do this with you.” “I’m your boyfriend. You can scream at me, fight me, but why… why don’t you care anymore?” That’s the sick irony of men, isn’t it? They despise your drama until your sudden silence becomes their biggest fear. Exhausted, physically and mentally, I pulled my hand free. “Stop it, Knox Dalton.” The name slipped out before I could stop it. His eyes immediately flared crimson, his voice ringing with disbelief. “Knox Dalton? Who the hell is Knox Dalton?” 2 Bradon was losing control, desperately clinging to a name. “I misspoke.” I turned my face away. He didn’t believe me, reaching for my phone. I frowned and smacked his hand away. “If you have a cuckold fantasy, go see a therapist. I’m not here to manage your twisted needs.” Too weary to argue, I shoved him away and headed to the bathroom. When I emerged, I was dressed and ready to go out. He saw the effort I’d put into my appearance, his voice tight. “You’re going out?” I spritzed perfume on my wrists. “Meeting a friend for dinner.” “Guy or girl? Where? I’ll drive you.” His words were rushed and anxious. I found his smothering questions annoying. “No thanks. Someone’s picking me up.” He had his own obligations. After all, he’d agreed to my mother that he would have dinner with one of his new prospects tonight, just to provoke me. When my best friend, Sara Hayes, arrived, Bradon insisted on following me down. Only after confirming it was a girl did the tension in his jaw ease slightly. In the car, Sara glanced at my neck. “Did your brother still marking his territory?” She was my oldest friend and knew all my ugly secrets. I confirmed it with a sound, then checked the mirror, covering the slight redness with concealer. Bradon had been far too aggressive today. The marks on my neck were superficial, but below my collarbone, the damage was worse. Sara scoffed, then switched subjects. “I heard Rebecca King is going to be there. Want me to call a few friends and open a separate tab?” “No need.” I snapped my compact shut, my voice flat. “She just called Bradon, couldn’t reach him, and then called me… she’s probably losing it right now.” My phone was on silent, so I hadn’t picked up. But Rebecca would be sure I did it on purpose. Sara whistled in appreciation. “Well, I could still bring a couple of hot guys for moral support.” “Pass. I just ate a meal. Everything looks boring right now.” Besides, I had a main course waiting for me later. I needed to conserve my energy. 3 Traffic delayed us, and the private room was already buzzing when we arrived. The conversation had conveniently shifted to Bradon. Rebecca was smiling demurely, her cheeks flushed. The people around her were gushing. “When are we going to see the wedding invitations?” Her voice was soft. “That’s entirely up to Bradon.” A woman at the table chuckled nastily. “Hey, is Anya Wells still harassing her stepbrother? That whole thing was truly disgusting!” “You’re going to be a Reid wife soon. Watch out for her. What kind of woman goes after her own stepbrother?” Bang! Bang! Bang! Sara slammed the door open, practically tearing the knob off. She thrust her phone into the air. “Come on! Say that to the camera again!” A few people’s faces fell. Rebecca quickly smoothed things over. “They were just kidding, Anya. Don’t take it the wrong way.” “Of course not.” I pulled Sara to a seat. Food was served, and the atmosphere grew strained but polite. A few glasses of wine later, Rebecca finally broke. She leaned across the table, her tone strained with concern. “Anya, could you… could you contact Bradon for me?” The room went silent. “Every time he goes to see you, he always stops answering my calls.” She bit her lip, her eyes misting instantly. “I don’t know what to do…” In one fell swoop, she’d painted me as the other woman, the homewrecker. Sara practically leaped across the table. “Oh, for God’s sake! If you can’t reach him, how are you his girlfriend? Are you just a mistress he keeps on the side, pretending to be the main event?” I placed a hand on Sara’s arm. “She didn’t mean it like that. Don’t worry.” Rebecca’s smile was forced. “Contact him? Sure, I can do that,” I said, meeting her gaze. “But I don’t think my brother is free right now.” “I helped him pick out a girl for a setup, based on his preferences.” I put down my fork, my expression one of utter innocence. “They’re probably out on a date. Didn’t you know?” Rebecca’s smile cracked. 4 The latter half of the evening was completely frozen. These gatherings were tedious, nothing more than a thinly veiled competition of careers and partners. But I had another reason for being there. Rebecca was distracted for the rest of the meal. As everyone started getting ready to leave, someone asked how I was getting home. I smiled. “My boyfriend is picking me up.” Rebecca’s head snapped up. “You… you have a boyfriend? You said you would only ever—” She didn’t finish the sentence. But we both knew— That I would only ever love Bradon Reid. It was true once. Now, I simply played with a strand of my hair, looking bored. “Little girls talk about forever.” I stood up to touch up my makeup. Sara leaned against the sink. “She’s the ultimate gossip. Aren’t you afraid she’ll tell Bradon?” I blended my lipstick in the mirror. “That’s exactly what I want her to do.” Bradon and I weren’t newly reunited. We had been this way for two months. And even the freshest secret loses its luster eventually. When we broke up the first time, I walked out of that house for two years. Two years later, I returned, unannounced. My mother held me, weeping, asking how I could have been so cruel. Bradon stood right behind her, staring. His eyes burned into me, and I knew then that he still wanted me. He was good at it. And I, at the time, happened to need a man. So that night, I knocked on his door and kissed him. He didn’t pull away. Gone was the hysterical girl. I wrapped my hands around his neck, my gaze submissive. “Bradon, want to do it again?” Once led to twice. And eventually, it became a silent arrangement. A secret, no-strings situation that we never formally called a ‘reunion.’ Later, he started to demand more control, even questioning who I saw. I missed the way he used to ignore me. 5 When the evening wrapped, Knox Dalton came to collect me. He opened the car door for me, waiting until I was settled before walking back around to the driver’s side. He was wearing that cocky, irritating grin of his. I snorted. “Why are you so happy? Did you find a wife?” His smile vanished. “Is it wrong for your boyfriend to be happy to see you?” He had clearly bribed someone at the table for information. This man, outwardly charming and carefree, was apparently a master manipulator in private. I had chosen him for a setup precisely because I thought he was shallow. The engine was barely running when my phone vibrated. Bradon’s message: [Where are you? I’ll come get you.] I casually texted back: [Don’t bother. I’m crashing at a friend’s place tonight.] Almost simultaneously, Sara’s text popped up: [HOLY SHIT LOOK OUTSIDE. Bradon saw you get into Knox Dalton’s car!] I whipped my head around. Where I had been standing moments before, two figures stood. Rebecca was next to Bradon, seemingly talking to him. Bradon was obscured by the shadows, his gaze fixed, dead-on, toward my car. I texted Sara: [It’s fine.] My phone immediately lit up with Bradon’s incoming messages: [Anya Wells, why are you lying to me?] [We need to talk.] [Get out of the car! Did you hear me?] The final text was laced with threat: [Don’t make me call your mother.] Knox, who had obviously seen the exchange, let a dark look flash across his eyes. He curved his lips into a wicked smile. “Sweetheart, you don’t want to introduce your current boyfriend to your ex-brother?” He’d even figured out that dynamic. “No need. Just drive.” My face was impassive. I added, “If this happens again, don’t show up.” His smile tightened, his voice turning acidic. “Fine. Protecting your ex in front of your current guy.” The car merged into the main road. I ignored any further messages. When we arrived at the boutique hotel, the door hadn’t even closed before I was pressed against it. My phone was still buzzing. I reached for it, trying to manage Knox’s kiss while glancing at the texts with one hand. [Who is that man?] [Anya, we’re talking now.] [Open the door! I know you’re in there.] Almost on cue, there was a frantic, urgent knocking on the door. We were right by the entrance, and the noise was deafeningly clear. Knox’s movements stilled. He raised an eyebrow. “I thought one man was enough for you. Why’d you invite your brother?” The knocking carried a sense of rising panic. I cupped Knox’s face. “It’s nothing. Just ignore him.” I tilted my head back and expertly slipped my tongue past his lips. “He’s just a pest.” “Yeah,” he chuckled, his arm tightening as he effortlessly lifted me off the floor. I wrapped my legs around his waist. “You need a man like me.” He carried me deeper into the room, his strength startlingly steady. “Coming to me with your stepbrother’s marks…” He lowered his head, placing a dark, possessive kiss on the fading red on my collarbone, his voice husky. “I don’t find it shameful. I find it f-cking addictive.” I laughed softly. “Stop flirting. Just hurry up.” The man outside was eventually led away. My phone kept buzzing. I finally just turned it off. I was done. If I had known he would become this obsessive, I wouldn’t have bothered to play this game with him in the first place. 6 Bradon used to be indifferent. When my mother, Eliza, married into the Reid family, she poured all her energy into pleasing her husband and his son. I was shy and quiet. Apart from my grades, I felt like a permanent outsider. Bradon, however, was always the center of attention. Even when he was aloof, he was never alone. I thought I was discreet when my eyes followed him. Later, I realized he hadn’t missed it; he simply hadn’t cared. That was when I met Rebecca. She was always at the Reid house. The first time I saw her, she burst into the living room shouting, “I’m home!” She looked at me on the sofa, confused. “Oh? Do we have a guest?” The words were a small, soft thorn. It didn’t pierce deeply, but it never came out. Every time I saw her after that, witnessing her effortless access to my nominal home, seeing the unspoken bond between her and Bradon— That small thorn suddenly grew sharp, poking the same spot, again and again. It wasn’t lethal, but it was impossible to ignore. I tried to pretend I didn’t care. Later, Bradon and I were in a secret relationship for four years. Yet, at every family dinner, Rebecca sat beside him. She would often smile at me and say, “If I didn’t cover for you two, Uncle Alexander would have caught you already!” Even at school, everyone assumed they were a couple. I was just the girl who got close to my “brother,” quickly labeled as a home-wrecker. Bradon said, “The truth will speak for itself.” Rebecca said, “They’re just joking.” I was the only one who felt the truth was suffocating. I grew tired of hiding. I wanted to hold his hand in the sunlight. All I got was rejection. In a state of extreme insecurity, I became irrational. Rebecca became a trigger for me. The soft thorn turned into a thicket of prickles all over my body. I constantly badgered Bradon: “Why can she be next to you, and I can’t?” He finally snapped, his voice ice-cold. “Can you just stop making a scene? If you want to go public so badly, go find someone you can be public with!” I loved him to the point of self-destruction, yet I was the one who broke up with him. He was indifferent, convinced I was just being dramatic. I left home without a word, for two whole years. I spent those two years volunteering at a remote foster home. That’s where I met Knox Dalton. He was laid-back, perpetually scruffy, yet strangely popular. Whenever we went out for supplies, young women would blush and ask for his number. He would sling his arm over my shoulder, grinning cheekily. “Sorry, I have a girlfriend.” “Oh? But you don’t look… close?” He’d shrug with mock helplessness. “I messed up. I’m trying to win her back.” I froze. We weren’t a couple, yet he was publicly claiming me. In that moment, I realized the last four years of my life had been a pointless farce. Later, I returned home, having cut most ties with my past. Then my mother brought me a stack of photos of potential suitors. My finger paused on one photograph. The man in the picture was smiling, utterly disarming. My mother leaned in. “That one… he looks a little too much like a player. Maybe we should try someone else?” But I said, “He’s the one.”

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I’d spent half the night fighting the airline’s website just to snag this miserable Economy seat, and all I wanted was oblivion. I was running on fumes after a week from hell closing out a major project. I’d just drifted off when a hand roughly patted my shoulder. “Excuse me, Ma’am, could you please pay attention to the safety video on the screen in front of you?” I’ve flown hundreds of times. This was the first time a flight attendant had ever enforced the video. Given her dedication, I managed to cooperate, stifling a groan of exhaustion. As soon as the video ended, I settled back in, desperate to reclaim my sleep. It didn’t last. A heavy slap landed on my cheek. “Hello? Sleeping on a plane can make you cold. Would you like a blanket?” A wave of irritation washed over me, but I forced a polite tone. “Thank you for your concern, but I don’t need anything. Please, I need to sleep, so try not to disturb me.” She rolled her eyes and muttered something under her breath that sounded suspiciously like, “I’m just doing my job. Some people.” I closed my eyes, counting to ten, trying to gather the threads of my lost sleep. Before I could make it back to that hazy state, a sharp rapping hit the top of my head. The flight attendant—Chelsea, according to her badge—beamed a forced, saccharine smile. “Peanuts, pretzels, soda, coffee, or a hot tea? Can I get you anything, Ma’am?” 1 I’d been up for over twenty-four hours, and all I could think about was the six-hour flight ahead of me. I had collapsed into the window seat the second I boarded. The plane hadn’t even started taxing, but I was gone. A soft voice nudged me from the edge of sleep. “Ma’am, we’ll be starting the safety briefing shortly. Could you please wake up?” I kept my eyes shut. I knew the drill. They just had to say the line; they didn’t actually expect compliance. I thought that would be the end of it, but then a hand aggressively patted my shoulder—several times. “Hey! Wake up. We’re about to review the safety procedures. What if something actually happens? Who will be responsible then?” I blinked open my eyes, disoriented, realizing she was talking directly to me. Chelsea leaned in conspiratorially. “See? I knew you weren’t really asleep! Why the act? Did you enjoy being roused by me personally?” “And are you just enjoying this chance to make a scene?” she added under her breath. I couldn’t fathom the hostility. I racked my memory. When I first boarded, I had politely asked, “Is there any chance for an upgrade? I’d love a First Class seat if possible.” She’d given me a look of pure contempt. It was her colleague, a purser, who’d stepped in. “Apologies, Ma’am. This is an all-Economy holiday charter flight. No upgrades available.” I had nodded, resigned. Holiday tickets were always a nightmare. As I turned to leave, Chelsea had mumbled something. I now realized what it must have been. “Fishing for a freebie. Who does she think she is?” Was she seriously targeting me because I asked about an upgrade? Because she decided I was “faking” being wealthy? My head was pounding. Between the high-pressure project and the lack of sleep, I had no energy left for a confrontation. I decided to save my complaint for when we landed. I took a deep breath, turned my back to her, and focused all my remaining strength on getting to sleep. Just as I was about to sink into a comfortable haze, a sharp tug yanked my arm. My eyes snapped open. Chelsea was standing over me, looking down with an almost predatory smirk. All my exhaustion was immediately replaced by a surge of white-hot anger. “Why did you just grab me?” She batted her eyelashes, her tone deceptively light. “Ma’am, were you having a bad dream? I just wanted to ask if you needed a blanket. You know, it gets chilly on the plane.” Her smile widened, her eyes cold. “Oh, by the way, our blankets are premium. They’re fifty-eight dollars.” I fought to keep my voice even. “No, thank you. I do not need a blanket. I need to sleep. Would you please just leave me alone?” The instant she heard the “no,” a flash of vindictive triumph crossed her face. It was as if a petty suspicion had just been confirmed. “Just another cheapskate,” she whispered, ensuring I heard it. At that moment, a kind voice came from the row behind me. “Hey, Miss. Thank you for helping us find our seats earlier. Here, take this blanket. I heard it gets pretty cold toward the back.” A man in his forties—a distinguished-looking, soft-spoken gentleman—held out a brand-new, still-packaged blanket. I was touched by his kindness. “Oh, thank you, that’s really generous, but please, I’m wearing layers. I’m fine.” Chelsea’s eyes darted between the man and me, a strange, knowing smile playing on her lips. 2 My sleep was irrevocably ruined. Frustrated, I glanced around and saw Chelsea huddled with another flight attendant, whispering and laughing, occasionally pointing a finger in my direction. The other woman covered her mouth, her eyes full of mean-spirited glee. A senseless fury spiked. I grabbed my water bottle, took a long swallow, and forced myself to look down at my phone, trying the “out of sight, out of mind” technique. But soon, the heat from the cabin vents seemed to die down completely. A genuine chill began to creep under my collar. The passenger next to me had already wrapped herself in her expensive cashmere wrap. I shivered, ready to get up and rummage for my coat in the overhead bin. The gentleman from the back row leaned forward again. “It really is cold now, dear. Take it. It’s brand new.” I couldn’t refuse again. “Thank you so much,” I said, taking the blanket. Just as I wrapped it around me, I heard Chelsea’s voice, loud enough to carry, dripping with sarcasm. “Honestly, some women have absolutely no shame. Using their looks to flirt with anyone, even a middle-aged married man. Just pathetic.” My body went rigid. I snapped my head up. “What are you talking about? Are you talking about me? Who are you calling a floozy?” “What’s the situation here?” The cabin door opened, and a tall man in a sharp pilot’s uniform—a Captain—stepped out. Chelsea’s face transformed instantly. The spite, the pettiness—it vanished, replaced by an expression of doe-eyed adoration. “Oh, Captain Reed, you’re here! This passenger is misunderstanding me. I was simply trying to provide good service, but she’s taking it the wrong way.” She pouted, playing the victim. “See, the heating system is acting up, and I was worried she was cold. I offered her a blanket, but she’s been so rude to me.” She cast a wounded glance my way. I looked at the Captain’s face and realized why he seemed familiar. When I was wrestling my overweight carry-on into the overhead bin earlier, I’d nearly lost my balance. He was the one who reached out, steadied me, and hoisted the suitcase up without a word. Seeing Chelsea’s performance—the sudden shift from bully to sweetheart, coupled with her blatant attempt to slander me—I understood everything. She wasn’t mad about the upgrade question. She thought I was flirting with her target. She believed I was a rival, trying to snatch her Captain, and that’s why she’d been harassing me. The sheer absurdity of the idea was so offensive it made me laugh, a short, bitter sound. She was obsessed with her little fantasy, and decided everyone else must be as desperate and manipulative as she was. My sheer fatigue won out over the urge to explain myself. I fixed the Captain with a cold, steady gaze and waited for him to speak. He pulled out his communication device. “Cabin crew, turn up the heat immediately. Find this passenger a heavy-duty airline blanket.” He turned to me, his tone apologetic. “Ms. Shaw, I’m sorry you’ve had such an unpleasant start to your flight. We will address the conduct of our crew to ensure you have a professional experience for the rest of the journey.” Seeing him side with me, Chelsea’s victim act evaporated. She pasted on a professional smile. “Ms. Shaw, I apologize for the misunderstanding. I will ensure I provide excellent service from now on. Please call me if you need anything.” I just waved a hand dismissively, too tired to look at her. All I managed was, “I don’t need anything from you. Just let me sleep.” Max nodded once, said nothing more, and headed back toward the cockpit. Chelsea trailed after him like a lost puppy, but not before shooting me one last look—a look filled with pure, simmering resentment. 3 Three hours passed. Chelsea, thankfully, stayed away. The cabin heat finally kicked in, chasing the chill away. The ambient noise softened as most passengers settled down for the long haul, their faces relaxed in sleep. The week’s exhaustion returned with a vengeance. My eyelids felt weighted down. I pulled the blanket tighter and began to drift into a deep, peaceful sleep. Just as I crossed the threshold, a voice boomed in my ear like a megaphone. “Peanuts, pretzels, soda, coffee, or a hot tea! Does anyone need anything?” My eyes snapped open. It was Chelsea again. She offered a practiced, fake smile. “Excuse me, Ma’am, would you like some water? It’s important to stay hydrated when you’re sleeping for a long time.” She offered a cup of hot water. Waking up for the fourth time, my anger surged beyond control. “How many times do I have to tell you? Stop disturbing my sleep! Are you deaf?” She recoiled as if genuinely terrified, her forced smile dropping instantly. Her eyes welled up. “I didn’t even touch you this time! You woke up on your own!” she wailed. “I’m just a junior flight attendant trying to do my job, trying to be helpful. How can you be so mean to me?” Passengers nearby looked up, drawn by the noise. Chelsea started crying in earnest. She was pretty and delicate-looking, and the sight of her red eyes instantly sparked sympathy. An older woman in the seat diagonal from me sighed and addressed me. “Sweetheart, the flight attendant is just doing her job. Why are you being so short-tempered? We should all try to be more understanding.” Chelsea sniffled, dabbing at her eyes. “Thank goodness you see the truth, Ma’am. If she complains about me, I could actually lose my job.” Her plea worked. The surrounding passengers’ sympathy caught fire. “She’s just a young girl, probably new,” another passenger chimed in. “Give her a break.” “Some young people have no manners,” a man muttered. “They treat service workers like dirt just because they had a bad day…” Surrounded by a chorus of judgment, my sleepiness vanished. I sat up straight and fixed my gaze on the woman who had first defended Chelsea. “Where were all of you when she repeatedly woke me up? When I explicitly asked her to stop? But I raise my voice once, and suddenly you’re all experts on decency? Is that selective outrage?” I addressed the nearby passengers. “I told her three times that I didn’t need a blanket, didn’t want a drink, and just wanted to sleep. And she came back again and again. You think that’s ‘concern’?” My voice was raw. “I worked non-stop for a week, pulled an all-nighter to get this flight, and I desperately need to rest. She is deliberately provoking me. And now I’m the bad guy? If someone kept waking you up, would you be calm?” “Who is going to take responsibility if I’m so exhausted I pass out when I land?” My direct challenge—and the sharp, irrefutable logic—silenced them. The passengers who had been so quick to judge averted their eyes, no one willing to speak up again. With her support system gone, Chelsea’s sobs abruptly stopped. She wiped away the negligible tears and looked deeply embarrassed. “I was only performing my job duties,” she insisted, defensive now. “How can you slander me like this?” I gave a cold laugh. “Your job duties include ignoring a customer’s reasonable request and constantly disrupting their rest? You’re performing your job a little too well.” Stung, she was speechless. After a moment, she dug a form out of her pocket and handed it to me. “Since you have such an issue with my service, please sign this. It’s a statement that you voluntarily waive any further service from me, and that any issues you encounter for the rest of the flight are not my responsibility.” I didn’t take the clipboard. “Oh, now you’re playing games. Does every passenger have to sign this?” Chelsea’s eyes flickered, a clear sign of guilt. “No, but you’re different. You’ve been uncooperative with my work.” I was so angry I felt a manic urge to laugh. “I was cooperative watching the safety video, and I was reasonable declining services I didn’t need. That’s uncooperative? You’ve been targeting me since I asked about an upgrade, and now you want me to sign a unilateral declaration? Get your manager or an airline representative right now. I want to know if this is how your company trains its staff and treats its customers.” The mention of management drained the color from Chelsea’s face. Her body gave a slight tremor. She quickly snatched the form back. “Please, Ma’am, don’t be angry. Don’t sign it. I’m just a regular flight attendant. If you complain to management, I could lose my job.” She started to grovel. “I was wrong. I shouldn’t have disturbed you repeatedly. I’m new; I don’t have much experience. Please, be the bigger person and forgive me this time. I truly wasn’t trying to target you. I just wanted to provide good service, and I didn’t realize I was bothering you…” Her droning voice, full of pathetic excuses, was buzzing in my ear like a fly. I cut her off. “I don’t want to hear your excuses, and I don’t want to ruin your career. I have one request: stay away from me and let me sleep.” Chelsea clamped her lips shut, her face shifting between pale shame and resentment. The surrounding passengers cautiously eyed me again, their expressions a mix of curiosity and lingering judgment. I ignored them, closed my eyes, and pulled the blanket tight. This time, no one disturbed me. I only woke up when the captain’s voice came over the intercom, announcing the final descent. I stretched and reached up to the overhead bin for my briefcase. As I pulled it down, I noticed the entire bag was soaked. Water was dripping off it. I frantically unzipped the bag. My clothes, documents, and especially the critical project files—the result of a week’s sleepless work—were saturated, plastered together. The signature lines and terms on my contract were blurred, the ink bleeding into an illegible mess. Before I could find a flight attendant, two security officers in uniform appeared. “Ms. Shaw, we have received a report that you are carrying a dangerous, unauthorized liquid that poses a serious safety risk. You need to come with us for questioning immediately.”

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“This place was designed by a big name, you know. Fully integrated smart home. I spent fifty grand on the renovation alone.” Brenda, my landlady, stood beside the Italian leather sofa I’d paid four thousand dollars for, spitting as she spoke. Across from her, a well-dressed young couple surveyed my living room, their eyes wide with admiration. “Brenda, this style is just fantastic,” the young woman gushed, running her hand lovingly over the quartz countertop of my kitchen island—a piece I’d had shipped from Italy. “The open-plan kitchen, this island… it’s exactly our aesthetic!” I sat in the corner on my ergonomic chair, watching the scene unfold with cold detachment. Brenda shot me a contemptuous glance. “Well, Leo, you heard them. I’ve sold the apartment.” “You have three days to pack your things and get out.” “As for the penalty for breaking the lease,” she added with a magnanimous sneer, “I’ll be generous and waive half a month’s rent.” I looked around the room, at the walls, the floors, the fixtures—every inch a product of my own sweat and money. A bitter laugh escaped my lips. You want to use my hard work as a bargaining chip to inflate your price? Fine. Just be ready for the consequences. 1 “Brenda, I’m trying to work,” I said, closing my laptop and standing up. “Bringing strangers into my apartment without permission? That’s trespassing, isn’t it?” She rolled her eyes, her fleshy cheeks jiggling. “Your apartment? The deed is in my name, buddy!” She turned back to the couple, her face instantly transforming into a sycophantic grin. “Don’t mind him. He’s just some broke nine-to-fiver who’s been renting for two years. Thinks he owns the place.” The man adjusted his gold-rimmed glasses, giving me a look of pure disgust. “Brenda, we’re very serious about this offer. But it’s contingent on the apartment coming with all the renovations and appliances. And we need it vacant as soon as possible.” “Exactly,” his wife chimed in. “The design is what I fell in love with. We can’t afford to wait for a whole new renovation.” Brenda slapped her thigh, her smile wrinkling her face like a dried flower. “Don’t you worry! Not a problem!” “It’s all in the contract! The price includes all permanent fixtures and existing appliances!” “All he has is a few raggedy clothes and shoes. I guarantee you, in three days, he and his junk will be gone!” I couldn’t help but laugh. “Includes all renovations and appliances?” I pointed to the minimalist linear chandelier hanging above us. “I bought that light. Three hundred and fifty dollars.” I gestured to the polished microcement floor beneath our feet. “I had this floor poured. Sixty bucks a square foot.” Finally, I pointed to the kitchen island they were so enamored with. “That was custom-made. Twenty-eight hundred dollars.” “Brenda,” I said, my voice dangerously calm. “You’re selling my property to make a profit. Did you ever think to ask me?” The couple froze, their eyes darting to Brenda. Her face went stiff, then flushed with rage. “Leo! Have you no shame?” she shrieked. “It’s installed in my house, so it’s mine! I should be thanking my lucky stars I’m not charging you for drilling holes in my walls, and you have the nerve to ask me for money?” “You were the one crying and begging me to let you change things! Did I force you?” “Trying to blackmail me now? Not a chance!” The male buyer frowned, clearly not wanting to get involved. “Brenda, about the ownership of these items…” “Oh, Mr. Sterling, don’t listen to his nonsense!” Brenda stamped her foot, shooting me a venomous look. “He’s just a lowlife trying to scam some money before he leaves!” “Rest assured, every last nail in this apartment belongs to me!” She planted her hands on her hips, her voice rising an octave. “So I’ll ask you one more time: are you moving out or not?” “If you don’t, I swear I’ll have my son and his friends come throw you out on the street tomorrow!” Seeing that smug, triumphant look on her face, I nodded slowly and pulled out my phone. “Fine.” “Since you’ve already sold it, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of your business.” Brenda snorted, victorious. “Glad you see it my way.” “However,” I said, my tone shifting, “my lease isn’t up for another two years. Considering the rent increases in this area, plus my investment in the renovations…” “Don’t give me that crap!” Brenda cut me off. “The contract? It says right there the landlord has the right to reclaim the property!” “As for compensation, I already told you. Half a month’s rent. That’s seven hundred and fifty dollars. Take the money and get lost!” “This place is worth three hundred grand on the market right now, and I’m not taking a penny less. If you screw up this sale, you couldn’t afford to pay me back if I sold you into slavery!” The couple, seeing that I had “relented,” relaxed into smiles. The woman even started gesturing around the living room. “Honey, that painting is a bit tacky. We can replace it with a giclée print.” “And this rug, the color is too dark. An off-white one would be much better.” They were already planning their new life in my home. I took a deep breath, fighting the urge to smash my phone across their smug faces. “Okay,” I said, looking directly at Brenda, my voice eerily calm. “Three days, you said? I’ll be out.” 2 After escorting the three plagues out, I surveyed the room. Two years ago, this place was infamous in the building as the “haunted house.” The previous tenant was a hoarder. The apartment was filled with trash, the walls were peeling with mold, and the wiring was a fire hazard. Brenda had been desperate, practically begging people to rent it. No one would touch it. I saw potential in the layout and high ceilings and signed a five-year lease. To secure the low rent and permission to renovate, I had a specific clause added to the contract: “Tenant has the right to conduct renovations and alterations to the premises at his own expense. Landlord shall not interfere.” But I never imagined human greed could sink to this level. I spent three solid months gutting the place—stripping the walls, rewiring the electrical, redoing the plumbing, waterproofing, and installing custom furniture. I transformed it from a literal dump into a minimalist studio that won a design award. All in, with materials and labor, I had invested over thirty thousand dollars. And now, that thirty grand had become, in Brenda’s words, the “exquisite renovation included with the apartment.” It was the capital she was using to sell the place for a fifty-thousand-dollar premium. And my reward? A “charitable” handout of seven hundred and fifty dollars. My phone buzzed. It was a voice message from Brenda. I pressed play, and her shrill voice blasted from the speaker. “Leo, I’m warning you! When you leave, you better make sure this place is spotless! If you dare to damage anything, even a single light switch, I’ll call the cops and have you arrested!” “Oh, and send me the code for the smart lock. The buyers are bringing their designer tomorrow to take measurements.” I let out a cold laugh and texted back two words: “No chance.” She replied instantly. “What’s that attitude? You think I won’t shut off your water and power right now? You’re not from around here, kid. You have no idea who you’re messing with! Just ask anyone in this building about Brenda!” You mean the infamous neighborhood shrew that everyone despises? I thought. I ignored her. I pulled out the renovation contracts from my desk drawer, along with every single receipt for building materials. They were all there. I had even saved the receipts for the drywall anchors. Then, I pulled out the lease agreement. My eyes fell on the addendum: “In the event of early termination by the Landlord, the Landlord must either compensate the Tenant for all renovation losses or permit the Tenant to remove and take all self-installed fixtures and improvements.” When we signed it, Brenda hadn’t even bothered to read it. She was too busy counting her money, laughing at me. “Remove them? What are you going to do, peel the paint off the walls and take it with you? Idiot.” Yeah. I was an idiot. I was an idiot for treating this place like a home. But even idiots have a breaking point. I picked up my phone and made a call. “Hey, Rocco? It’s Leo.” “Yeah, about that demolition job we talked about a while back.” “No, not a partial reno.” I looked around at the exquisite space I had created, a glint of steel in my eyes. “A full demolition.” “I want this place to look exactly like it did two years ago.” “No, actually. I want it to be cleaner than that.” 3 The next morning, I started packing my personal belongings. My computer, books, clothes—the easy stuff. The “big items” were the real challenge. Brenda showed up before 8 a.m., acting like a prison warden. She brought a folding stool and sat by the door, watching my every move, terrified I might take a single thread that “belonged” to her. “Hey, hey, hey! You can’t take that projector!” she shrieked, jumping up as I started to uninstall the ceiling-mounted projector. “That’s an appliance! I saw the listing! It was sold to Mr. Sterling!” I stood on the ladder, looking down at her. “The receipt is in my name. The warranty card is in my hand. You sold it to Mr. Sterling? Did you get permission from Epson?” Brenda’s face quivered with rage. “That’s bullshit! If it’s attached to the wall, it belongs to the apartment!” “If you dare take it, I’m keeping your security deposit!” “My deposit?” I laughed. “That fifteen hundred dollars? Keep it. Maybe it’ll be enough to buy you a nice coffin.” Then, right in front of her, I snipped the connecting wires and packed the projector into its padded case. Brenda screamed and lunged at me, trying to snatch it. “Thief! The tenant is robbing the landlord!” Her grating voice instantly attracted the attention of our neighbors, who poked their heads out into the hallway. Seeing she had an audience, Brenda immediately switched into drama-queen mode. She plopped down on the floor and started wailing, slapping her thighs. “Everyone, come and judge for yourselves! This outsider is bullying a poor old woman like me! He lived in my house, and now he’s trying to gut it bare! There’s no justice in this world!” The neighbors whispered amongst themselves, but most of their glances were filled with scorn. Everyone knew what Brenda was like. Mr. Henderson from across the hall shook his head and muttered, “Leo’s a good kid. He turned this dump into a palace. Looks like the old bat is up to her tricks again.” I ignored her performance. I walked straight to the entryway and uninstalled the three-hundred-dollar smart lock, revealing the dark, empty hole in the door. Then, I replaced it with the rusty, old-fashioned padlock I had saved from two years ago. “You! What are you doing?!” Brenda stopped her wailing and shot up from the floor. “You took the lock off! How are they supposed to view the apartment now?” “Here’s your key.” I tossed a single, rust-covered key at her feet. “This was the original lock. I’m returning it to you.” “As for the smart lock, sorry. I’m not a charity.” Brenda snatched the key, her whole body trembling with fury. “Fine! Just you wait, Leo!” “You take one lock today, and I’ll make you pay me back tenfold tomorrow!” She pulled out her phone and started snapping pictures of me furiously. “I’ve got it all on camera! This is evidence! Let’s see what you do when Mr. Sterling gets here!” Speak of the devil. Mr. Sterling, his wife, and a designer came up the stairs, all beaming with excitement. They stepped inside and stopped short, staring at the bare entryway. “The… where’s the lock?” Brenda immediately adopted a victimized expression, pointing an accusatory finger at me. “Mr. Sterling! You’re just in time! This scoundrel took the lock off! And he’s trying to steal the projector!” “You have to stop him!” Mr. Sterling’s brow furrowed in disapproval. “Young man, have some decency. We bought this apartment with the renovations included. By removing things, you’re damaging our property.” The designer chimed in, “Yes, the smart lock was integral to the overall aesthetic. Without it, the whole entryway is ruined.” I stared at this pack of self-righteous thieves, a sense of absurdity washing over me. “Your property?” I pulled the projector’s remote from a box and tossed it in my hand. “When you signed the contract, did you ever bother to ask who actually owned these things?” “You gave your money to the landlord, but you expect to take things from me for free?” “You want to keep them? Fine.” I pulled up a payment app on my phone. “Projector and screen, I’ll let them go for five hundred, considering depreciation. The smart lock, two hundred.” “Pay up, and they’re yours. Don’t pay, and shut up.” The woman shrieked, “Why should we?! We paid over three hundred thousand dollars for this apartment! Why should we have to give you more money?!” Mr. Sterling’s face darkened. “Brenda, is this what you meant by ‘turnkey’? If you can’t handle this tenant, we’re backing out of the deal!” The threat of losing the sale sent Brenda into a full-blown panic. She lunged at me, grabbing the collar of my shirt. “Leo! You’re really trying to ruin this for me, aren’t you?!” she screamed. “I’m telling you, you are leaving these things here today! Or you’re not walking out of this door!” I looked down at her pudgy hand clenched on my collar. The warmth in my eyes turned to ice. “Let go.” “I won’t! What are you gonna do about it? You gonna hit an old woman?” She tightened her grip, her other hand coming up to scratch at my face. I shoved her away. It wasn’t a hard push, but it was enough to send her stumbling back a few steps. “I’ll say this one last time,” I said, my voice low and steady. “These are my things.” “I will hand over the keys at 5 p.m. tomorrow.” “Until then, this is still my home.” “Now, I suggest all of you get out.” “Otherwise, I’m calling the police and reporting you for trespassing and harassment.” Maybe it was the cold fury in my eyes. Or maybe the word “police” finally got through to them. Brenda, muttering a stream of curses, retreated to the doorway with the buyers. Before leaving, she spat on the floor. “Fine! 5 p.m. tomorrow!” she snarled. “We’ll see what kind of magic tricks you can pull by then! If a single hair is out of place, I’ll sue you for everything you’re worth!” The door slammed shut. I took out my phone and called Rocco. “Rocco, change of plans.” “We’re not waiting until tomorrow.” “We’re doing it tonight.” “All night.” “I’ll pay extra.” 4 8 p.m. The senior citizens of the complex were in the square for their evening dance routines. A plain, unmarked panel van pulled up to the building. Rocco and five burly men, armed with heavy-duty tools, filed into my apartment. “Dude, you really want us to tear everything out?” Rocco asked, looking around at the beautifully finished space. He seemed hesitant to start. “These cabinets are solid wood. The finish on them is perfect.” I handed him a cigarette. “Tear it out.” “Just be careful not to damage the load-bearing walls.” “Everything else… what you can take, take. What you can’t…” I exhaled a puff of smoke. “Smash it.” “You got it,” Rocco said with a grin. He waved his hand. The symphony of destruction began—the whine of power drills, the crash of hammers, the splintering of wood filled the night. The first victim was the open-plan kitchen the buyers had adored. The expensive quartz countertop was pried up in one piece and packed away. The custom cabinets were dismantled one by one, revealing the original mold-stained walls behind them. The built-in dishwasher and oven were unplugged and removed. In less than an hour, the warm, inviting kitchen was transformed into a warzone of exposed pipes and empty holes. Next was the living room. The feature wall behind the TV, clad in elegant wood paneling that had cost me over a thousand dollars, was attacked with crowbars. With a sickening crack, the panels were ripped from the wall, exposing the wooden frame underneath. “The frame, too?” a worker asked. “Everything,” I said coldly. “Pull out every last nail.” I had argued with Brenda for three days just to get her permission to build that wall. Now, I was erasing it from existence. The microcement floor was the toughest part. Rocco brought in a professional industrial floor grinder. Amidst clouds of dust, the smooth, sophisticated layer of microcement was ground away, millimeter by millimeter. Beneath it lay the original concrete floor, pitted and scarred like the surface of the moon, with several alarming cracks running through it. The bathroom. The thermostatic shower system, worth over two hundred dollars. Gone. The smart toilet, four hundred. Gone. The custom-made fluted glass shower enclosure. Gone. Even the huge, anti-fog vanity mirror was carefully removed, leaving nothing but a few dark pipe openings weeping water onto the floor. Every light fixture was taken down. I replaced them with one-dollar incandescent bulbs I’d bought from the hardware store. We worked until 4 a.m. The entire apartment was unrecognizable. No, it was “renewed.” It had finally returned to its true self: an old, broken-down shithole. It was even worse than when I first moved in. At least then, there had been a layer of yellowed plaster on the walls. Now, even that was gone, scraped away to install soundproofing, revealing the raw red brick and concrete beneath. As I watched the construction debris being hauled away in bag after bag, as I stood in the empty, cavernous, and slightly sinister room, I felt no regret. Only a twisted, satisfying pleasure. They are my things. I can give them away, but you cannot take them from me. If you try to take them, I will destroy them first. Rocco wiped the sweat from his brow and gave me a thumbs-up. “Man, when your landlady sees this, she’s gonna have a stroke.” I smiled and transferred his payment. “Thanks for the hard work, guys.” “Did you get all the trash out?” “Don’t worry. Spotless. Not a scrap left.” I nodded. “Good.” I took out my phone and snapped a panoramic photo. The picture showed nothing but exposed brick, rough concrete floors, a single dangling lightbulb, and a lonely, rust-stained drainpipe in the corner. I posted it to my social media with a caption: “The landlord wanted to sell the place fully furnished for a premium. I obliged.” “Factory settings. As is.” I made the post invisible to Brenda. A surprise is best saved for the last moment. 5 4:55 p.m. I sat on my single suitcase, the rusty key clutched in my hand. The apartment was empty. So empty that my own breathing echoed.

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While waiting for my husband in the parking garage, I stumbled upon a viral post on a local online forum. The title was: “What do you do when your wife is too clingy?” Amidst a sea of syrupy sweet humblebrags, one comment from a female user caught my eye. “Easy, you play the incompetent card! My childhood sweetheart was forced to marry someone he didn’t love. I gave him an idea: for five years, he pretended to be pathologically directionally challenged.” “Then, when his wife got pregnant, he secretly mixed lubricant into her shower gel. She slipped and fell. On the way to the hospital, he pretended to get lost again, deliberately driving in circles on the outskirts of town. She miscarried and is now permanently infertile.” “Today is his wife’s tenure review day. He’s insisting on driving her, but it’s just another act. He’s going to ‘get lost’ to make her miss it, so I can get the position instead.” “Once she fails her review, he’ll persuade her to quit her job, turn her into a helpless housewife, and then kick her to the curb.” The chilling familiarity of the story sent a tremor through me. Before I could process it, my husband’s voice, thick with guilt, sounded beside me. “Ava, honey, I think… I’m lost. We’re not going to be late for your tenure review, are we?” I turned my head and met Kevin’s gaze, his eyes a murky, unreadable pool. “The review starts in ten minutes. I’m not going to make it.” Kevin squeezed my hand, his face a mask of apology. “Honey, I’m so sorry. I swear I went over the route a dozen times this morning. The GPS didn’t even say I took a wrong turn.” He sighed dramatically. “Maybe it’s a sign from the universe. A sign that the world is just as heartbroken as we are about the baby we lost. Maybe this is its way of telling us to focus on our family.” His words echoed the forum post, each syllable a hammer blow against my heart. He’d faked it for five years. He’d made me lose our child on purpose. And now, he was trying to manipulate me into quitting my job, to make me dependent and useless, just so he could discard me. A faint, cold smile touched my lips. “You’re right. In that case, you should quit your job today. We can stay home and work on our relationship.” Kevin choked, speechless. After a long silence, he let out a soft sigh. “Ava, you’re still angry with me about the baby, aren’t you?” “He was my child, too. It broke my heart.” “You’ve always known I get lost easily. When it happened, you should have called 911 yourself instead of waiting for me to drive you!” His complaint was so absurd I almost laughed. He claimed to be directionally challenged. That’s why a twenty-minute drive from his office to our home would take him four or five hours. Sometimes, he’d just text and say he was sleeping at the office. Yet Chloe’s apartment, nearly an hour from his work, was a drive he could make in thirty minutes flat. Dates with me were always prefaced by hours of waiting because he’d “gotten lost.” But a single call from Chloe, and he could cross mountains and rivers to be by her side in an instant. I can’t count the number of times I screamed at him for it. But every single fight ended with me apologizing. Torn between rage and the fear of losing our ten-year history, I was trapped in a cycle of madness and remorse. When I finally got pregnant, the thought of leaving him vanished completely. I thought if I just loved him a little more, one day he would see my worth. He would change. We could still be a happy family. Until one month ago, when his “getting lost” made me miss the critical window for medical intervention. I had wanted that baby for five years. And in the end, I couldn’t protect him. In a twisted way, maybe it was for the best. At least now, he could be reborn to parents who would truly love him. Hearing my hollow agreement, Kevin’s expression shifted. Before he could say anything else, his phone rang—the custom ringtone I knew belonged to Chloe. He answered, and her ecstatic voice flooded the car. “Kevin! I got the professorship! Come pick me up from the university later. We have to celebrate tonight!” Kevin’s eyes flickered toward me. I smiled. “Go ahead. I’ll get a cab.” I got out of the car without a second thought. I could feel his gaze on my back, but I didn’t turn around. The moment I got home, a text from him arrived. I’ll be home early tonight. Please wait for me. We need to talk. I didn’t know what he wanted to say. But I knew one thing: he wouldn’t be coming home. As expected, he didn’t. I was used to it. Before Chloe moved back, Kevin and I had been happy. Back then, he hadn’t yet developed his “pathological directional disorder.” He would take me to trendy spots every weekend for photoshoots, and we’d explore food stalls, trying everything I wanted. He knew I loved fairytales, so he proposed at Disneyland. In front of a cheering crowd, he got down on one knee. “Ava,” he’d shouted, his voice thick with emotion, “this city is full of lights and noise, but without you, it’s empty. A place without you isn’t a home. Will you give me a home?” I’d said yes without hesitation. He’d spun me around, swearing to the world, “I, Kevin, will love only Ava for the rest of my life. I will take care of her and only her. I hope Ava will be mine forever.” How could I have known that his “forever” would only last a few short years? I knew he had a childhood sweetheart before we got married. He told me Chloe had settled abroad and would probably never come back. He said she was just like a little sister to him. But shortly after our wedding, she suddenly returned. With Kevin’s help, she became my colleague at the university. And just as suddenly, Kevin forgot the way home. When I confronted him, he turned it on me. “You think I want to be like this? It’s because you’re always picking fights, keeping me on edge! It’s caused this rare neurological condition!” “Chloe needed help finding a job. Of course I was going to help her.” “Ava, for God’s sake, you’re a university lecturer. Can’t you be less insecure? Is it so impossible for a man and a woman to have a platonic friendship?” “Just because you didn’t have a childhood best friend doesn’t mean I can’t have one!” “If I had known you were this jealous, I never would have married you.” If I had just walked away the first time he said those things, maybe none of this would have happened. But there are no do-overs in life. It’s for the best. After being hurt time and time again, letting go doesn’t feel like tearing my own heart out anymore. Now, I was just weaning myself off him, waiting for the right moment to cut the cord. I just didn’t expect that moment to arrive so soon. I was in the middle of a lecture when a swarm of reporters burst into my classroom, cameras flashing in my face. “Are you Professor Ava Ross?” one of them shouted. I frowned. “Who are you? I’m in the middle of a class. Please leave immediately!” They didn’t move. Instead, they shoved their microphones in my face. “Professor Ross, do you have any comment on the allegations of academic fraud and plagiarism?” “Did you deliberately skip the tenure review because you had something to hide?” “Do your students know their esteemed professor is a fraud?” For a second, I thought I was mishearing them. But the suspicious looks from my students told me it was real. I stared at the hostile faces of the press. “I have never committed academic fraud!” I declared, my voice ringing with conviction. “And I have never plagiarized anyone’s work! If you continue to spread these lies, I will sue you for defamation!” As my words faded, a snide laugh came from the crowd. “Professor, give it up. Your own husband has already issued a public apology on your behalf!” That paper… I had spent six months of my life on it, poring over countless sources. Kevin knew. He knew how much it meant to me. I called him frantically, desperate for an explanation, but he didn’t pick up. Just like that, I was suspended from my duties. Kevin finally came home that evening. The second he walked through the door, I slapped him. The sound cracked through the silent apartment. “Kevin, I already gave up the professorship for Chloe. Why would you help her frame me like this? Why are you doing this to me?!” His head snapped to the side. To my surprise, he wasn’t angry. He slowly ran his tongue over the inside of his cheek and chuckled. “Ava, I knew it. All that understanding and grace you’ve been showing lately… it was all an act.” “See? All it took was a little push, and the real you came out.” I stared at him, my eyes red, my heart pounding with disbelief. “So you ruined my career… just to prove a point? Kevin, you’re insane!” He shook his head. “Not just for that.” “Chloe just made professor. She needs a high-quality publication to solidify her position. Your paper was perfect.” “Don’t look at me like that. You should be flattered I found your work worthy. I know this is a little hard on you, but don’t worry, I’ll make it up to you in time.” “Besides,” he added with a chillingly casual air, “you just had a miscarriage. This is the perfect opportunity for you to take some time off and rest.” I was shaking with a rage so profound it left me speechless. He, on the other hand, started humming a cheerful tune as he walked into the bedroom. A moment later, I heard his voice, soft and gentle. “Chloe, don’t worry. I’ve handled Ava. She won’t cause you any trouble.” “You just focus on preparing for the international symposium next week.” “I promise, as long as I’m here, I won’t let anyone hurt you.” Hearing the tenderness in his voice, a cold, hard hatred began to bloom in my chest. Just then, my phone buzzed. A message from Chloe. [Ava, that paper of yours is really well-written. Thanks!] [The paper, the professorship, Kevin himself… if I want something, you’ll never be able to compete.] [So, if you have any self-respect left, you’ll just disappear. Don’t wait until you’ve lost absolutely everything.] That was it. The last thread of my sanity snapped.

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1 I was born with a weak heart. The doctors said I wouldn’t live to see eighteen. When I was ten, my parents brought home a blind girl they said was my twin sister. Our family doted on me, lavishing me with affection, but they were always cold to my sister. Everyone whispered that Hope existed for one reason: to give me her heart. So I poured all my love into this girl who looked just like me, trying to soothe the guilt that clawed at my soul. Then came my eighteenth birthday. I lay on the operating table, ready. But it wasn’t my heart they took. It was my corneas. And then I died. And my sister, Hope, received the gift of sight. … The moment the heart monitor let out its long, final scream, I thought my life had ended right there. A torrent of memories flooded my mind, finally settling on the instant I first opened the door and saw Hope. The day she arrived, I was curled up on the huge cashmere sofa in the living room, sipping my expensive imported medication. The door swung open, carrying with it the scent of damp earth and a world I’d never known. She stood in the doorway, a slip of a girl, dark and thin like a wild weed. Her clothes were worn, her small hands clutching a tattered canvas bag. Her eyes were a cloudy gray. Just like mine, and yet, completely different. “This is your sister, Hope,” Mom said. Her voice was flat. She didn’t reach out to touch her. Hope said nothing, her head bowed. It didn’t take me long to realize that Mom didn’t seem to like this new sister. Looking at this child, a mirror image of myself, a strange ache settled deep in my chest. From that day on, I gave her everything I had. New dresses, imported chocolates, my favorite porcelain doll. She was given the small, north-facing room, while I kept the large, sunny one. At dinner, the family would circle me, laughing and piling my plate with the best cuts of meat. When it came to Hope, Mom would just say, “She can get it herself.” Her tone was clipped, dismissive. I knew they cherished me. All because of my heart. The fact that I wouldn’t live past eighteen was my deepest secret. When I was ten, my parents brought Hope home, my blind twin sister. They said she was a gift from God. Everyone told me, in hushed tones, that Hope’s very existence was meant to keep me alive. I believed them. So I tried desperately to be good to her. I wanted to make up for it, to give her everything I had to give. Jane, our housekeeper, used to mutter behind her hand, “Miss Ava is the treasure, Miss Hope is the weed.” I heard her. It only made me give Hope more. One afternoon, I took her by the hand and led her on a tour of the house. “The curtains,” I murmured, guiding her fingers. “Velvet.” “A vase. Glass. It’s cool to the touch.” I helped her find the piano keys. A single, jarring note sprang out. She flinched, then, her curiosity piqued, she reached out again. Later, we sat on the plush rug in my room, bathed in the warm afternoon sun. I don’t know why, but I took her hand and gently pressed it against the left side of my chest. “Hope, feel this,” I said with a smile. “That’s a heartbeat.” Her small, cool hand rested there, perfectly still. After a moment, she took my hand and placed it over her own chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A steady, powerful rhythm. Nothing like the fragile fluttering in my own chest. I froze. We shared the same blood, the same face. Our hearts even seemed to beat in the same rhythm. But mine was dying. And hers, so strong and full of life, was trapped in a world of darkness. I squeezed her hand, a sharp, sudden pain twisting in my gut. Those words that had echoed in my mind for years—Hope’s existence is meant to keep you alive—suddenly felt like a shard of glass, digging into me. In that moment, my resolve wavered. Was all my kindness, all my “goodness,” an act of salvation, or was it a slow, deliberate act of… murder? 2 The memories blurred into a swirling darkness, and through the chaos, I thought I heard voices. “It’s done,” a man’s calm voice said, laced with post-surgical fatigue. “A complete success,” another replied. The doctors. So… the surgery worked! I was alive! Hope’s heart was beating in my chest. The realization almost brought me to tears. But a split second later, a tidal wave of guilt crashed over me. Hope… it was Hope, the quiet girl who always followed me, the girl with the healthy heart, who had given it to me. What about her? Was she okay? I fought with every ounce of my consciousness to open my eyes, to get one last look at her on the operating table next to mine. But my eyelids felt like they were sealed shut, heavy and immovable. There was only darkness, and the voices, growing clearer. “Finally, we can breathe again.” That was Mom’s voice, from just outside the operating room door. “Yes,” Dad replied after a pause. “Eight years. It wasn’t for nothing.” A faint tremor went through me. Eight years… were they waiting for me to be saved? They must have been in agony all this time. Now, they could finally relax. I struggled to rise, focusing my will against the oppressive darkness. Light flooded in. I instinctively turned my head to the other operating table. Hope was lying there peacefully, her eyes wrapped in gauze, but her chest rose and fell with the gentle rhythm of her breathing. She… she was alive! Thank God, we both made it. A wave of bewildered relief washed over me. The doctors must have found another donor heart at the last minute. Heaven had smiled on us after all. “Hope…” I whispered, stumbling out of bed and moving towards her, needing to tell her I was sorry. I reached out, but my fingertips passed straight through the back of her hand, which was resting on the edge of the bed. No warmth. No substance. I looked down at my own hands, which had become faint and translucent, and finally understood. Turning back, I saw the operating table I had just left. A white sheet had been pulled over it, outlining the still form of a human body. I drifted closer and gently lifted the corner of the sheet. The “me” underneath had her eyes covered with clean white gauze, as if she were merely asleep. So… I didn’t make it through the surgery after all. I looked at my transparent hands, then at the bandages over Hope’s eyes. No, it couldn’t be. Mom and Dad loved me so much, they would never… But that phrase, “Eight years, it wasn’t for nothing,” now echoed in my mind with a chilling new meaning. The doors to the operating room swung open and a team of nurses came in, expertly maneuvering Hope’s gurney out into the hallway. I followed them, a silent, invisible shadow. My parents were waiting right outside. They rushed forward. Mom gently brushed the hair from Hope’s forehead. Dad leaned in, his voice low as he asked the doctor, “Will she… will she be able to see soon?” “The surgery was a complete success. Once she recovers, her vision will be perfectly restored.” Their faces broke into smiles of pure, unadulterated relief, the likes of which I had never seen in all my years. It was as if losing one daughter was a cause for celebration. My parents walked alongside the gurney, disappearing down the long, bright hospital corridor. Not once did either of them look back. I stood alone in the empty hallway, watching their silhouettes fade into the light. A pang of sadness hit me, but I was happy for them, too. Hope could finally see. It wouldn’t do to have my body around on such a joyous day. It would only bring bad luck. They could finally start a new life. No more worrying about their sickly daughter, no more anxiously counting down the days. A moment later, an orderly came in and turned the gurney holding my body in the other direction. “So young. Such a shame.” “I heard she donated her corneas to her sister.” The wheels of the gurney hummed softly as they rolled down the cold, sterile hallway, heading for the morgue. I see now. I wasn’t the one who received a heart. I was the one who gave my eyes. My death, in exchange for Hope’s light. 3 When I floated into the hospital room, Mom was gently dabbing Hope’s lips with a moistened cotton swab. Dad stood by the bed, his gaze locked on the gauze over Hope’s eyes. He had a look of intense focus I thought I recognized, but now realized I had never truly received. He was rarely home when I was growing up, and when he was, he usually kept to his study. He gave me anything I asked for; whatever I wanted would appear at my bedside the next day. I used to think he was just a serious man, that men didn’t know how to express their love. Because whenever he looked at me, there was always a subtle, impenetrable distance in his eyes. Now, watching him look at Hope, that distance was gone. A few days later, the bandages came off. Hope blinked, her new eyes adjusting to the light, and whispered, “Dad.” Just that one word, and my father’s eyes welled up with tears. He pulled her into a fierce hug, his shoulders trembling slightly. I had called him ‘Dad’ countless times. All I ever got in return was a restrained, polite smile. It wasn’t that he was incapable of emotion; he just wasn’t capable of feeling it for me. Back home, there was no memorial, not even a photograph. The family portrait above the fireplace was gone. The clay mugs I’d made for them, the slippers I’d bought—vanished. Every trace of my existence had been scrubbed away with a chilling, heartbreaking efficiency. Maybe it was for the best. This way, they wouldn’t have to look at my things and feel sad. People have to move on. “Welcome home.” Dad took Hope’s hand, his voice softer and warmer than I had ever heard it. He led her through every room, as if she were the true mistress of the house, finally returning. They stopped at the door to my old bedroom. It was completely empty. The walls were a stark, clinical white, freshly painted. “We’ll make this your art studio,” Mom said, her voice bright with anticipation. “You mentioned you wanted to learn how to paint.” Hope nodded softly. I remembered when Hope had first expressed an interest in painting. Mom had shut her down instantly, claiming there were “no spare rooms.” It wasn’t a lie, I realized. They were just waiting. Waiting for me to be gone. Waiting for Hope to see. But why would a blind girl be so obsessed with painting? The question surfaced, and I quickly pushed it down. She could see now. It was only natural she’d want to learn. As Mom gently stroked Hope’s hair, a hazy, fragmented memory flickered in my mind. It felt like a lifetime ago. Mom, stroking my hair just like that, humming a lullaby. But the name she was murmuring wasn’t Ava. What was it? A softer sound… something like… Grace? I shook my head, my spirit wavering. It had to be a hallucination. My name had always been Ava. Dad said they chose it hoping I would forget my illness and grow up healthy. Dad brought over a large art book and sat down beside Hope. “Look,” he said, his finger tracing over a page. “These are Monet’s Water Lilies. See how beautiful the colors are?” His eyes were full of a gentle adoration. I suddenly remembered the art book he’d given me for my last birthday. It was still sitting on the highest shelf of my bookcase, the wrapping untouched. “You have a weak constitution, Ava,” he’d said at the time. “You shouldn’t strain your eyes with things like this.” Looking back, he was right. A broken body like mine shouldn’t have dared to dream of such things. Hope looked up at him and asked quietly, “Would… would my sister have liked these paintings?” The air in the room instantly froze. The smiles on my parents’ faces hardened. “Don’t talk about her.” Mom’s voice was a whisper, but it landed like a hammer blow on my heart. “Your sister…” Dad began, then trailed off. He simply patted Hope’s head. “The most important thing right now is for your eyes to heal properly.” My heart ached, but I quickly pushed the feeling away. They were just worried that talking about me would upset Hope. Her recovery was fragile; she didn’t need any emotional distress. I watched the three of them sitting together in the sunlight, a perfect picture of family harmony. This was good. Hope could see, and my parents were finally free from the burden of caring for me. My sacrifice had been worth it. I just didn’t understand why my chest still hurt. My heart wasn’t even beating anymore. 4 I lingered in the house I had known for eighteen years, a ghost watching my former family build a new life without me. A noise from the living room drew my attention. I floated over to see Dad taping an eye chart to the wall. “Alright, Hope, let’s see how far down you can read,” he said, his voice brimming with hopeful encouragement. Mom stood nearby, her hands clasped together in nervous anticipation. Hope stepped forward and, without hesitation, read off the smallest line of symbols. “Oh, thank God!” Mom cried, pulling her into a tight embrace, her voice thick with emotion. “You can see clearly, you can see…” Dad’s face relaxed into a wide, relieved smile as he gently patted Hope’s back. I hovered in place, stunned. I remembered last year after my school physical, I’d proudly shown Dad my vision test results—perfect 20/20 vision. He’d barely glanced at it. “Protect your eyes,” he’d said dismissively. “Stop staring at your phone so much.” At the time, I thought he just wasn’t the type to give praise. But now, looking at him with Hope, I saw a completely different man. After dinner, Mom brought out a brand-new photo album. “Let’s sort through the old photos, Hope,” she said, her voice light and cheerful, full of the promise of a fresh start. “We need to make room for all the new memories we’re going to make.” I drifted closer to look. In the thick family album, every single photograph that had included me had been removed. The empty, plastic-covered slots were like gaping wounds, a silent mockery of my eighteen years of life. Nearby, Dad was clearing out the bookshelf. He stacked all my textbooks, my novels, even my award-winning essays into a pile, ready to be sold as scrap paper. He didn’t hesitate for a second. My academic awards were still tacked to the study wall. He reached up, ripped them down in one swift motion, crumpled them into a ball, and tossed them into a cardboard box at his feet. He moved with the casual efficiency of someone cleaning out old junk. Among them was my first-ever drawing from kindergarten. A crayon portrait of the three of us. I remember Dad had praised it, even had it framed. Now, it was just another piece of trash. Every single piece of evidence that I had ever existed was being systematically and ruthlessly erased. Except for one thing. A locked drawer in the study desk, a drawer that had remained shut for as long as I could remember, was left untouched. I stood right beside my father, watching him. He felt nothing. As he reached for the top shelf, a dusty, unfamiliar photo album I’d never seen before slipped and fell to the floor. It flipped open to a page with pictures of two babies in identical christening gowns. Underneath each photo, a name was written in elegant cursive. One read: “Grace, 100 Days.” The other: “Lily, 100 Days.” I stared at the names, frozen. Grace? Lily? The unfamiliar names sent a strange, sharp pang through me. Dad walked over, picked up the album without a second glance, and tossed it into the box of discards. “Just some useless old photos,” he said, more to himself than to anyone else. Later, Mom went to the kitchen to prepare Hope’s bedtime milk. She opened the highest cabinet and took down the familiar white bottle—the “imported heart medication” I had taken for eight years straight. “Does she still need to take this?” Dad asked, walking into the kitchen. “The doctor said to continue for a while longer to be safe.” Mom expertly crushed two pills into a fine powder and stirred them into the warm milk. “It’s good for her eyes’ recovery.” I was paralyzed. Good for her eyes? As Mom carried the glass of milk out of the kitchen, a curled corner of the label on the pill bottle snagged and peeled away, fluttering to the floor. I instinctively floated closer, my non-existent heart freezing as I read the original name hidden beneath the fake one. Corneal Preservation Solution. And in smaller print: For maintaining corneal viability and preventing tissue necrosis. The weight of the truth was so immense it felt like it could crush my very soul. For eight years, the pills I’d taken every single day weren’t to keep me alive. They were to keep my eyes perfectly preserved for someone else.

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The night before my wedding, I was scrolling through my phone in the hospital when a post with thousands of likes caught my eye. [The boyfriend I stole is getting married, but I’m not the bride.] Every word dripped with smug satisfaction. [So what if I’m the other woman? His body, his heart, his money… aren’t they all mine?] [It only took a little trick to destroy their relationship. He never loved the bride. He’s only marrying her for revenge!] The comment section was a firestorm of outrage and condemnation. Some morbid curiosity I couldn’t explain made me click on her profile. My fingers froze. The “stolen boyfriend” she was gloating about was Andrew Harrison. The man I was supposed to marry tomorrow. My mother’s hand, as fragile as dried leaves, gripped mine. Her voice trembled. “Don’t throw your life away for me, Amelia…” I looked at her pale, worn-out face and shook my head. “Marrying him or marrying a stranger—what’s the difference?” At least he had money. Enough to pay for my mother’s astronomical medical bills. Twelve years of us had become nothing more than a slow accumulation of disappointment. There was no love left. From now on, when I looked at him, I would feel nothing at all. 1 At the wedding, I was a puppet on a string, moving through the ceremony as the officiant dictated. Then came the exchange of rings. A shrill female voice cut through the reverent hush. “Wait!” Sienna strutted forward, linking her arm with Andrew’s. She pouted, her voice a saccharine whine. “Andrew, darling, I want to be your bride. Right now. Please?” Her gaze, dripping with challenge, flicked over to me. Andrew’s face was a blank mask as he looked at me. His voice was cold, leaving no room for argument. “It’s just a ceremony. Give it to her.” The eyes of every guest in the room pricked my skin like a thousand tiny needles. My hands clenched the fabric of my wedding dress, knuckles turning white. I pressed my lips together, a silent, stubborn refusal. It was the only shred of dignity I had left to defend. With his permission, Sienna reached out to rip the dress from my body. I shoved her back on instinct. She stumbled and collapsed to the floor, her shoulders shaking with manufactured sobs. “Andrew, look at her…” Andrew rushed to her side, helping her up with a tenderness that twisted my gut. He turned to me, his voice a furious snarl. “I’ll only say this once. Take it off yourself, or my security will do it for you.” I looked up, about to beg him to leave me with some semblance of pride. But the raw disgust in his eyes silenced me. The words died in my throat. Before I could process it, the guards were on me, tearing the delicate lace of my gown from my body. I was left in my slip, a flimsy piece of silk that did nothing to ward off the bone-deep chill that had settled over me. A collective gasp went through the crowd, but no one dared to speak. I curled into a ball in the corner, hugging my trembling body. I watched, numb, as Andrew slid the wedding ring onto Sienna’s finger. When the ceremony was finally over, Andrew scowled and tossed his suit jacket at me. “Cover yourself up. You’re an embarrassment.” Sienna clung to his arm, her voice sickly sweet. “Andrew, we haven’t had our wedding night yet…” Her eyes glinted with malice. “Once you’re married, it’ll be so much harder for us to see each other.” “Why don’t we have her record it for us? As a little memento. What do you say?” A tremor went through me. I reached out and tugged lightly on the corner of his sleeve, my voice barely a whisper. “Can… can I not?” He ripped his arm away, his laugh a cold, cruel sound. “Know your place, Amelia. You think you have the right to refuse?” “Your father killed my mother. You’ll be paying for his sins for the rest of your life. And this is just the beginning.” “Unless,” he added, his voice dropping to a dangerous low, “you’ve decided you don’t care if your mother lives or dies.” My body went rigid. I followed them, my feet moving on their own. In front of the camera, bodies tangled in a display of raw, performative lust. My hand, holding the phone, wouldn’t stop shaking. A wave of nausea churned in my stomach. I gripped the edge of a table, trying to stifle the dry heaves. Sienna heard me. She glared over Andrew’s shoulder, her voice sharp with annoyance. “Ugh, what’s wrong with your wife? She’s ruining the mood.” Andrew grabbed a pillow and hurled it at my head. “You can’t do one simple thing right? Get the hell out!” I dropped the phone and fled, practically tripping over my own feet. It wasn’t until I slammed the front door of our empty house behind me that the tension finally left my body. Then, a sudden thought struck me. My hands trembling, I pulled up my latest medical report on my phone. Unsurprisingly, I was pregnant. I placed a hand gently over my stomach. The grief I had been bottling up for so long suddenly burst forth. Tears streamed down my face, splashing onto the back of my hand. I grabbed a bottle of red wine and started chugging it straight from the bottle. It didn’t matter. No one cared about this child anyway. I sank into a hot bath, drinking and crying until my throat was raw and the world began to blur, a hazy mix of alcohol and steam. In the fog, I thought I saw Andrew’s face, etched with panic. He was lifting my soaked body from the water, his voice shaking. “Amelia! Are you insane?! You’re burning up and you’re drinking in a hot bath!” 2 A strange warmth spread from the chest pressed against mine, and I found myself leaning into it. When I opened my eyes again, Andrew was asleep in a chair by the bed, his head resting on the edge of the mattress. My fingers twitched, almost reaching out to trace the line of his jaw. But a familiar ringtone, Sienna’s ringtone, shattered the silence. I snatched my hand back. He woke instantly, rubbing his temples as he answered the phone. “Take care of her. I’m on my way.” When he hung up, his face was a mask of pure anxiety. It was only then that he seemed to notice I was awake. He shot me a look of pure contempt. “Don’t think playing the victim is going to make me give a damn about you. Stop with the pathetic games.” He didn’t spare me another glance. He grabbed his coat and was gone. A few minutes later, my phone rang. An unknown number. The voice on the other end was frantic, choked with tears. “Mrs. Harrison! Something’s happened to Andrew! You have to come to the Obsidian Lounge, now!” My heart plummeted. Andrew, always so cool and in control—what could have possibly happened to him? A thousand terrible scenarios flashed through my mind in the span of a few seconds. The moment I hung up, I had ripped the IV from my arm and was running out of the hospital. I was frantic, urging the cab driver to go faster, to break every speed limit. I stumbled on the curb, scraping my knee, blood seeping through my pants. I burst through the door of the private room at the lounge, panting for breath, only to be met with the sight of Andrew and Sienna locked in a passionate kiss. The room erupted with laughter. “Sienna, you were right! She got here before you even finished! What a pathetic lapdog!” My head was spinning. The world went blank. I couldn’t tell which hurt more—the throbbing in my knee or the gaping emptiness in my chest. My expression turned to ice, but no one noticed. No one cared. Andrew’s eyes flickered to the blood on my knee. He made a sound of annoyance, a sharp “Tsk.” Sienna snuggled against his chest, smirking at me. “Look who it is. The rapist’s daughter, finally showing up.” That one sentence shattered my last ounce of control. I lunged forward and slapped her across the face, my voice a raw scream. “My father is not a rapist!” Andrew shoved me, hard. I fell to the floor, the impact jarring my bones. The fury in his eyes was staggering. I remembered a time when those same eyes had been filled with nothing but my reflection. He was the new kid in our senior year of high school. I fell for him instantly. When the other kids called him a “bastard,” I was always the first to jump to his defense. “He is not! He’s the best person in the world!” I’d turn around and see his eyes, red-rimmed and vulnerable, before he’d quickly look away. We fell into a rhythm. I protected him at school; he walked me home after. Until the day a group of thugs cornered us, their hands grabbing at me. He didn’t hesitate. He launched himself at them, but they overpowered him, pinning him to the ground and beating him mercilessly. I held up my phone and screamed, “I’ve already called the police!” They scattered. That night, we got together. He swore to me, his eyes still red, “I’ll get stronger. I’ll never let anyone hurt you again.” And he did. He clawed his way up from being the illegitimate son to the CEO of Harrison Holdings. He took the hardest road imaginable. But on the very day he took control of the company, his mother fell from the balcony of their home and died. And my father was found sitting, catatonic, amidst the wreckage. My father pleaded his innocence. “It wasn’t me… I swear I didn’t do anything…” But Andrew was convinced he was the murderer. He branded my father a rapist and used every tool at his disposal to send him to prison. “Apologize!” Andrew’s roar brought me back to the present. “Why should I?” I sobbed, my heart breaking all over again. His face was devoid of emotion as he pulled up a live feed from the hospital on his phone. “Have you forgotten about your mother?” 3 The sight of my mother’s frail form on the monitor made my heart leap into my throat. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, then scrambled forward, grabbing Andrew’s wrist. “Don’t touch her… please.” His voice was colder than ice. “You know what you have to do.” A shiver wracked my body. I slowly let go of his arm, stood up, and bowed to Sienna. A full ninety-degree bow. “I’m sorry.” Sienna crossed her arms, a smirk playing on her lips. “That didn’t seem very sincere, Amelia.” I looked at Andrew’s stony expression and understood immediately. I raised my hand and slapped myself across the face. Hard. Ten times. Each slap was louder, sharper than the last. When I was done, I lifted my swollen, red face and looked at Andrew, my voice devoid of emotion. “Is that enough?” His eyes flickered to the blood trickling from the corner of my lip. For a split second, I saw a flash of pain in his gaze, but it was gone as quickly as it appeared. “Stop with the pathetic act, Amelia. It’s disgusting.” Sienna, ever perceptive, noticed his momentary weakness. She grabbed a row of liquor bottles from the floor and slammed them on the table, her smile malicious. “Drink every last one of these, and we’ll call it even.” Eight bottles of hard liquor gleamed under the dim lights. My hand instinctively went to my stomach. I clenched my jaw, picked up a bottle, and began to drink. The alcohol burned its way down my throat, a searing pain that felt like it was scorching my insides. Liquid sloshed down my chin, soaking the front of my shirt, making the fabric cling to my skin. The men in the room started whistling and cheering. “Whoa, look at that body!” “If you’re not interested, Andrew, why not share her with the rest of us?” They were practically rubbing their hands together, their leering eyes crawling all over me. A man with bleached blond hair grabbed my wrist just as I finished the first bottle. I was gasping for breath, the burn in my stomach rising to my chest, making it hard to breathe. “That’s enough!” Andrew roared, flipping the table over with a sudden, violent motion. Glass shattered, and amber liquid spread across the floor like a pool of tears. The room went silent. You could hear a pin drop. I looked into his eyes, a maelstrom of conflicting emotions, then down at the mess on the floor. A numb smile touched my lips. “Well, since the alcohol is gone, I suppose I can leave now?” I didn’t wait for an answer. I turned and walked out. The second I stepped outside the lounge, a hand grabbed my arm, yanking me back. “Have you no self-respect, Amelia?!” Andrew’s chest was heaving, a vein throbbing in his temple. “They treated you like that, and you didn’t even fight back?!” I tilted my head back, a cold, bitter laugh escaping my lips. “Fight back? And then what? Earn myself an even worse beating?” His lips parted, as if to say something, but he was cut off by a frantic shout from behind him. “Andrew, it’s Sienna! She slit her wrists!” He let go of me without a second thought and sprinted back inside. He didn’t look back. He didn’t see the cold sweat beading on my forehead. A tearing pain ripped through my abdomen. I leaned against the wall, trying to stay upright, but the world was fading to black. I slid to the ground. When I woke up, I was in the hospital. A nurse told me a passerby had brought me in. I wanted to thank them, but they were long gone. Just then, the hospital phone rang. “We’re very sorry to inform you that your mother… passed away five minutes ago.” “How…” My voice shattered. There was a pause on the other end. “The patient removed her own breathing tube. We… we did everything we could.” I didn’t understand. My mother had been fighting so hard. Why would she suddenly give up? Until I pulled up the security footage from her room. Ten minutes before she pulled the tube, a figure had pushed open her door.

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