My boyfriend had a stepsister who was diagnosed with a serious illness. He begged me to sell the house I just got from the demolition compensation to pay for her treatment. “It’s a matter of life and death. Help her this once, please?” His words didn’t move me in the slightest. Thinking of the scene I just witnessed, him secretly kissing this so-called sister, I only felt disgusted. 1 I got five apartments from the demolition compensation. Soon after, my boyfriend, Liam Chen, gave up his guaranteed spot for a master’s degree at Stanford and found a job locally, saying he didn’t want to be in a long-distance relationship anymore. Today was our first night living together. As soon as the door closed, Liam pressed my wrist, kissing down from my earlobe. In a trance, I suddenly remembered my best friend asking me a few days ago if I remembered Lia Chen, Liam’s stepsister. “I heard she was diagnosd with a serious illness recently. The treatment cost shouldn’t be a small amount.” “You guys were long-distance for three years, and he never mentioned coming here to develop his career. But as soon as your family got the demolition compensation, he came over?” “And he had to give up a guaranteed spot at Stanford. That’s Stanford…” Finally, I couldn’t hold back. When his hand was on my waist, I called him, “Liam.” “Hmm?” “Why did you suddenly give up the guaranteed admission?” Liam paused slightly, looked up at me, and said word by word, “Chloe Zhou, I’m not after your money.” “What about Lia?” “What does it have to do with her?” Liam’s voice lowered, obviously displeased. Looking at his darkened eyes, a trace of uneasiness arose in my heart. Once, I secretly went to New York to find Liam, wanting to give him a surprise. Unexpectedly, downstairs at his dorm, I saw Lia hugging him from behind. “You’re with her just to piss me off, right?” “Of course not.” Liam quickly pushed her away. “How can you compare to her?” I was shocked at the time. Lia actually had such feelings for him. But fortunately, Liam seemed very repulsed. “Babe.” Liam leaned over silently, interrupting this topic with practical action. “Been long-distance for so long, you miss me too, right?” His voice went past my ear, carrying a subtle hint, soft and teasing. He had never treated me like this before. In our three years of dating, we never crossed the line. He said that kind of thing should wait until marriage. My body immediately felt tingly like an electric shock, and my thoughts went haywire. 2 The atmosphere was right, and I subconsciously asked again, “How much is Lia’s surgery fee?” “Chloe, I’ll say it again, I’m not after your money.” “Giving up the guaranteed admission is because I negotiated a project with a company here, and they promised to give me five percent equity.” “After the project is completed, I will continue my master’s degree.” Liam looked down at me. Both his expression and tone were very frank. But one thing was, from beginning to end, he was deliberately avoiding topics related to Lia. I wanted to say something else, but his kiss landed fiercely. “It’s so good that all of Chloe’s firsts were given to me.” Hearing his faint laughter, I blushed and retorted, “Aren’t yours too?” Liam obviously stiffened. Liam’s phone rang inappropriately. It was Lia. As soon as the call connected, Lia’s loud crying came from the other end. “Brother, it hurts so much. Do you think I’m going to die…” “Can you come over and accompany me, please?” Liam hung up abruptly. The warm yellow light of the bedside lamp extended to his lowered eyelashes. His quiet appearance made me flustered. “Are you going to the hospital?” He suddenly pulled me into his arms and kissed the top of my hair. “Not going. I’ll stay right here. Sleep.” … It seemed to rain heavily in the second half of the night. Woken up by thunder, I instinctively turned over to find Liam. There was no one beside me. Not only the bedroom, I searched the whole house and didn’t see him. Liam was not at home. I sat blankly on the sofa all night, dialing Liam’s phone countless times during the period. No one answered. My emotions suddenly became incredibly anxious, dialing nonstop. The tenth time, the phone rang once, and then, it was hung up by the other side. 3 Waking up on the sofa the next day, the sky was still dim, and there was an extra thin blanket on my body. The sound of淅沥 water came from the bathroom in the master bedroom. It should be Liam who came back and was taking a shower. Stepping towards the bedroom with weak steps, I needed an explanation from him. The lights were on inside, and the door was ajar. I saw an unfamiliar profile. It was actually Lia. She was carefully tidying up the clothes Liam had just taken off on the bed, without any taboo. Blue tie, white shirt, black trousers… Even the most private ones, dark blue boxer briefs. Her movements were incredibly skilled, as if she had done this countless times. “Lia, pass me the clothes.” Liam’s voice came from the bathroom. Lia skillfully took out a new pair of boxer briefs from the closet and handed them through the crack of the bathroom door. Liam also took them very naturally. This scene stunned me directly. Even Lia didn’t notice when I walked over. “Did you sleep well on the sofa?” “I’m really sorry. Just now, my brother intended to carry you to the bed to sleep. Who made me happen to feel unwell? My brother felt distress for me so he…” She deliberately paused before making a soft tsk sound, “I have to say, my brother’s bed is really soft.” “Put away your thoughts.” I interrupted her coldly, “Liam will explain this to me. No need for you to add oil and vinegar.” Although I said so, my mind couldn’t help but recall the scene just now. This… didn’t look like siblings, more like lovers. “A girlfriend would do things like tidying up private clothes. Don’t bother yourself as a sister.” “Girlfriend? You don’t think my brother genuinely likes you, do you?” “I heard you secretly crushed on my brother for many years before?” She looked me up and down with that disdainful look. I looked at her, completely stunned. This matter has always been my secret. How did she know? In school, Liam was quite famous. Good-looking, good grades, just a bit aloof. We were desk mates. I silently liked him for several years but didn’t dare to confess. During the freshman winter break, at an old classmates gathering, it was very sudden that Liam confessed to me, and we naturally got together. I heard Liam’s father remarried that year too. “Of course my brother told me.” She seemed to see through my thoughts at a glance and laughed very proudly. I stood frozen in place, almost overwhelmed by a huge sense of shame. Lia still wouldn’t let me go, her tone very arrogant, “To raise money for my surgery, my brother was even willing to give up the Stanford guaranteed admission.” “So what if you’re a girlfriend? In his heart, can you compare to me?” “Also not right, he has never touched you, what kind of girlfriend are you.” “Do you know he and I—” “Enough.” I didn’t want to listen and turned to leave. Lia grabbed me and wouldn’t let me go. “What, afraid to listen now?” I shook her off fiercely. A painful muffled groan came from behind. Lia fell wretchedly on the ground, her messy long hair covering half of her face, her lips white. This scene was happened to be seen by Liam who just came out of the bathroom. I could feel the coldness in his eyes very obviously. He walked over, grabbing my arm forcefully, pulling my whole body forward, “She’s a patient. Why are you bickering with her?” My arm was pinched painfully. Liam seemed completely unaware, his face full of anger. “Brother…” Liam instantly flung me away. I clutched my arm and staggered a few steps, watching helplessly as he picked Lia up in his arms and hurried out of the bedroom. 4 Liam didn’t come back all day. I heard that in the evening, Lia started vomiting blood uncontrollably without warning and was rushed to the hospital for emergency treatment. When I got there, Liam was standing straight outside the operating room. Beside him, Lia’s mother was crying with her face covered. “Liam.” I called him. He stood still, as if he didn’t hear. Minutes later, the doors to the operating room were pushed open, and a nurse hurried out. “The spare blood is used up. Is anyone here type B blood?” Lia’s mother almost fainted hearing this. “Neither he nor I are.” Liam turned to look at me. “Chloe, you’re type B blood.” “I have anemia, did you forget?” I asked him. People with severe anemia are not suitable for blood donation; there is a risk of inducing myocardial infarction and cerebral infarction. Liam knew about this. When he found out I had anemia before, Liam asked very slightly, “Anemia is so severe, why didn’t you tell me?” He said, “Chloe, I will slowly understand you little by little in the future.” At that moment, his guilt and pity were genuine. Unfortunately now, he even forgot I had anemia. After I reminded him, not only did he not feel guilty at all, but his tone also began to become impatient, “You need to distinguish which is more important.” “I won’t joke with my own life.” I replied decisively. “If you hadn’t pushed her this morning, how could she suddenly have an attack?” He said accusingly. “That was because she—” Before I could finish, I was interrupted coldly by Liam, “Chloe, people have to be responsible for their own actions.” Looking at his calm and composed face, I couldn’t tell if I was angry or sad. In the stalemate interval, another nurse ran over and said they found spare blood in the blood bank again. The operating lights lit up again. Until the operation ended, Liam and I didn’t say another word. Hearing the doctor say Lia was fine, I left. Returning to Liam’s house, I began packing my things. One of the apartments I got from the demolition was renovated, I intended to move there. Contacting the moving company and scheduling the moving time, it was already past midnight. Suddenly received Lia’s friend request, “Tell you something.” Hesitated for a few seconds, still approved it. Lia immediately sent a sentence: “I fell on purpose.” Before I could react, she withdrew it in seconds. Another sentence came, “With your IQ, you probably haven’t had time to take a screenshot yet, right?”

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My boyfriend tried to drag me into a suicide pact with him. Not only did I refuse to die, but I held his head underwater and drowned him myself. Forty years ago, our love was forbidden by social norms, so he asked me to jump into the river with him to end it all. Julian died, but I was rescued. Filled with guilt and pain, I lived a miserable, lonely life, working myself to the bone to support Julian’s parents and younger brother. But forty years later, as I lay dying in a hospital bed, broken and sick… Julian, who was supposed to be dead, suddenly appeared before me, alive and well, hand-in-hand with an elegant, educated woman who had aged gracefully. “One fake death and you were fooled for decades. A stupid woman like you actually thought I could love her?” “But thanks anyway. If you hadn’t supported my family, I wouldn’t have had the peace of mind to take the college entrance exams, and I wouldn’t have had the chance to live happily ever after with my sweet Sarah.” “Oh, by the way, Toby isn’t my little brother. He’s actually mine and Sarah’s son! We had him before I even met you!” They kissed passionately in front of me, and I died consumed by monstrous hatred. When I opened my eyes again, I was back forty years ago, on the day Julian dragged me to commit suicide. 1 “Hannah! Let’s meet again in the next life!” The familiar voice from my memory echoed in my ears, accompanied by the chill of river water. Before I could even react, the man in front of me jumped in with a splash. Looking at his face, rage instantly erupted in my heart. It was Julian! How did he suddenly become so young? And this river… isn’t this the same one where he tried to commit suicide with me forty years ago? Was I reborn? I didn’t have time to think. I walked straight up to him. If you like playing dead so much, then play dead forever! As he dipped his head underwater, I whispered something next to him. “Her name is Sarah, right?” His body trembled violently, trying to lift his head, but I was already holding it down firmly under the surface. I was a rough country girl. I didn’t have book smarts, but I had strength from years of farm work. Julian was an intellectual who spent his days buried in books. He was skinny as a rail and no match for me. He thrashed wildly in the water, his body tensing from the pain of suffocation. “Toby isn’t your brother at all, is he? He’s your son with Sarah! Did you take me for a fool?” “Rest assured, I won’t support your parents or your son. Not a single one! As for your lover, I’ll make her pay!” “And you… go in peace!” By the end, my voice was trembling with a maniacal edge. The joy of revenge surged through my entire body. Only when Julian stopped moving completely did I let go. Before fear of my actions could set in, I plunged my head into the water. Even as I choked and sputtered, nearly breaking down, I couldn’t surface for a second. I couldn’t let passersby see anything unusual. It wasn’t until consciousness was slipping away that I heard shouts from the bank. “Help! Someone jumped in the river!” 2 When I was revived, a slap landed hard across my face. It was Julian’s mother, Mrs. Vance, glaring at me with fury. Behind her was a large coffin. “You animal! You killed my son! You heartless wretch!” Then, she and her husband, Mr. Vance, started kicking and punching me. If people hadn’t pulled them off, my frail body would have been beaten to death right there. “Where’s Julian? How is he?” I feigned anxiety, asking what I already knew. “Julian is dead! Are you happy now?” Mrs. Vance spat at me, but she couldn’t hide the triumphant glint in her eyes. It seemed she didn’t know her son was actually dead. “You slut, how do you have the nerve to live? Crawl over here and kowtow to Julian!” Then, Mrs. Vance and Mr. Vance rushed forward, pinning me down in front of the coffin. They slammed my face into the dirt as if venting their rage, nearly breaking my nose. Luckily, the town mayor intervened just in time, saving my nose. “What is wrong with you young people? Always so dramatic about life and death. Now look what happened. A fine young man, an intellectual, gone just like that.” “Hannah, since you survived, you must carry Julian’s will. Don’t do anything foolish again!” The mayor sighed with regret. Meanwhile, Mrs. Vance fell to her knees, wailing theatrically. “My poor son! Now that you’re gone, how will your father, your brother, and I live? Hannah, if you have any conscience, you’ll take Julian’s place and support us. From now on, you hand over all your wages!” “And sell whatever valuables you have at home! Didn’t your mother leave you a jade bracelet?” As she cried, her greed became undisguised. Already eyeing my family heirloom? I glanced at her coldly, then walked straight to the coffin. I opened the lid a crack. Julian’s face was gray, his lips purple. There was no coming back from that. Good. I was relieved. With that thought, I threw myself onto the coffin and let out a heart-wrenching wail. “Julian! It’s all my fault! I killed you!” Hearing me, Mrs. Vance almost laughed out loud. She said shamelessly, “Don’t think putting on this show makes you my daughter-in-law. You? A stupid country bumpkin like you isn’t even fit to be Julian’s maid! But… if you’re obedient and serve us well, maybe I’ll be generous and give you a title!” Looking at her face, I suppressed the urge to slap her and nodded tearfully. “Don’t worry, I will. But before Julian is buried, I have one request.” I looked at the mayor and said decisively. “Julian dedicated his life to serving the country. He was progressive and forward-thinking. So I think… we should cremate him!” 3 “Good, good! A true progressive youth! I’ll arrange it immediately!” the mayor said excitedly. It was the 80s. Although cremation was becoming more common, it was still taboo in rural villages like ours. That’s why the mayor was so pleased with my “enlightened” stance. But Mrs. Vance wouldn’t have it. They knew their precious son was just playing dead inside! They rushed forward, blocking the coffin, cursing at me. “You bitch! You have bad intentions! You want to burn him when he’s already dead? Julian, you fool! How did you fall for such a demon?” I put on a pitiful face. “I just want to fulfill Julian’s wish.” The mayor chimed in. “Exactly. We’ve been educating everyone—burial harms the environment, cremation contributes to society. Julian would agree from the afterlife.” Mrs. Vance adamantly refused, rolling on the ground in a tantrum. “No! I don’t care! No cremation! Whoever burns my son, I’ll burn them!” Seeing this, the mayor had to give in. To him, she was just a pitiful old woman wanting to preserve her son’s body. Just then, a graceful figure walked over. “Hannah, I know you mean well, but have you considered Julian’s parents’ feelings? Don’t be so heartless.” I looked closely. Wasn’t this Sarah? In my past life, we were just acquaintances in the village. After Julian “died,” she left too. I never imagined she and Julian had a thing. Looking at her now, she wasn’t much different from the woman I saw by the hospital bed in my previous life. She stole the good life that should have been mine! The thought made my blood boil. Suddenly, a small child rushed up, kicking and punching me indiscriminately. “Bitch! Whore! You want to burn my brother! I’ll kill you!” It was Toby! Foul-mouthed and disrespectful. In my past life, filled with guilt toward their family, I tolerated Toby’s rudeness and tirelessly sent him money and care. Since he was an ungrateful wolf, I didn’t need to pretend to be gentle in this life. “Tsk, no manners, no upbringing. Needs a beating!” I slapped him hard across the face. 4 The slap stunned Toby. He stood there covering his face, bewildered. Mrs. Vance and Sarah screamed, both rushing to check on Toby with undeniable heartache in their eyes. “You shrew! How can you hit a child? Are you human?” Mrs. Vance yelled at me. “A child with such a filthy mouth needs discipline! Since I’m taking care of him for Julian, I have to be strict. Otherwise, what if he grows up to be a hoodlum or a rapist?” I said calmly. As expected, Sarah trembled with rage and retorted. “Your son will be the rapist! Toby doesn’t need you to discipline him!” She realized her slip and shut her mouth. I looked at her sideways and asked slowly. “Oh, Sarah, why is an outsider so concerned with our family affairs? Toby doesn’t need me… you mean, you’ll manage him?” Sarah blushed, stammering for a moment. “I… I just can’t stand your shrewish ways. No wonder Julian despised you…” “Oh, you know a lot about us. Wait, is there something going on between you two?” I asked with feigned surprise. “You’re spitting blood! A shrew like you would be despised by any man!” Sarah looked uncomfortable, guilt evident in her eyes. “In that case, I won’t bother. Mayor, could you please find a good family to adopt this child?” At this, Sarah and Mrs. Vance gasped again. Mrs. Vance almost blurted out the truth. “Are you crazy? Where are you sending my grand… son?” “Look, you two are old and frail. You can’t raise a child. I can’t afford to raise him either. Better to find him a good home where he won’t starve, right?” “Don’t worry, once I make money, I’ll bring Toby back!” I patted my chest, guaranteeing it. Sarah was shaking with anger, pointing at my nose. “You heartless woman! Toby lost his brother, and now you want him to lose his parents too? It’s just raising a child. You can work three jobs if you have to!” “Oh? Since Sarah finds it so easy, why don’t you work three jobs to raise him?” I laughed, patting her shoulder. “I… I… this is your responsibility!” Sarah raged. The mayor stepped in to mediate again. “Sarah is still young and has to marry. How can she drag a child along?” I immediately followed up. “Exactly! I have to marry too. Dragging a child along would be inconvenient. Let’s do as I said.”

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It was Valentine’s Night, and I was scrolling through my feed when a viral thread caught my eye. “Couples: What is the single most romantic thing your partner has ever done for you?” I left a comment: “He would wait in line all night, sometimes until dawn, just to get me the one perfect dessert I craved.” But I didn’t finish the thought. Eight years ago, on a Valentine’s Night, that craving—that simple, selfish craving—was what he died trying to fulfill. The familiar, suffocating pressure seized my chest again. My eyes stung. I reached to close the app, but a new, anonymous reply popped up. “Funny coincidence. I think the most romantic thing my husband ever did was on a Valentine’s Night eight years ago, when his ex-wife wanted some ridiculous dessert and he secretly slipped away to be with me.” “While he was in the shower, I texted his wife and told her he’d been killed in a car crash.” “He knew and just went with it—faked his own death and has been laughing about it for eight years. LOL.” “The day his ex-wife tried to end her life because of depression, he was in a jewelry store with me, picking out my engagement ring.” A grainy, blurry photo of two backs was attached. My entire world narrowed down to the screen. The man in the picture, his posture, the width of his shoulders… it was Pierce. My husband, Pierce Nolan, who had been gone for eight years. 1 It was Valentine’s Night, and I was scrolling through my feed when a viral thread caught my eye. “Couples: What is the single most romantic thing your partner has ever done for you?” I left a comment: “He would wait in line all night, sometimes until dawn, just to get me the one perfect dessert I craved.” But I didn’t finish the thought. Eight years ago, on a Valentine’s Night, that craving—that simple, selfish craving—was what he died trying to fulfill. The familiar, suffocating pressure seized my chest again. My eyes stung. I reached to close the app, but a new, anonymous reply popped up. “Funny coincidence. I think the most romantic thing my husband ever did was on a Valentine’s Night eight years ago, when his ex-wife wanted some ridiculous dessert and he secretly slipped away to be with me.” “While he was in the shower, I texted his wife and told her he’d been killed in a car crash.” “He knew and just went with it—faked his own death and has been laughing about it for eight years. LOL.” “The day his ex-wife tried to end her life because of depression, he was in a jewelry store with me, picking out my engagement ring.” A grainy, blurry photo of two backs was attached. My entire world narrowed down to the screen. The man in the picture, his posture, the width of his shoulders… it was Pierce. My husband, Pierce Nolan, who had been gone for eight years. …… The thread exploded, immediately rocketing to the top of the trending list. Some people were furious, others defended the poster. “How is this romantic? Are you worried about the karmic backlash, lady?” “You drove his wife to suicidal depression, and you’re bragging about it? The audacity.” “Hold up, maybe the ex-wife was terrible. We don’t know the whole story.” “Yeah, I think the poster is brave. In love and war, there are no rules.” The comments section became a chaotic mess. I gripped my phone, my knuckles white and aching. The original poster—the mistress—replied again. “Thanks everyone. I posted this because I’m not afraid of judgment. Love is love. I’m happy now. I just found out I’m pregnant, and my husband treats me like a queen.” “He’s a famous entrepreneur in Newport, handsome and rich.” The post included a picture of a delicate hand, the ring finger sporting a magnificent, pigeon-egg sized diamond. I looked down at my own hands, dry and rough from years of neglecting myself, and it felt like a lifetime ago. She clearly wasn’t done. She tagged Pierce. He appeared almost instantly: “My wife is young and tends to be dramatic. Apologies for the commotion, folks.” She quickly shot back: “Hush! Stop embarrassing me in front of everyone!” “Wow, they’re so sweet. Must be true love.” “They seem like nice people; there must be a good reason he left the ex.” “Any woman who can’t tell if her husband is alive or dead must be both stupid and toxic.” Someone addressed Pierce directly: “Sir, have you ever contacted your ex-wife since you faked your death? Is she okay?” Pierce was silent for a long time. He didn’t answer. My head was spinning, a toxic cocktail of betrayal, fury, and utter humiliation burning through my veins. Just then, a notification popped up on a messaging app: “How are you holding up?” I froze. This account had been sending me short, restrained messages every holiday, every birthday, for the last three years: “Happy holiday. Wishing you well.” I always replied with a polite, stiff, “Thank you.” The familiar ellipsis would appear as they typed, only to disappear and be replaced by a single, curt, “Fine.” Only now did I realize that the profile picture was from the same artistic series Pierce used for his old accounts. I stared at the picture and laughed—a dry, humorless sound that quickly cracked into sobs. This was the eighth year he’d been gone, the eighth year I’d spent drowning in guilt and regret. He cheated, he lied, he faked his death, and now he asks how I am? I blocked the number, then went back to the viral thread. “Thank you all.” “I’m sorry to say it, but the ‘stupid and toxic ex-wife’ is me.” The entire thread went silent. Even Pierce and that woman stopped typing. I already knew who she was. Willow Chan. She was a student my mother had sponsored years ago. The girl who had once knelt on our doorstep, weeping, promising to repay our kindness for a lifetime. “WHOA! Ex-wife is here?!” “OMG, please tell us everything! We need the tea!” But I was too exhausted to reply. The man I loved most, the girl my mother treated like a daughter. They had conspired to ruin me for eight years. I stayed up all night. A thousand chaotic thoughts swirled: I wanted to storm their home, to scream, to lash out. I wanted to die again. But by morning, a strange, cold calm had settled over me. I reopened the thread, which was now a global news item. “Since you all want to hear it, I’ll tell you my story.” The first time I saw Pierce, he was rail-thin, practically starving. I was twenty-eight; he was twenty-one. His parents were gone, and his few relatives were pushing him away like damaged goods. My mother, Eleanor, took me to an inner-city school to pick the next student we would sponsor. I saw him immediately. He stood by a broken chain-link fence, his jaw set, his eyes burning with defiant ambition. I decided then that Pierce didn’t belong in that despair. “Him,” I said, pointing. My mother asked, “Are you sure you don’t want to see the others?” “No,” I said. “Just him.” That decision became the knot that tied our lives together for the next decade. It was Valentine’s Day. I brought him a small box of expensive chocolates. “For you,” I told him. “A celebration of a new start.” He took the box, his hands trembling slightly. “Reese,” he said, his voice husky, “I swear, no matter how far I go, I will never forget you.” He was brilliant and worked tirelessly. He got into an Ivy League school, but by his sophomore year, he refused any more money from my family. He studied and simultaneously started a small business. Within three years, he was a known name in logistics and international trading. The day of his graduation, he brought a huge bouquet of white lilies, knelt on one knee, and offered me a ring. “Reese,” he said. “You were the only light in my darkness. All I want is to keep you safe for the rest of my life.” Pierce was always a man of few words, but he always followed through. People would gossip, saying I was too old and plain for the handsome, up-and-coming Pierce Nolan. They called me the ‘Golden Ticket’ he rode to success. Pierce overheard one of them. That night, he beat the man so badly he landed in the ICU, and Pierce landed in the precinct. When I picked him up, his face was bruised, but he smiled through the pain and wiped my tears. “Why are you crying? You gave me my life. Dying for you would be worth it.” I said yes that day. We set the wedding for the following Valentine’s Day. “And then what? Did you get married as planned?” I lowered my eyes. “No. He ran.” Pierce, who had been silent, suddenly posted: “Reese, stop this.” “Why should I?” “Don’t listen to him, Ex-wife! The mistress was so vicious, and he didn’t stop her!” “He ran? Where did he go? Why did he bail?” I ignored Pierce and kept typing. “Every single guest knew the groom had disappeared. I was the old woman, publicly abandoned.” Pierce reappeared three days later. He knelt before me and begged for forgiveness. He said he’d never experienced anything that grand, that he was terrified. He said he felt he didn’t deserve me and panicked. He blamed his parents’ failed marriage for giving him a phobia of commitment. He promised to never hurt me again. I looked at his red, swollen eyes and my resolve crumbled. “The wedding doesn’t matter,” I whispered. “As long as we’re together.” The next day, we quietly went to City Hall and got married. No ceremony, no guests. Pierce held me tightly. “Reese, I will only ever love you.” Those were my happiest months. Until my mother sponsored another student: Willow Chan. Suddenly, the always-busy Pierce found time to drop by my mother’s home. I would sometimes find him and Willow sitting close, talking. They would reminisce about their humble beginnings, their shared memories of rural life—the stars, the simple food, the coldness of city people. They seemed like kindred spirits. One day, Pierce told me, “Willow can’t stay with Mom indefinitely. She’s not family.” A cold sliver of resentment pricked my heart. My mother, Eleanor, was elderly but had the long-time housekeeper, Doris, to help. Pierce’s comment felt manipulative, implying my mother was taking advantage. But I conceded: “Fine. You handle it.” He leased a small apartment near his office for Willow, claiming he didn’t want her to feel like she was ’begging for shelter.’ He even hired her as his personal assistant at his growing firm, Apex Group. I was four months pregnant then. Willow stood next to Pierce, smiling sweetly at me. “Reese, don’t worry, I’ll take good care of your husband.” I missed the predatory glint in her eyes. Then came the next Valentine’s Day. I went to Pierce’s office to bring him a pot of my mother’s famous homemade soup. I pushed the office door open and saw them locked in a desperate kiss. “Pierce,” Willow whispered breathlessly. “Do you do this with Reese at home?” Pierce’s voice was low and rough: “She’s not like you young girls. She’s… not as good at playing the game.” The ceramic bowl slipped from my hands and shattered on the polished floor. I was shaking, reaching for a sharp piece of ceramic, ready to lunge. Pierce instinctively shoved me away, shielding Willow. I fell onto the broken shards. My palm sliced open, but I didn’t feel the pain. Pierce looked down at me with cold fury. “Reese. Are you done with the drama? You’re getting old, turning into a shrew, and embarrassing me at the office.” A sharp, stabbing pain twisted in my abdomen. I grabbed for his leg. “Hospital… take me to the hospital… the baby…” Pierce hesitated for a fraction of a second. Willow seized it. She held out her hand, a delicate, practiced tremble in her voice. “Pierce, my hand is burned, look! Will it leave a scar?” He immediately took her hand, soothing her softly, before turning a chilling gaze back to me. “You brought this on yourself.” He left with her, without looking back. That night, I lost the baby. Blood saturated my dress, the sheets, my memory. I lay in the sterile hospital bed, my pillow wet with tears. Pierce finally arrived a week later. Willow was with him. “Reese, our marriage was never fair. I’m seven years younger than you.” “What man doesn’t want someone younger and fresher?” “But Willow isn’t trying to steal your position. She’s just grateful to me, just like I was grateful to you once.” I laughed, a horrible sound that turned into weeping. Gratitude. That’s all the vows, the promises, the protection had ever been. I had never felt such gut-wrenching shame. The love in my heart slowly curdled into pure hatred. After I was discharged, I went straight to Apex Group. I fired Willow Chan and immediately cut off all my mother’s family’s financial support to her. “The past four years of tuition and living expenses total sixty thousand dollars. Pay it back to the company account within one week. I won’t bother with the gifts.” “Also, anyone who is blacklisted by the Nolan family will never work in Newport again.” Willow screamed, her face contorted: “You old hag! You’re just jealous of me!” Pierce rushed in and pulled her behind him. “Reese, have you lost your mind? At your age, who will want you if you leave me?” “Willow just graduated, and you’re terrorizing her. You’re a nasty piece of work.” If reclaiming what was mine made me nasty, I gladly wore the label. “If you want Apex Group to stay open, Willow leaves Newport.” I walked out, holding onto a sliver of desperate hope. If he came after me, if he chose me, I would forgive him. But Pierce chose Willow. Even when I pulled a huge percentage of my family’s investment out of his company, he kept her close. He drove Apex Group into debt, throwing money at her, once spending thousands on a fireworks display just because she casually mentioned she “liked to watch them explode.” The final straw: when Willow got pregnant, Pierce transferred a significant portion of the company’s stock to her name and demanded a divorce. I finally snapped and told my mother everything. Eleanor was furious. She leveraged our family’s connections to crush Apex Group. Pierce’s company quickly imploded, drowning in debt. Desperate, he came back to me. He sent Willow away, falling to his knees and groveling for forgiveness. My mother, still enraged, assigned him to oversee a dangerous construction site, picking the hardest, filthiest jobs. Pierce took it all without complaint. He seemed to transform back into the devoted man he once was, fulfilling my every petty request. I tested him daily, making him run ridiculous errands, wait in freezing lines, and stay up all night to buy me desserts. Then, my mother’s company was sabotaged. The capital chain snapped, and she was facing bankruptcy overnight. The shock triggered a massive heart attack. She was rushed to the ICU. Those were the most desperate days of my life. I expected Pierce to take his revenge, but he didn’t. He stayed by Mom’s bedside, managed the chaotic household, and even physically fought off the debt collectors, his arm badly cut in several places. Slowly, the ice in my heart began to thaw. “You look exhausted…” I whispered one night. “You’ve been through hell.” He gripped my hand. “I promised I’d protect you forever, Reese.” I cried for a long time that night. I told him: “I want that dessert from the bakery downtown.” He nodded. “Done.” I had actually written out the divorce papers that day. With my mother’s business ruined, I couldn’t bear to drag him down anymore. But I never saw him again. What I got instead was a call from the police: “Ms. Nolan? Your husband was in an accident on the way to the bakery. His vehicle went over the bridge and into the river. We haven’t recovered his body…” The rapid succession of trauma shattered me. I was diagnosed with severe depression. I attempted to take my life multiple times, ending up in a locked ward. Now I understand. It was all Pierce’s play. The crash. The faked death. Even my mother’s company’s ruin was likely his doing. For eight years, I lived in soul-crushing guilt, convinced my selfishness had killed him. Those memories were my prison, forging him into a perfect, unattainable phantom in my mind. Now I know the truth. After the initial burst of anger, a strange lightness settled over me. It wasn’t my fault. The love I had for him died the day he cheated. The last eight years were just the haunting ghost of misplaced guilt. “@PierceNolan, get out here! Is this true or not?” “@PierceNolan, why the silent treatment now?” The internet was in an uproar. As I finished typing, the last of my rage drained away. “Thank you, everyone. No need to tag him.” “Whether he is alive or dead, he is no longer relevant to me.” I typed the final line, stood up, and walked toward the door to leave the house. The door burst open. Pierce stood there. His eyes were bloodshot, and his voice was rough with emotion. “What do you mean, ‘no longer relevant’?” “Reese, how dare you decide what’s relevant to me?”

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Chapter 1 “Five hundred dollars for my year-end bonus. And you expect me to be grateful?” Brenda, the HR manager, managed to keep her corporate smile glued to her face. I’d been at this company for eight years. I had written over a million lines of code—1.27 million, to be exact—that powered three of our core systems. The bonus? Only five hundred bucks??? “Jenna, you have to understand the company’s current restructuring difficulties…” I laughed. I took a sheet of paper from my bag and laid it on the desk in front of her. My resignation letter. Dated today. 1. Brenda stared at the letter, speechless for a good five seconds. “Jenna, don’t do anything rash.” “I’m not being rash,” I said. “I’ve been thinking about this for a long time.” Eight years. From the day I walked in fresh out of my Master’s program, it had been eight years. I was the 7th Employee. I’d been here longer than most of the current management. Back then, the company was crammed into a shabby downtown office suite—less than 200 square feet. Summers were hell without AC. Winters were just as bad. The very first line of code I ever wrote for them is probably still running somewhere. “You know if you walk out now, you forfeit your bonus, right?” Brenda said. “Five hundred dollars,” I replied. “Keep it.” Brenda’s expression finally cracked. “Jenna, I know you feel slighted, but you need to see the bigger picture—” “Brenda,” I cut her off. “Do you know how much overtime I logged last month?” She didn’t answer. “One hundred and eighty-seven hours,” I said. “That’s an average of six hours a day, every day. No overtime pay, no compensatory time off. Not even a simple ‘thank you.’” “Look, the truth is… we have a cultural issue with work-life balance…” “No,” I said, shaking my head. “The issue is that you decided my dedication was your birthright.” Brenda opened her mouth, then closed it again, finding no defense. I stood up. “What’s the process for resigning?” “Are you… are you absolutely sure about this?” “I am.” Brenda looked at me, her eyes clouded with something complex—pity, maybe, or simple inconvenience. “You should know, you were on the restructuring list.” I paused. “Excuse me?” “The current round of downsizing. You were on the list,” Brenda said quietly. “You were slated as number one.” I stared at her, thinking the fluorescent lights in the office were messing with my hearing. “Number one?” “Yes.” “The reason?” Brenda looked down at her hands, avoiding my gaze. “Easily replaceable.” The phrase felt like a knife blade, driven deep into my chest. Easily replaceable. Me? The person who built the entire payment processing system from the ground up? The one who had maintained three mission-critical modules, alone, for eight years? The one who was called at 3 a.m. to fix a bug, then showed up to work the next morning, never taking a single sick day? Easily replaceable? A strange, cold laugh escaped me. “Fine,” I said. “Let’s see you try.” Brenda looked up, a flicker of genuine panic in her eyes. “Jenna, what do you mean?” “It means nothing,” I said, picking up my bag. “The letter is on your desk. Start the paperwork.” “Wait, I need—” I didn’t wait. I pushed the door open and walked out. The hallway was quiet. The late afternoon sun slanted through the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the wall where the corporate values were displayed in large, modern script. “Innovation Through Synergy.” “A Culture of Gratitude.” “People-First Mindset.” The words were a brutal, hollow joke. Eight years. I’d poured my youth, my time, my entire self into this company. What did I get in return? A corporate death sentence: Easily replaceable. I drew a deep breath and kept moving. As I passed the break room, I heard voices. “I hear they’re cutting twenty percent this quarter.” “Seriously? Did the list leak?” “Yeah, I heard Jenna Su in Tech is the first one out.” “Jenna? The quiet one? The wizard who does all the payment stuff?” “That’s the one. She’s like, the old guard, right? Eight years?” “How did she end up first?” “I heard her leader, Blake, pushed for it. Said she was ‘easily replaceable.’” “Her? Easily replaceable? That’s insane.” “Who knows. Whatever the bosses say goes, I guess.” I stood outside the doorway, unseen. The gossip continued. “She handles the payment architecture, doesn’t she?” “Payment, risk management, the clearing system… I don’t know the specifics.” “So what happens to all those systems?” “No idea, but Blake said it’s fine. They’ll hire someone to take it over fast.” “Right. Good luck with that.” I’d heard enough. I walked back to my cube, opened my laptop, and began to clean out my digital life. Eight years of files, emails, and code logs. I wouldn’t take a single thing that belonged to the company. But I was taking something far more valuable: me. My ability. My experience. The holistic understanding of how this brittle, complex architecture actually worked. That wasn’t on any server. It was in my head. They said I was easily replaceable? Let the replacement begin. 2. As I packed up my files, the past eight years flashed in my mind. I had my Master’s degree from a top-tier university and walked into a thirty-person startup in 2016. Marcus, the current CTO, was the one who interviewed me. He didn’t have so much silver hair back then, and he certainly wasn’t so slick. “Jenna,” he’d said, leaning forward. “We’re small, but we have a vision. Join us, and let’s build something massive together.” I bought in. On my first day, I was assigned to the Payment Team. The Payment Team was just me. “The payment system is the core,” Marcus told me. “You have to get it right.” I asked, “Just me?” “Just you for now. When the next round of funding comes through, we’ll build out the team.” I waited eight years. The team remained a single chair. The payment system went from zero to a functioning reality, then to a massive piece of infrastructure, all through lines of code typed by my fingers. As the business grew, they piled on the Risk Management and Clearing systems. No one else was available, so it defaulted to me. I became a one-woman maintenance crew for three core systems. System crashing at 3 a.m.? My problem. Major bug on a holiday weekend? My vacation canceled. Urgent new feature deployment? I handled the rollout. I can’t count the number of times a phone call dragged me out of deep sleep. I’d open my laptop, bleary-eyed, fix the fire, and when the sun rose, I’d be back in the office for a regular day. No extra pay. No time off. No acknowledgment of the sacrifice. Because to everyone, that was just Jenna. Jenna always handles it, right? Jenna won’t say no. Jenna has no life outside of work. It was true. I had no life. I had a relationship once. He broke up with me because I was never available—always on call, always canceling. My parents harassed me about getting married. I told them I was too busy to date. They accused me of being a cold daughter. I missed every friend gathering, perpetually tethered to my phone, ready for the next catastrophic bug. I gave them all my time. What did they give me? 2018: The company’s first VC round, valuation $200 million. My bonus: $1,000. 2020: Second round of funding, valuation $1 billion. My bonus: $1,500. 2022: The IPO, market cap $5 billion. My bonus: $2,000. 2024: Now. Market cap $8 billion. My bonus: $500. It made no sense. The company grew exponentially, but my share of the pie shrunk. I tried to question it. Brenda (HR) said, “Jenna, times are tight. We’re all saving our budgets.” I said, “But I read the press release. Last year’s profits grew thirty percent.” She just smiled thinly. “The news, you know, can be… inflated.” I went to my leader, Blake. Blake was an external hire who came on two years ago. He was polished, had an impressive résumé from a top company, couldn’t write a line of code to save his life, but was a genius at upward management. “Jenna,” he told me. “Your problem is you don’t manage up. You do great work, but the execs don’t see it. You need to articulate your impact.” I countered, “I write weekly reports, monthly summaries, and I email a full debrief after every major deployment.” “That’s not the same,” he’d said dismissively. “Your reports are too technical. The C-suite doesn’t read code. You need to learn to speak their language—the language of strategy and vision.” I fell silent. He was right. I wasn’t a polished talker. I was a coder. But wasn’t coding valuable? Without my code, how did this billion-dollar company function? Without my eight years of sacrifice, where was their $8 billion market cap? I didn’t get it. It wasn’t until I saw my annual performance review that I finally understood. My rating: B. B meant “Meets Expectations.” Neither bad nor good. My bonus multiplier: 0.5. Blake, my leader, who had been here two years? His rating was S. S was the highest tier. His bonus multiplier: 2.0. What did he do in two years? He reformatted my weekly reports and sent them up. He added a glossy cover page to my technical proposals and sent them up. He repackaged the results of my code and sent them up. Oh, and he did one truly momentous thing: He changed the color of a button on our checkout screen. From blue to green. He reported that single action three times and won an “Innovation Award” for improving the user experience. I wrote 1.27 million lines of code: B rating. He changed a button color: S rating. That was the true value system of this company. That was their “People-First Mindset.” 3. I thought I had reached peak disillusionment. Then I saw the optimization list. Brenda hadn’t meant for me to see it, of course. It was my own discovery. I’d gone to her desk at lunch to ask about vacation payout specifics. Her screen was unlocked, showing a spreadsheet. “Q4 2024 Organizational Restructuring List.” My name was in the first row. The comments section was brutal: “Suggested Rationale for Optimization: Long tenure, severe wage compression, easily replaceable.” “Recommender: Blake Chen.” I stared at the words, my heart hammering against my ribs. Wage compression. It was true. My salary was low. In eight years, my starting salary of $60,000 had only climbed to $120,000. Meanwhile, a new grad, fresh out of college, was starting at $100,000. Interns I had personally mentored were now getting paid more than me after their first year. My former mentees were now team leaders in other divisions, earning double my salary. I’d asked for a raise every year. Every year, the request was rejected. The reasons were a rotating script: “The market is soft this year.” “The budget is too tight.” “Hang in there, we’ll look at a major adjustment next year.” I waited eight years. I waited for the payoff, and instead, I got the label: Severe wage compression. And the final, killing blow: Easily replaceable. The irony was acidic. I was the single point of failure. I was the only person in the entire organization who understood the end-to-end logic of the payment architecture. I was the only one capable of bringing down-system back up at 3 a.m. I was the only person alive who knew the history of every spaghetti-code legacy bug. Easily replaceable? Where would they find another Jenna? But I didn’t challenge anyone. I just went back to my desk and continued organizing my files. At 3 p.m., Blake came over. “Jenna, I hear you put in your notice?” “I did.” “Don’t be hasty,” he said, adopting a tone of benevolent concern. “It’s the end of the year. If you walk, you forfeit your bonus entirely.”

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It was Christmas Eve, and I was pushing my cart, selling roasted fish & chips outside an upscale preschool in Astoria. A luxury car, a Rolls-Royce Ghost, glided past my stall. When I recognized the custom license plate—the one he’d always been so annoyingly proud of—I instinctively pulled the brim of my wool cap lower. But the small boy in the back seat rolled down his window. He pointed a chubby finger at my stall and yelled, “Daddy, I want those chips!” Marcus Sterling pulled the car over. I knew the moment he took a step toward me, pulling his son along, that I couldn’t hide. The streetlamp cut through the snow flurries, catching my face. He froze. “Sera. Seraphina, is that really you?” His voice was a strained whisper, quickly hardening. “I thought you died in prison.” Chelsea Hayes, draped in a mink coat that had likely cost my father’s entire year’s salary before everything, rushed to his side. Her face turned icy. “Marcus, she’s a felon, a convicted killer! Her mind is twisted. What if she hurts our baby?” Marcus snatched his son up and took a panicked step back, his disgust a palpable wave. He bundled the child into the car and sped away, leaving only exhaust fumes and fresh snow. I remained rooted in the flurries, my voice mechanically calling out to passersby. Once, I would have thrown myself in front of a moving train for Marcus Sterling. Now, I felt nothing. The five years in confinement had scraped away every last speck of love, leaving behind only polished, brittle glass. Chapter 1 It was Christmas Eve, and I was pushing my cart, selling roasted fish & chips outside an upscale preschool in Astoria. A luxury car, a Rolls-Royce Ghost, glided past my stall. When I recognized the custom license plate—the one he’d always been so annoyingly proud of—I instinctively pulled the brim of my wool cap lower. But the small boy in the back seat rolled down his window. He pointed a chubby finger at my stall and yelled, “Daddy, I want those chips!” Marcus Sterling pulled the car over. I knew the moment he took a step toward me, pulling his son along, that I couldn’t hide. The streetlamp cut through the snow flurries, catching my face. He froze. “Sera. Seraphina, is that really you?” His voice was a strained whisper, quickly hardening. “I thought you died in prison.” Chelsea Hayes, draped in a mink coat that had likely cost my father’s entire year’s salary before everything, rushed to his side. Her face turned icy. “Marcus, she’s a felon, a convicted killer! Her mind is twisted. What if she hurts our baby?” Marcus snatched his son up and took a panicked step back, his disgust a palpable wave. He bundled the child into the car and sped away, leaving only exhaust fumes and fresh snow. I remained rooted in the flurries, my voice mechanically calling out to passersby. Once, I would have thrown myself in front of a moving train for Marcus Sterling. Now, I felt nothing. The five years in confinement had scraped away every last speck of love, leaving behind only polished, brittle glass. 1 The ground was slick with smashed fish fillets where a child had trampled them. Each piece was a five-dollar loss. A shame. I crouched down, scraping the pulpy mess into the slop pail, my movements slow and deliberate. “Oh my God, did you see that? That was the ex-fiancée of Marcus Sterling, the CEO!” “I heard she killed a man, right? News said she got five years!” “A killer? She’s a killer, and she’s selling food outside a school? That’s insane! She must be mentally unstable.” “Keep your kids close, close. Who knows what kind of vendetta a person like that might be nursing…” The parents collecting their children hadn’t dispersed yet. They eyed me, whispering behind gloved hands. I calmly tended to fry my chips, acting as if the subject of their morbid fascination was someone else entirely. Five years ago, I was Seraphina Jones: the shining talent at the Astoria Conservatory, the Golden Girl, and the fiancée of Marcus Sterling, heir to Sterling Global. Marcus, back then, would charter a jet to bring me to the Swiss Alps just because I’d casually mentioned I wanted to see fresh powder. I genuinely believed we were untouchable, until Chelsea Hayes arrived. Chelsea was the impoverished student I’d mentored and financially supported for four years. After graduation, I used my influence to get her a junior position at Sterling Global. I never imagined she would repay me by sliding into my bed—or rather, Marcus’s bed—and then, while I was locked away, marrying him and bearing his child. Once the crowds finally thinned, I packed my cart and pushed it toward my sub-level studio. I struggled to lock the cart near the stairwell entrance. As I turned, I saw the man standing at my door. The motion-sensor light in the hall had been broken for months, but I recognized the silhouette instantly: Leo Maxwell. He was the younger brother of a woman I’d met inside—a tough woman who became a reluctant protector. He was also my only neighbor. He was holding a small plastic bag containing a few tubes of medicated ointment. By the faint sliver of light escaping my cracked door, he saw my hands. The fresh, raw blister where I’d fumbled by the hot oil, the panic of pulling my cap down—it stood out starkly against the landscape of old, thick scars that already covered my skin. Leo’s brow instantly furrowed, and the old, jagged scar running above his left eyebrow twitched, giving his face a look of rugged severity. To me, it was the only source of warmth I had in this frozen world. “What happened to your hand?” His voice was deep, raw, like sand and gravel. I automatically tucked my hand into my sleeve, forcing a strained smile. “It’s nothing. Just a small burn. What are you doing here?” Leo said nothing. He simply stepped forward, took my wrist, and pulled me inside. “Let’s go.” My basement unit was an icebox—no heat, just damp concrete. Leo, with a strange sort of domesticity, flipped on the switch of my tiny space heater. The rusty coils began to glow a muted orange, casting a meager halo of warmth. He made me sit on the unit’s only folding chair, then knelt on the cold floor in front of me. He twisted open a tube of ointment and carefully began to dab it onto the burn with a cotton swab. The medication was cool, mentholated, and it finally stifled the throbbing, raw heat. I looked down at him. He was a man of few words; we’d exchanged maybe ten sentences since I moved in. But I knew, with absolute certainty, that without his silent help—an extra blanket, a shared meal, a word with a sketchy landlord—I might not have survived that first month out of the system. “I saw him today. And her,” I admitted, the sentence hanging unfinished in the cold air. Leo’s body went rigid. He didn’t look up, but his voice was tight. “You haven’t let it go, have you, Sera?” 2 I stared at the mold and moisture staining the wall, my mind drifting back to that torrential rain five years ago. I’d received Chelsea’s frantic call. “Sera, please, I need help! I hit someone… on Seaview Drive…” I drove out immediately. When I arrived, the scene made my blood run cold. My luxury sedan—the one I’d lent Chelsea—had a crumpled hood. The bumper was slick with blood. A few yards away, an elderly man lay in the mud, lifeless. Chelsea hadn’t been hit; she was the one who had struck and killed him. She was huddled in Marcus’s arms, wrapped in his bespoke suit jacket. The air inside my car, which she’d abandoned, was thick with the cloying scent of cheap perfume and stale champagne. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what had happened just before the accident. “Sera.” Marcus saw me. There was no apology, no shame. He strode toward me, and his first words cut deeper than any knife. “You’ll take the fall.” I recoiled. “What are you talking about? Marcus, have you lost your mind?” He gripped my wrist so hard I thought he’d snap a bone. He leaned in, screaming over the drumming rain. “Chelsea is pregnant! I can’t have my child born while its mother is in a federal institution!” I stood there, drenched and utterly stunned. My former mentee was carrying my fiancé’s child. “I won’t…” I backed away, tears mixing with the rain on my face. Marcus’s expression turned utterly vicious, a coldness I’d never seen. “Did you forget? That car is registered to you.” He lowered his voice, making the threat feel more intimate, more terrifying. “Also, your father’s company is running on fumes right now. It’s only Sterling Global’s bridge loan keeping them out of bankruptcy. And your mother’s bypass surgery? Scheduled for next week.” He pressed closer. “Do you want to wake up tomorrow morning to the news that Jones Industries has collapsed, your father jumped from the roof, and your mother’s heart medication has been pulled?” I was paralyzed. A sudden chill shot from my feet straight to the crown of my head. “Marcus! You’re not human!” I shrieked. My tears tasted bitter, salty. “I’ll get you the best lawyers, Sera.” He gently brushed the water from my cheek, a terrifying act of tenderness. “When you get out, I’ll marry you. Just take the charge for Chelsea. I have people on the inside; I promise you, I can get you out in two years, max. The Jones family funds will be transferred by sunrise.” Chelsea, hiding behind him, started to sob dramatically. “Sera, please… I can’t go to jail. I have my grad school applications, my life is just starting…” She gave me a sickening, saccharine look. “You’re different. You’re the Jones heiress. You’ll be fine, even if you do a little time.” Police sirens wailed in the distance, closer now. “You know what to do,” Marcus commanded, his voice softening to an urgent plea. Between the survival of my family’s legacy and my own freedom, he had already made the choice for me. I walked toward the squad car. Due to the severity of the death, and the way the story was handled by the media—painting me as a drunk, reckless heiress—my sentence was extended to five years. Inside, the environment was brutal. One of the hardened inmates, the self-appointed queen, despised me. Toilet duty, sleeping on soaked mattresses, cigarette burns—it was routine. The worst was the late-night beatings. The agony was so intense that I curled into a ball, feeling a hot, wet rush between my legs. When I was finally hauled to the infirmary, I found out I had been pregnant. The doctor, a callous woman, simply cleaned up the bloody tissue and told me flatly: “You lost the baby. It’ll be tough for you to conceive again.” I lay staring at the ceiling, numb, until the guard told me I had a visitor. Marcus. It was the only time he ever came. 3 I grabbed the phone like a lifeline, screaming and pounding on the glass partition. “Marcus! Our baby is gone! They kill our baby!” “It was Chelsea! She must have bought people inside to hurt me! Marcus, you have to help me!” He looked at me with a deep, crushing aversion. “Sera, what are you doing to yourself? Why have you become this person?” He shook his head, his face etched with disapproval. “Compulsive lying. Hysteria. Chelsea is the kindest soul I know. She wouldn’t harm an insect. Why would she hire someone to hurt you?” “Are you so desperate for sympathy that you’d fabricate a pregnancy? Why don’t you just say you have cancer next?” “I’m not lying! You can check the medical records…” I choked out, desperately. “Enough.” He cut me off, cold and final. He stood up and adjusted his expensive cufflink. “Just serve your time. You’ll be out soon. I’ll make it up to you with a spectacular wedding.” He walked away. He never looked back. That was the moment I died inside. Back in the cell block, the queen-inmate, seeing my shattered expression, cackled savagely. “Still calling out for your Prince Charming? We must have been too soft on you.” “I heard these hands were meant for the piano. Such beautiful hands. A real tragedy.” Then came a sickening snap. My right index and middle fingers were stomped on, deliberately. Without proper treatment, the bones fused crookedly. The joints twisted and knotted, resembling the brittle branches of a dead tree. Now, I couldn’t even hold a pair of chopsticks without a tremor of pain when the weather changed, let alone touch a piano key. “Done.” Leo’s voice pulled me back to the cold present. My hand was carefully bandaged. The stark white gauze glowed faintly in the dim orange light of the space heater. I realized Leo was watching me intently, an emotion I couldn’t quite place churning in his dark eyes. “You’re shaking,” he stated. I looked down at my disfigured, knotty fingers. He was right. I was shaking because Marcus had broken his promise. The promised “short stay” had turned into the full five years. And my parents… they didn’t want me back. The few chances I had for a call home were always met with a busy signal. The one time the call connected, it was Chelsea. “Sera, stop calling. Mom and Dad get chest pains whenever your name comes up. Their bodies can’t take the stress.” Mom and Dad? My mind went blank. My mother quickly snatched the receiver. “You have the gall to call this house? You disgraced the Jones name!” “Drunk driving, manslaughter… how did we raise an animal like you?” “Mom, no, I did this for—” “Shut up! Don’t call me that!” My father’s voice, thick with disgust, cut in. “We don’t have a daughter named Seraphina. Never call us again. You can rot in there for all we care.” Then, Chelsea’s sweet, cloying voice: “It’s okay, Mom, Dad, have some tea, calm down. I’m sure Sera will reform herself eventually.” “Oh, Chelsea is such a good girl,” my mother sighed, her voice instantly softening. “If only Sera was half as sweet as you. From now on, you are our daughter. That failure, she can stay in jail.” The line went dead. I held the receiver, listening to the hollow dial tone, a ghost abandoned by the entire world. She hadn’t just stolen my fiancé and my freedom. She’d stolen my parents, my home, my entire identity. After that, I never called again. I couldn’t bear to hear the tenderness they reserved for her, or the venom they saved for me. 4 The day I was released, I stole away to my parents’ suburban home. I just wanted to see them, even from a distance. But the imposing wrought-iron gates were padlocked, and a foreclosure notice was plastered on the front door. A neighbor told me the cold facts: “The Jones family? They lost everything. Didn’t you know? Mr. Jones had a massive stroke and died on the floor of his study. His wife, she just withered away a few days later. Broken heart, I guess.” I stood in the bleak winter wind, staring at the house where I had grown up, now a sterile mausoleum. I had no family left. Every promise Marcus Sterling ever made me was a lie. “Leo,” I lifted my head, my voice dry. “How can people be so black-hearted? How do they live with themselves? How do they… sleep at night?” Leo didn’t answer. He stood, his broad back blocking the draft from the hallway. He pulled a thick bundle of hand warmers from his jacket pocket and shoved them into my lap, followed by a bag of warm, fragrant pastries. “Eat something.” He didn’t wait for a reply, turning to leave. As he reached the threshold, he paused, his back still to me, his voice low and guttural. “Sera. Don’t look back. Those kinds of vermin aren’t worth dirtying your hands over.” He paused again, turning his head slightly, and the scar on his brow was prominent in the gloom. “From now on, you have me.” The door shut. When I woke again, the morning light was a weak, pale gray filtering through the tiny basement vent. I got up to open the door, preparing for the day’s grind. I pulled the door open just a crack, and a rush of cold air, mingled with the familiar scent of an expensive, smoky cologne, hit me. My body locked up. Standing in the narrow, shadowed hallway, a figure totally out of place, was Marcus Sterling. He wore a cashmere coat, the picture of refined wealth. But his eyes were bloodshot, as if he hadn’t slept, and the floor by his feet was littered with cigarette butts. Seeing me, he stubbed out the cigarette and fixed his eyes on mine. “Sera.” His voice was hoarse, tinged with an almost imperceptible tremor. I tried to slam the door shut. A large, determined hand shot out, jamming the frame. Ignoring the pain of the metal grating against his knuckles, Marcus forced his way inside. The cramped basement unit instantly became suffocating. I stumbled back, grabbing the small fruit knife from the table, my hand shaking as I pointed it at him. “Stay back! Marcus, what do you want now? I have nothing left! What more can you possibly take?!” Marcus’s pupils dilated, and a flicker of genuine pain crossed his face. He took a hesitant step closer, his voice strained. “The accident… five years ago… I had my reasons, Sera.”

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The last year of my life, the year the cancer was eating me alive, was the same year my daughter, Clara, married into the Ashworth dynasty. I died believing she was finally safe, set up for a life of storybook happiness. I was wrong. Less than a year later, Preston Ashworth’s so-called “Lost Love”—the one he was supposedly destined for, the woman who returned to turn our world to ash—came back. Serena Hayes. The torment she inflicted, drove Clara into a debilitating depression. Seven months pregnant, and the viper was making her down shots of hard liquor in a VIP room. The rage that exploded in my chest—the sheer, blinding injustice—was enough to finally let go. I took my last, rattling breath. Then, I woke up. I was no longer Clara’s dying mother; I was the formidable Eleanor “Ellie” Sterling, the undisputed matriarch of the family that was systematically destroying her. Preston Ashworth’s mother. I found the location and kicked open the heavy door to the private room. Serena Hayes, a picture of false piety in a flowing silk dress, immediately plastered a smile on her face and rushed over. “Ellie! Mother Ashworth, what a surprise. How you come here?” Chapter 1 The last year of my life, the year the cancer was eating me alive, was the same year my daughter, Clara, married into the Ashworth dynasty. I died believing she was finally safe, set up for a life of storybook happiness. I was wrong. Less than a year later, Preston Ashworth’s so-called “Lost Love”—the one he was supposedly destined for, the woman who returned to turn our world to ash—came back. Serena Hayes. The torment she inflicted, drove Clara into a debilitating depression. Seven months pregnant, and the viper was making her down shots of hard liquor in a VIP room. The rage that exploded in my chest—the sheer, blinding injustice—was enough to finally let go. I took my last, rattling breath. Then, I woke up. I was no longer Clara’s dying mother; I was the formidable Eleanor “Ellie” Sterling, the undisputed matriarch of the family that was systematically destroying her. Preston Ashworth’s mother. I found the location and kicked open the heavy door to the private room. Serena Hayes, a picture of false piety in a flowing silk dress, immediately plastered a smile on her face and rushed over. “Ellie! Mother Ashworth, what a surprise. How you come here?” 1 The room went instantly silent. The handful of people inside, the hangers-on and sycophants, all stared. Serena, her hand instinctively resting on her perfectly tailored bump, kept her saccharine smile fixed. “Did Preston send you to pick me up…?” I didn’t spare her a glance. I walked straight past her, my eyes locked on the leather sectional. My daughter. Seven months pregnant, Clara was pinned against the cushions, struggling as a group of people tried to force a glass down her throat. The stench of spilled whiskey already permeated her thin dress. “Let her go.” The man with the loud floral shirt paused, looking uncertainly at Serena. Serena grabbed my arm, her touch instantly repulsive. “Mother Ashworth, it’s just a game. Clara lost a round, so she’s being punished.” CRACK! The sound—a wet, shocking crack—cut through the tension. I’d used all my resurrected strength on the slap. “Who do you think you’re calling ‘Mother’?” I hissed, my voice dangerously low. “Clara Ashworth is the only legal, recognized daughter-in-law of this family. You are nothing.” Serena’s head was still turned to the side, her expression frozen in disbelief. I didn’t look at her, my gaze hard and unforgiving. “I’ll say it one more time. Get away from her.” Serena’s eyes started to well up, a practiced show of wounded innocence. “Clara was being dramatic. Besides, a tiny sip of wine never hurt a pregnant woman…” “A tiny sip? That was a full glass of single-malt whiskey!” The thought of the burning liquid being forced on my pregnant daughter sent a renewed wave of fury through me. My eyes swept pointedly over Serena’s own noticeably prominent belly. “You’re a pregnant woman, too. Why don’t you offer to drink that for her?” “Absolutely not!” Serena recoiled instantly, a flash of pure fear crossing her face. “Mom, what are you doing here?!” Preston Ashworth’s voice boomed from the doorway. Serena instantly broke free of my grip and rushed to him, her eyes now truly red. “It was nothing, Preston! We were just playing a silly game with Clara, and Mother Ashworth got so angry…” Preston wrapped his arms around her, instantly comforting his mistress. “Mom, it’s just a drink. You’re making a mountain out of a molehill.” He didn’t spare Clara a single glance. Not one. Watching him, my heart went cold, inch by devastating inch. This was the man my precious Clara had trusted with her life. This was the son-in-law I had prayed over from my deathbed, hoping he would give her the happiness I could no longer guarantee. I spoke, my voice devoid of warmth. “This is the only warning you will get.” “If Clara and that child suffer any kind of permanent harm, I promise you, I will not hesitate to ruin you both.” 2 I drove Clara straight back to the Ashworth mansion, a cold silence hanging between us, and ordered the household staff to see to her comfort. A young maid, hesitant, guided Clara towards a dimly lit corner on the second floor. Then she pushed open a door I hadn’t noticed—a door that led to a small utility closet. The maid helped Clara inside and started to close the door. A rush of foul air—stale garbage and mildew—hit me. My brow furrowed. “What in God’s name are you doing?” I demanded of the maid. The maid looked back, genuinely confused. “Madam, this is Mrs. Ashworth’s room.” My breath hitched. My pupils instantly constricted. This was my daughter’s home? Her sanctuary? A single, narrow bed was shoved into the corner. It was the dead of winter, and the only covering was a flimsy cotton quilt, the exact one I’d knitted for her senior year of high school. She was the officially recognized Mrs. Ashworth! I fought down the urge to scream. I forced myself to maintain a smooth, even tone. “Go. Now. Clear out the South-facing Master Suite on the third floor.” “But that’s where Miss Hayes keeps her things…” “Clear it out. All of it.” The staff instantly scurried to obey. Within minutes, a flurry of activity began, moving Serena’s expensive-looking clutter out of the most luxurious suite in the house. Serena arrived moments later, surveying the sudden upheaval. “Stop! Who gave you the right to touch my things?!” This time, the staff ignored her, recognizing the sudden shift in the balance of power. Serena stomped her foot, enraged, then spotted me on the second-floor landing. She took a deep breath, smoothing her dress, forcing herself to adopt a contrite, obedient expression. Her hand automatically went to her stomach. “Mother Ashworth, why are you doing this? I’m carrying Preston’s child…” “Don’t you worry about Preston getting angry when he sees you throwing my belongings out?” I looked down at her, my expression utterly flat. “Clara is also pregnant.” “And the child she carries is the legitimate heir of the Ashworth name. Yours is not.” Serena didn’t react as expected. She laughed, a brittle, ugly sound. “Clara? She barely qualifies as a decent babysitter!” “She only latched onto Preston to get money for her mother’s medical bills. Preston only indulged her out of pity.” Her voice dropped, thick with scorn. “Now that her cancer-ridden mother is dead, Clara is a used plaything. She’s overstayed her welcome.” Serena’s words landed like sharp little knives, one after the other, plunging into the part of my heart that was still Clara’s mother. You told me you loved him, Clara. That he loved you. You told me you were happy. Was this what you endured all along? Were you sacrificing yourself even then? I clenched my fists so tight my nails dug into my palms. Serena, misinterpreting my silence as defeat, pressed her advantage, her tone thick with sneering confidence. “Preston runs this house, ultimately. Your son loves me, not her. Clara may be the legal wife, but she’ll be making way for me soon enough. Why cause a rift in the family for a toy Preston has already discarded?” I smiled then, a small, cold curve of my lips. I looked straight into the triumphant gleam in her eyes. “You want to join the Ashworth family?” I asked softly. “Preston’s approval is irrelevant. You have to ask me.” Serena’s face faltered, but before she could retort, the front door swung open. 3 Preston Ashworth walked in to find a mountain of Serena’s luxury goods piled on the Italian marble floor. His brows immediately drew together. “What the hell is going on here?” Serena’s composure instantly broke. She flew into his arms, tears springing to her eyes. “It’s nothing, darling. Just a misunderstanding.” She pulled back, looking martyr-like. “That suite has the best light. It really should go to Clara. I’m just being a little sentimental about the move… I might have been a bit short with the staff, and I upset Mother Ashworth.” Preston tenderly wiped the tears from her cheek, his concern centered solely on her. He finally looked up at me. “Mom, I told you. If you have an issue, you address it with me. Why are you punishing Serena? If you want to change her room, we can discuss it like adults.” “Discuss it like adults?” I raised an eyebrow and pointed towards the dark utility closet. “Was that the result of your ‘adult’ discussion? Making your seven-months-pregnant wife live in a glorified trash room?” Preston’s face flushed. He avoided my gaze. “She could have asked for a different room. Why did she have to steal Serena’s?” “Steal? I put your legal wife into the best suite in the house. What exactly is the problem?” Preston was speechless. After a long, awkward silence, he muttered, “But Serena is further along…” I almost laughed at the sheer absurdity of his entitlement. “Preston, your legally wedded wife is seven months pregnant! Your mistress is carrying a child that is due before your wife’s. You’ve been married less than a year. How does that reflect on the Ashworth name, exactly?” His face went crimson. Serena, seeing his distress, gently stroked his arm, adopting the voice of a gentle angel. “Don’t fight with your mother over me, Preston. I really don’t mind where I stay, as long as you and the baby are happy. We should listen to Mother Ashworth.” She even gave me a beatific, pitying smile. Predictably, Preston only grew more protective. He looked down at Serena, his voice firm. “You listen to me. Pack a bag. You’re moving into the Master Bedroom with me tonight.” Serena looked stunned for a second, then shook her head softly. “No, darling, really. Don’t cause trouble with your mother. I can sleep anywhere, truly. As long as you and the baby are well…” “You’ll do as I say,” Preston insisted, patting her hand, his tone now a low growl. “I still run this house.” He put his arm around her and walked away. He didn’t dare look back at me. Serena leaned into him, utterly victorious. But before they rounded the staircase, she shot me a look over Preston’s shoulder—a fleeting glance of smug triumph and cold mockery. I remained still, watching them leave. When the massive house finally fell silent, I turned and walked up to Clara’s room. She was already settled, the silence in the luxurious room oppressive. I could barely hear her shallow breathing. She wasn’t sleeping peacefully; even in her sleep, her brow was deeply furrowed. I sat on the edge of the bed and gently took her cold hand. “Mom…” she murmured. “I’m here, Clara. I’m here.” She must have heard me because her fingers tightened, clinging to mine with a desperate strength. My mind replayed the scene from the hallway: Preston and Serena, intertwined, openly flaunting their affair. And here, my daughter suffered alone. My grip around her hand tightened. You have only me now, my sweet girl. Then, my gaze fell on her arm. Her sleeve had ridden up in the struggle, revealing an angry, purple bruise across her wrist. My heart plunged into my stomach. I carefully pulled the sleeve higher. A collection of injuries. Old ones, fading yellow. New ones, a sickening, fresh purple-red. I lowered my eyes to her pale, sleeping face and gently smoothed the crease from her brow. Then, I stood and quietly left the room. The muffled sound of Serena’s high-pitched laughter and Preston’s gentle, indulgent replies drifted down the hall from the Master Suite. I stood in the deep shadow of the landing, listening, my face empty of expression. Preston Ashworth. Serena Hayes. Very well. The scars your cruelty inflicted… I will repay every single one. Every moment of pain. With interest. You will pay for this. 4 To compensate Serena for the ‘trauma’ of being moved, Preston decided to throw a lavish dinner party. He also promised her that he would publicly announce her child as the Ashworth family’s sole and rightful heir. The ballroom was packed with the city’s elite. Preston stood in the center of the floor, Serena on his arm, beaming with self-satisfaction. “Congratulations, Preston!” “What a lucky lady, Mrs. Ashworth!” The fawning praises echoed through the room. No one mentioned the true Mrs. Ashworth, Clara, as if she were a ghost, an inconvenient memory. It was then that the grand double doors of the ballroom were thrown open. Silence. I stood in the doorway, my gaze sweeping the room. Preston spotted me and, with Serena on his arm, walked over. “Mom, you came. Perfect. Serena and I were just about to…” “Where is Clara?” I cut him off, my voice steady. Preston hesitated, his eyes darting away. “It’s a celebration, Mom. Don’t bring her up. She made a mistake, and she needs to reflect on it.” “What mistake?” Preston’s brow furrowed. “She is a spiteful woman. She tried to push Serena down the stairs this afternoon. If I hadn’t seen it, the outcome would have been unthinkable.” Serena, ever the consummate performer, instantly welled up, her voice a soft, injured whisper. “Mother Ashworth, Clara was truly terrible this time. We almost… almost lost the baby. Preston was simply upset, so he had to punish her.” I ignored Serena’s pathetic act and fixed my gaze on Preston. “She is not well. Tell me where Clara is, immediately.” Preston sighed, exasperated. “Not well? Can’t you see she’s acting? She’s manipulating you for sympathy. And besides, I am her husband. She misbehaved, and I have every right to discipline her!” My patience snapped. The thought of my daughter locked away somewhere, hurting, was unbearable. “Preston Ashworth! I’m asking you one last time. Where is my daughter?!” “Your daughter?” Serena repeated the phrase softly, a sneer forming at the corners of her mouth. She chuckled. “Ellie, are you feeling alright? You’ve been under a lot of stress. How could Clara be your daughter? Preston, maybe we should call a psychiatrist for your mother.” Preston’s face tightened. “Mom, be rational! You don’t have a daughter. Clara is nothing to you, she’s certainly not a part of this family…” He sighed deeply. “Enough. You’re overtired. Guards!” He waved toward the door. “My mother is exhausted. Escort her back to her room.” Two large security guards stepped forward, ready to intervene. “I’d like to see you try to move me,” I snapped. The guards froze, uncertain. Preston bit back a curse. “What are you waiting for? I am the head of this family. Take the old lady to rest!” I smiled, a cold, predatory smile. “The head of the family? Excellent.” I slowly pulled a thick, official-looking manila envelope from my clutch. When Preston saw the word ADOPTION stamped clearly on the cover, his eyes went wide. His previous confidence evaporated. “Mom, let’s go home and discuss this, just us…” “I gave you a chance, Preston. As of this moment, our relationship is severed. You are no longer the heir to the Ashworth fortune.” Preston stood frozen, his eyes finally showing a flicker of genuine terror. Just then, a maid ran into the ballroom, leaning in to whisper a frantic message into Preston’s ear. The words, though low, carried clearly to me: “Sir, Mrs. Ashworth has been locked in the ice room for three hours…” “We heard her crying earlier, but now the room is silent.” “Should we let her out?”

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Savannah’s “golden boy”—the one she’d always measured every other man against — He got leukemia. My wife, eight months pregnant, wanted to induce labor. Not to deliver our child, but to kill the baby and use the new baby to save him. The doctor had been clear: an eight-month induction was dangerous for her and would almost certainly be fatal for the baby. I grabbed her arm, trying to reason with her frantic panic, and she lashed out, her open palm cracking against my cheekbone. The sting was immediate and searing. “Dean Miller, are you really this self-absorbed?” Sav’s voice was a furious hiss. “Owen Shaw is dying, and you’re worried about some medical technicality! He’s the most important person in my life! I’m not going to stand by and watch him go!” She didn’t wait for my response. She slammed out the door and hailed a cab to the hospital. Dazed and numb, I followed her, driven by a horrifying sense of disbelief. Later, outside the operating room, I could hear her screams, raw and tearing, yet even in her pain, she was telling the nurses, “Save Owen! Please, just get the blood to save Owen!” In that moment, standing there with the throbbing pain in my jaw and the screams echoing in the hall, I realized the absolute, pathetic joke I was. And in that moment, I decided. I would give her what she wanted—her perfect Owen. Chapter 1 Savannah’s “golden boy”—the one she’d always measured every other man against — He got leukemia. My wife, eight months pregnant, wanted to induce labor. Not to deliver our child, but to kill the baby and use the new baby to save him. The doctor had been clear: an eight-month induction was dangerous for her and would almost certainly be fatal for the baby. I grabbed her arm, trying to reason with her frantic panic, and she lashed out, her open palm cracking against my cheekbone. The sting was immediate and searing. “Dean Miller, are you really this self-absorbed?” Sav’s voice was a furious hiss. “Owen Shaw is dying, and you’re worried about some medical technicality! He’s the most important person in my life! I’m not going to stand by and watch him go!” She didn’t wait for my response. She slammed out the door and hailed a cab to the hospital. Dazed and numb, I followed her, driven by a horrifying sense of disbelief. Later, outside the operating room, I could hear her screams, raw and tearing, yet even in her pain, she was telling the nurses, “Save Owen! Please, just get the blood to save Owen!” In that moment, standing there with the throbbing pain in my jaw and the screams echoing in the hall, I realized the absolute, pathetic joke I was. And in that moment, I decided. I would give her what she wanted—her perfect Owen. …… The cut on the corner of my mouth was still hot and stinging. Behind the closed door, the gut-wrenching screams of my wife, Savannah, continued, punctuated by the cold, sterile sounds of the hospital. I stood leaning against a far wall, scrolling through my phone, my fingers moving without thought. I was a ghost in the periphery, and I felt nothing. Owen and Sav’s mutual friends, a tight-knit circle I’d never quite fit into, shot me glances filled with disdain and utter contempt. Three hours later, the double doors swung open, and they wheeled Sav out. Beneath the pristine white blanket, her stomach was tragically flat. Her friends crowded around her, hands gripping hers, their voices a sympathetic chorus. “Oh, darling, you were so brave. You shouldn’t have gone through that.” “It’s a miracle! Owen has a chance now!” “Honestly, Sav, you deserve better. How could a husband be so cold? Not even here to hold your hand through something this huge.” Savannah’s lips were pressed into a thin, pale line. She hadn’t spoken. One of the women eventually shoved me forward, right up to the bedside. Savannah’s gaze met mine. Slowly, she lifted her hand and hooked her pinky around my own, giving my hand a small, familiar little swing. I knew the move. It was her signal, her soft, practiced manipulation to smooth things over. Before this morning, that tiny gesture would have had me dropping to my knees for her, begging for her forgiveness, even though I hadn’t wronged her. This time, I slowly and deliberately pulled my hand away. Her eyes widened in a fleeting flash of shock, and her brow furrowed slightly. “It was just a pregnancy, Dean,” she whispered, her voice weak but still dismissive. “Don’t be so petty. Once Owen is better, we can always have another one.” Another one? That was how casually she dismissed the life we had planned for. The image of the happy, perfect family we’d dreamed up in this very hospital—it was grotesque now. I gave a short, bitter laugh. “Congratulations. I hope you and your heart’s desire have all the children you want.” “Dean Miller! Enough with the drama! We are just friends. Do not infect our relationship with your sick, filthy mind.” Just then, Owen wheeled himself in, pale but perfectly positioned for sympathy. Ignoring the small, appreciative murmur of the crowd, I pushed the door open and walked out. “Doctor,” I asked, stopping awkwardly outside the office, my voice tight. “Could I… could I take the baby’s body? I just want to… lay my son to rest properly.” The doctor sighed, rubbing his temples. “Of course, Mr. Miller. It’s protocol. It’s just… a shame. The mother was so insistent. Otherwise, the baby had a very strong chance of surviving.” The doctor’s words were a cold, sharp blade, twisted deep in the wound. A strong chance of surviving. After arranging for the baby’s remains, I went home. The box of designer diapers I’d bought, the last little bit of shopping we’d done together, was still sitting in the corner of the living room. I hadn’t had the heart to move it. Before I could even process that, the phone rang. It was Sav’s parents. “Dean! Where are you? Get home, clean up the place, and start cooking! Your birthday is tomorrow, and the family is coming over for dinner.” “And book us a suite at the Hilton downtown. You know your cleaning is too noisy, and we can’t sleep through it.” I glanced at the clock on my phone. Two in the morning. “It’s my birthday. Why am I celebrating it at your house, cooking and cleaning for your relatives?” Sav’s father let out a cold, dismissive snort. “Don’t be ungrateful, boy. You’re a pathetic orphan, a walking jinx. We did you a favor letting Sav marry you. Hosting your birthday is a kindness. You think cooking a meal is too much to ask?” His stream of insults flowed freely, as they always did. I looked around the house. I had meticulously cleaned this place every day. The couch was draped with Sav’s favorite blanket. Her personalized coffee mug sat on the counter. This house was built with the last of my parents’ inheritance, every penny I had, all so Savannah would have the secure, beautiful home she deserved. Now, she had shattered it. “I’m divorcing Savannah,” I said, the words surprisingly steady. “You don’t need to worry about my birthday.” Silence. Then, a roar. “What? You don’t get to decide that! What kind of man are you? My daughter was carrying your child! Have you no conscience?” I laughed again, this time a sound completely hollowed out. “Just now, she got rid of that child. She did it so she could try to have a baby for another man.” “That’s impossible! My Ruoshu is a good girl! She would never!” “Go check the hospital, then.” I hung up, pulling the phone from my ear. For the first time, I blocked their number. For years, I had bent over backwards, desperate for their approval, all for Sav. I didn’t need it anymore. My gaze drifted to the pristine white crib in the nursery. I had pictured our child here a thousand times. All I could see now was the flat emptiness beneath the hospital blanket, and all I could hear was the doctor’s regret. My wife and my child, the two people I held most dear, were both gone in a single night of brutal self-destruction. I numbly packed up the baby’s things, intending to burn them. As I finished, a notification popped up. It was Owen’s social media feed. “Love truly conquers all.” The accompanying picture was a grainy shot from what looked like a hotel room. Owen was holding a woman’s hand, their fingers laced together. On her wrist, a slender diamond bracelet caught the light. I recognized it instantly. It was the bracelet I’d given Savannah for our first wedding anniversary. The comment section was filled with congratulatory messages for the couple. I tapped the like button, a final, cold acknowledgment of the end, and was about to block him when a video call came through. It was Owen. He was propped up naked against the white pillows, his neck marked with obvious hickeys. He shifted the camera slightly, and there she was: Savannah, asleep beside him, also naked, her skin bruised with fresh marks of intimacy. “Hey, Miller,” Owen drawled, his voice thick with satisfied laziness. “Man, I owe you one. I never thought you’d be cool enough to let your wife give me a shot at life. When I’m better, I’ll come thank you in person.” He paused, a smirk playing on his lips. “Oh, and happy birthday, brother. Hope it’s a good one!” He kept the camera trained on the naked woman beside him. “Sav’s exhausted. Can’t talk for long. Don’t want to wake her.” I cut him off, my voice shaking with a rage so cold it felt clean. “You’re disgusting, Owen. You really think being the home-wrecker gives you the moral high ground?” Owen laughed, a short, sharp sound of pure scorn. “The only one who matters is the one who’s loved, Dean. Look at her. The moment I needed her, she dropped everything—including a perfectly good husband and a child—to be here. You’ll never have that kind of hold on her.” He was right. I couldn’t compete with the phantom limb of her first love. Savannah loved him so completely she had risked her own life for a chance to save his. A sudden exhaustion crashed over me. I felt too tired to speak. Before I could hang up, Owen’s eyes suddenly went wide and red. “Owen… what’s wrong? Who hurt you?” Savannah’s frantic voice cut through the phone. Owen instantly handed the phone to her. “Sav, it’s my fault. All my fault. If I hadn’t gotten sick, you wouldn’t have had to risk so much. You should be home, setting up the nursery. You and Dean should be a happy family.” Savannah’s face, which had been full of tenderness for him, twisted into pure loathing when she looked at the phone—at me. “Dean Miller! How dare you bully him! I chose to do this for Owen! I can have a baby with anyone I want to! I married you, I didn’t sell you my rights! Stay out of my business!” I closed my eyes for a moment, then opened them, utterly calm. “You’re right,” I said quietly. “You’re absolutely right.” Taken aback by my lack of argument, Savannah sighed, her tone shifting to condescension. “Look, Dean, when Owen is better, we can try again. We can have a baby, and be a family of three, okay?” I didn’t answer. I just hung up the phone. Savannah’s life, and everything in it, was no longer my concern. She came home that evening, and Owen was with her. “Owen’s a patient, Dean. I couldn’t leave him alone.” She tossed the explanation over her shoulder like a piece of refuse. “He needs the master bedroom, and I need to be close to him. You can move into the nursery for now. You can sleep on the floor. When I get pregnant, you can have your room back.” Before I could process the insult, Owen appeared, laying a sickly, saccharine charm on thick. “Thank you, Dean. Honestly, I don’t know what I’d do without you two.” He walked right into the master bedroom. Moments later, my clothes, my books, and all my personal effects were unceremoniously dumped outside the door. They looked just as superfluous as I felt. Our wedding portrait, the photo of us laughing on our honeymoon, was thrown out as well. Owen emerged, feigning apology. “Sorry about that, Dean, buddy. But, you know, Sav and I are trying to conceive. Having your wedding photo on the nightstand? It’s a little… unnerving.” Savannah patted his shoulder with an expression of fierce protection. “Don’t worry, Owen. I’m right here.” They were perfectly in sync. I ignored them both, gathering my things and moving into the empty room I had painstakingly decorated for my son. Savannah dedicated herself to waiting on Owen, bringing him tea and fetching his water. Our wedding portrait lay face-up on the living room rug, and every time someone walked by, it was impossible not to step on it. A clear footprint was etched over my face. Thunk. Suddenly, my favorite coffee mug, the one Sav and I bought together, hit the floor and shattered. Owen, claiming it was an accident, smiled with wicked delight. “Whoops! My bad, Dean. I swear it was an accident. You’re not mad, are you, man?” I refused to engage. But then, he stumbled dramatically onto the shards of ceramic. A piece sliced his forearm, and blood immediately welled up. His eyes flooded with tears. “Dean, I know you hate me. I know I deserve it. Punish me however you want, just don’t hate Sav.” Savannah flew out of the bedroom. She saw the blood and instantly went ballistic. “Dean Miller! How evil are you? He’s a sick man! How could you deliberately hurt him?” She grabbed the dusty baseball bat I kept in the corner for security and swung it hard at my ribs. I crumpled, my legs going weak, my head cracking against the sharp corner of the coffee table. A torrent of warm blood streamed down my face. I lay there, shaking from pain and shock, watching the paramedics load a tearful Owen onto the gurney. Savannah never even looked at me. I was left alone, bleeding on the floor. I held back the overwhelming wave of pain and grief. I closed my eyes and slipped into a dizzying darkness. I woke to the sound of the front door opening. Savannah and Owen had returned. She saw me still lying there and rolled her eyes in disgusted irritation. Then, she kicked me hard in the stomach. “You’re disgusting! If anything had happened to Owen, I swear, I would have killed you myself!” Owen, playing the magnanimous victim, rushed over and pulled Sav away. “Sav, stop! I’m fine. Please, don’t fight. I’m sure Dean didn’t mean it.” Savannah was immediately protective. “Oh, Owen, you are too kind! That’s why people take advantage of you. It’s all Dean’s fault. He’s so thoughtless.” She looked down at me, her expression a mask of cold superiority. “Get up. Stop pretending. Go make us dinner. Owen wants rack of lamb, so make plenty.” Rack of lamb. I was violently allergic to lamb—the smell alone could send me into anaphylactic shock. I forced myself up, hunching over against the waves of crippling abdominal pain. “Why should I cook for you?” I asked, my voice a croak. “Owen fell on the shards himself. I didn’t touch him.” Savannah didn’t care about the facts. “He’s not an idiot! He wouldn’t just fall on shattered glass for no reason!” She pushed me roughly toward the kitchen. “You’re not leaving until that food is cooked. It’s because Owen is too gentle that you keep taking advantage of him. All I asked was for you to cook one meal. Don’t be difficult.” I finished the meal, my body protesting with every movement. My stomach cramped, and my skin was already breaking out in angry red hives from the fumes of the lamb. My lips were a sickly white. Savannah eyed the perfectly cooked meal, nodding in approval. Finally, she gave me a cursory glance. Her brow twitched. “Your face looks terrible. What’s wrong?” I managed to pull back before her hand touched me. Ignoring her look of annoyance, I slowly crawled back toward the nursery. I barely made it to the edge of the floor mattress before the door was flung open. Savannah marched in and yanked me off the bed with violent force, then slapped me hard across the face. “I thought you were finally learning your lesson! You went and harassed Owen the minute I went to the bathroom!” The force of the slap sent me reeling. I could taste the metallic tang of blood in my throat. Owen stood behind her, his hand covering a fresh, angry red mark on his cheek. He clutched Savannah’s arm, tearful and dramatic. “Sav, don’t blame him. It was my fault. I shouldn’t have left the room.” Savannah led him to the sofa, her face etched with profound worry. “Sit down. The ambulance is coming right now. We’re taking you to the ER.” She turned back to me, her eyes alight with fury. “I am not letting you get away with this. You have put him in the hospital twice today!” She left with Owen in the ambulance, never noticing the dark stain of my own blood spreading on the floor. My phone had been kicked clear across the room. I didn’t have the strength to crawl to it. Messages were flooding my screen. Savannah, too enraged to wait, was sending me a flurry of hate-filled texts. My vision was swimming. With the last of my failing strength, I reached the phone and dialed the first number in my emergency contacts. It rang and rang. Finally, a weary, irritable voice answered. It was Savannah. “Dean, what do you want? I’m with Owen. You hit him so hard his lip is bleeding. You are a truly malicious person, and I will never forgive you.” I couldn’t argue. I just needed help. “You’re right. It’s all my fault. Could you just…” The line went dead. She had hung up. I couldn’t hold on any longer. I fell down on the floor.

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While slacking off on the clock, a post of Slack Channel popped up on my phone. [I have a massive crush on the new intern. Problem is, his girlfriend is also an intern here. Advice?] The top comment read: [If he has a girlfriend, back off. Are you seriously considering becoming the office homewrecker?] But the original poster fired back with a long response. [Okay, here’s my deal: I’m thirty, unmarried, and completely financially secure—car, condo, savings. Aside from being eight years older than him, I have his girlfriend beat on pretty much everything else.] [I finally found someone I actually like. Am I really supposed to just walk away?] Immediately, a flood of commenters jumped in to offer advice. [They just graduated, they haven’t faced the real world yet, no stress, no professional rivalry. Stir the pot a little and they’ll break up, guaranteed.] [Support the poster! Go get your man. I agree with the above. Start being overly nice to his girlfriend. That’ll make the guy feel off-balance and guilty. Once a couple starts fighting over work, it’s game over.] [Bonus tip: You’re management. Just block her promotion. Then it’s just you and him left in the company.] I muttered a curse under my breath—seriously, what a psycho—and immediately forgot about the thread. That afternoon, however, the Department Director, Miranda Shaw, called me and my boyfriend into her office. “A major, high-value feature just landed,” she announced. “Whoever lands the exclusive interview for this project gets a guaranteed fast-track to full-time.” Chapter 1 While slacking off on the clock, a Reddit post popped up on my phone. [I have a massive crush on the new intern. Problem is, his girlfriend is also an intern here. Advice?] The top comment read: [If he has a girlfriend, back off. Are you seriously considering becoming the office homewrecker?] But the original poster fired back with a long response. [Okay, here’s my deal: I’m thirty, unmarried, and completely financially secure—car, condo, savings. Aside from being eight years older than him, I have his girlfriend beat on pretty much everything else.] [I finally found someone I actually like. Am I really supposed to just walk away?] Immediately, a flood of commenters jumped in to offer advice. [They just graduated, they haven’t faced the real world yet, no stress, no professional rivalry. Stir the pot a little and they’ll break up, guaranteed.] [Support the poster! Go get your man. I agree with the above. Start being overly nice to his girlfriend. That’ll make the guy feel off-balance and guilty. Once a couple starts fighting over work, it’s game over.] [Bonus tip: You’re management. Just block her promotion. Then it’s just you and him left in the company.] I muttered a curse under my breath—seriously, what a psycho—and immediately forgot about the thread. That afternoon, however, the Department Director, Miranda Shaw, called me and my boyfriend into her office. “A major, high-value feature just landed,” she announced. “Whoever lands the exclusive interview for this project gets a guaranteed fast-track to full-time.” 1 Hearing those words, my stomach tightened. It was probably because of the ridiculous post I’d just read, but I instantly flashed back to the comments. I shook my head a second later, trying to physically jettison the thought. What were the chances of a coincidence that absurd? The world wasn’t a bad romance novel. I heard my boyfriend, Owen Grant, say, “No problem, Miranda.” I quickly chimed in with, “I’m on it.” Miranda nodded, satisfied with our responses, and waved us out. She was nothing like the psycho in the comments. It was just a crazy coincidence. I put the whole thing out of my mind. As soon as we were out of the office, Owen and I made a verbal pact. “No matter who wins, no pouting,” I said, holding out my hand. “And whoever gets the interview, the winner buys dinner to celebrate,” he added, shaking my hand vigorously. We both laughed, a shared, easy sound. We knew when we decided to intern at the same company that there would be competition. But neither of us thought it would ever jeopardize our relationship. For the past month, we’d adapted beautifully. We didn’t have to worry about fitting in, going to work, eating lunch, and leaving together every day. We were a couple, but we were also each other’s primary support system. I’d told him more than once how much I loved our life exactly as it was. Owen had always agreed. That night, though, we didn’t drive home together. We went our separate ways. I figured Owen would take the direct route and try to stake out the CEO’s office. So I decided to go rogue. I tracked down the CEO’s daughter. I’d heard Mr. Brad was completely devoted to her, and I figured leveraging that relationship was my best shot. The conversation went better than expected. Chloe promised she’d talk to her dad for me. My heart full of smug satisfaction, I headed home. When I walked in, I found Owen had already cooked dinner. He looked unusually pleased with himself. My heart did a tiny, nervous flop. Did I get here too late? Just as the thought crossed my mind, Owen walked over. “Babe, guess what? Mr. Brad already agreed to my interview. Looks like you were a step too slow, but don’t look so bummed!” His joy was obvious, but there wasn’t a hint of malice or gloating in it. And he’d cooked all my favorite dishes. I was genuinely happy for him. “Well then, congratulations on the early promotion!” I said, smiling. He stroked my hair and gave me a playful squeeze. “My girl is amazing; you’ll get yours soon enough. And when I get my first real paycheck, it’s all yours.” I nodded, not disappointed in the slightest. In fact, his words made my heart feel warm and sweet. So sweet, in fact, that I completely forgot to follow up with Chloe. I didn’t remember until the next morning. When I got to the office, Miranda Shaw called us both into her office again. I knew she was going to discuss the interview. I was ready for the inevitable professional dressing-down; that’s just how the corporate world works. But I wasn’t ready for what Miranda did next. She walked right up to me. “Lily,” she said, her smile wide and slightly unnerving. “Congratulations. You’ve been assigned the feature interview. Make us proud.” At her words, the happy smiles on both Owen’s and my face instantly froze. 2 I was the first to recover, my surprise giving way to confusion. “Miranda, I think there’s a misunderstanding. Owen secured the interview yesterday!” Owen, now catching up, frowned, though his expression was more confused than angry. “That’s right. Mr. Brad personally agreed to meet with me yesterday afternoon. Did something change?” Miranda looked genuinely surprised, though later I’d realize it was the performance of a lifetime. “That’s impossible,” she said. “Mr. Brad called me early this morning and specifically requested Lily Hayes for the interview.” I frowned, a deep, unsettling premonition sinking in my gut. Before I could speak, Miranda spoke to me in a warm, motherly tone. “Lily, I know you two are a couple, but there’s no need to sacrifice your work for him. You have the talent. Go get it.” Then she turned to Owen, her voice hardening slightly. “Owen, listen to me. Competition is completely normal in the workplace. Don’t worry. You missed this one, but there’ll be others.” Owen nodded, a flicker of disappointment crossing his face. But he still managed, “Of course. Whatever is best for the company.” Miranda smiled, gave a curt nod, and dismissed us. Outside the office, Owen turned to me. “It’s fine, babe. Seriously. You nail the interview and get the experience. Don’t feel any pressure from me.” I nodded absently, a knot still tightening in my stomach. Something felt deeply wrong. Just then, my phone buzzed with a message from Chloe Lin. Ah, this must be it. I immediately typed an apology and started to explain the mix-up, asking her to clarify things with her dad. Instead, she called me. “I can’t believe you!” she practically screamed. “I only helped you because you begged me to talk to my father! You took the interview from your own boyfriend and you’re not celebrating? Stop acting so innocent!” “Don’t ever contact me again!” She hung up, and the messages I sent immediately turned into a single exclamation point. I sighed, bewildered, and turned around. Owen was standing right behind me. He had clearly heard Chloe’s voice over the speaker. His face was a mask of disbelief and rage. I opened my mouth to explain. “Lily Hayes,” he said, his voice shaking. “If you wanted this interview, I would have stepped back without a fight. But setting up this kind of backstabbing scheme? That’s low.” I knew I hadn’t set him up. But I was certain someone had set me up. I was about to explain the situation with Chloe when Miranda’s voice cut in from behind me. “Owen Grant. My office. Now.” Owen didn’t emerge for nearly half an hour. By then, the office was buzzing, and I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. I finally caught up to him during the lunch break. He was already walking out the door. “I have something to do this afternoon,” he said coldly. “I won’t be joining you for lunch.” With that, he walked away. I knew he believed Chloe’s fabricated story. With no chance to explain face-to-face, I sent him a series of detailed texts. He didn’t reply. Not when he came back from lunch, and not by the time we left for the day. The drive home was silent. When we walked into our apartment, I couldn’t hold it in anymore. “Owen, did you see my mess—” I stopped. He had pulled a rolling suitcase out of the closet and was filling it. Panic gripped me. “Owen! What are you doing?” We’d been together since freshman year of college—four years. Was he breaking up with me over this? I grabbed his arm, trying to stop his frantic packing. “Lily, just focus on the interview. I’m going on a quick business trip with Miranda. We’ll talk when I get back,” he said, avoiding my eyes. “We both need a reset.” He pulled his arm free, grabbed the suitcase, and walked out the door. A trip with Miranda? A sudden, horrifying thought surfaced. Against my better judgment, I pulled out my phone, found the post, and clicked on it. The psycho had updated it. 3 [I set them up! Got my old contact to agree to the guy, then flip the interview to the girl. Today, they had a major fight in the break room.] [Just scheduled a business trip with him. Wish me luck, ladies!] Every single detail matched. I finally knew it. The post was Miranda Shaw’s. I couldn’t believe the brazen, professional manipulation. Below the update, the comments were piling up, eager for the next step. I was shaking with anger. My fingers flew across the screen. [This is psychopathic. You’re nothing but a predator.] Miranda replied almost instantly. [It’s called strategic ambition, sweetheart. The ends justify the means. If I can successfully ‘poach’ him, he’ll thank me for upgrading him.] Her logic was sickening, but I had to admit, she had a point—a truly cynical one. But before I could reply again, the trolls came out. Whoa, same IP address! Girlfriend alert! Stop fighting the poster and go get your man back! I knew they only wanted a spectacle. Two seconds later, my comment was deleted. I gritted my teeth, navigated to my contacts, and called Owen. He picked up almost immediately. “Lily, don’t explain. I saw your texts. I know this isn’t your fault! It’s complicated,” he said, his voice back to its old, gentle, reassuring tone. “I’ll bring you back a present when I get home.” Hearing his familiar voice, I felt the knot in my stomach loosen. He’s right. We had four years of history. We had trust. Why was I letting a psycho on a public forum make me doubt him? As Miranda herself had said, if she could truly steal him, then she was only helping me recognize him for what he was. My anger deflated. Still, I couldn’t stop myself from checking the thread. Miranda hadn’t updated, but Owen was texting me constantly, checking in, sending me photos of the city. It was as if our argument and the trip hadn’t even happened. I slowly started to relax. The night before he was due to return, we were on a long video call, the way we always did when we were apart. Then, I heard a knock on his hotel room door. A second later, I heard Miranda’s voice. “Owen, the shower in my room is busted. Can I use yours?” Owen sounded completely nonplussed. “Sure, no problem.” My heart jumped into my throat. I tried to interrupt, to demand he call me back, to say anything. But before I could, Owen abruptly hung up. My good mood evaporated. [Don’t hang up on me! Call me back NOW!] [Owen, I’m serious, I’m getting mad!] My messages went unanswered. I tried calling back, but it went straight to voicemail. After several agonizing minutes, he finally sent a text. [Lily, I’m busy. Talk later.] Busy doing what? What could a man and woman alone in a hotel room possibly be doing? I wanted to trust him. I truly did. But in that moment, I couldn’t. I kept refreshing my phone, waiting for his follow-up call, that promised “talk later.” By 3:00 AM, my heart felt cold and numb. I stopped texting. Instead, I opened the thread. I knew, somehow, it would be there. Miranda’s latest update was waiting for me. [I’ve been trying to initiate physical contact this whole trip. He keeps pulling away, but I can feel that he’s not resistant. We go back tomorrow. I used the ‘busted shower’ excuse to get into his room. Yes, we kissed. I asked him if he’d ever done that with his girlfriend. He said no.] [I asked him if he wanted to try it with me. He got heated, but in the end, he stopped. He said he couldn’t do that to his girlfriend.] [Ladies, what do I do now?] The words stabbed me like needles, leaving me breathless. I told myself Miranda was doing this to torture me, that it wasn’t true. But if it wasn’t true, why hadn’t Owen called? My eyes burned. I knew I was done. I was packing my bag. But before I could say the words, Owen beat me to it. “Lily, I’m putting in my two weeks’ notice.”

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My wife, Chloe, was practically vibrating with excitement as she told me. Her mother was gifting an investment property to every son-in-law. “My mom is so generous!” she beamed, her face flushed with pride. But when the meeting was held, three sets of deeds were handed out, and mine was conspicuously absent. I looked at Chloe, but she immediately avoided my gaze. “Mom must have her reasons for this, Alex. Don’t make a scene. We’ll look ridiculous.” I simply nodded. The first thing I did when we got home was cancel my mother-in-law’s reservation for that exclusive, eight-figure treatment slot at the Swiss longevity clinic. 1 The computer screen cast a cold, detached light on my face. With a light click of my finger on the mouse, a dialogue box popped up. “Are you certain you wish to cancel this booking? This is a top-tier, highly limited slot. Once canceled, restoration is not guaranteed.” I clicked confirm. The action was swift, clean, and without a trace of hesitation. A confirmation email from Zurich slid into my inbox, looking less like a receipt and more like a death warrant—only the condemned wasn’t me. I shut the laptop. The world instantly went silent. The liquid magma that had been churning in my chest for hours instantly cooled, solidified, and hardened into black obsidian. I walked into the kitchen, retrieving the broccoli and beef tenderloin I’d bought that afternoon. The water ran, washing the vegetables with mechanical precision. The knife struck the cutting board in a rhythmic thud, thud, thud. Every step was the same as it had been for the last three hundred and sixty-five days. A calculated, domestic routine. It was as if the elaborate, humiliating farce of the afternoon had never happened. The sound of the lock turning signaled Chloe’s return. Her movement as she slipped off her shoes was a beat slower than usual. When she entered the living room, her eyes deliberately skirted past me. She carried a scent of nervous guilt mixed with an eager-to-please desperation. I slid the sliced beef into the hot skillet. The oil spat a little, and the savory aroma instantly filled the air. Chloe hovered at the kitchen doorway, her voice small and careful. “Honey, you didn’t have to cook. What are you making? Smells amazing.” I didn’t turn around. “Just something simple.” My voice was flat, like a stagnant pool that refused to ripple. She awkwardly rubbed her hands together. “It really does smell great.” Dinner was set: two dishes and a soup—all her favorites. She served my plate with an unusually deferential posture. At the dinner table, the only sound was the faint clink of silverware, the silence heavy enough to choke on. Finally, she couldn’t stand it. “Alex, about this afternoon… try not to let it get to you.” I picked up a floret of broccoli and didn’t respond. “My mom, she’s older, a bit forgetful, you know? She just loves the spectacle, making everyone fuss over her.” Her voice sounded so hollow, every word a pathetic excuse for her own cowardice. “She didn’t mean anything by it, so please don’t hold it against her.” “Later, I promise, I’ll make it up to you.” Make it up? With what? Her meager bank salary? Her cheap, shaky affection? I finally swallowed the bite of food in my mouth and looked up at her. “Got it.” Just two words, but they were an ice wall, stopping every other feeble word she had planned. She stared at me, visibly startled, as if she expected hysterics, or at least a tearful interrogation. This cold, terrifying calm was new. Just then, my phone blared, shattering the peace. The name “Mom” flashed on the screen, a cruel irony. I let it ring, the sound echoing through the dining room again and again. Chloe’s face was tightening with panic. She urged, “Alex, pick up! It has to be Mom.” I slowly and methodically set down my fork and wiped my mouth with my napkin. Then, right in front of her, I answered the call. Patricia’s sharp, abrasive voice immediately spewed from the speaker. “Alex! What the hell is this! You think you can give me attitude? Who do you think you are, putting on a show for everyone! You ungrateful snake!” I remained silent, listening. My lack of response seemed to fuel her, and she ramped up the abuse. “I know you’re mad about the properties. But what right do you have to be? What have you ever done for this family? You’re a liability, a kept man who—” I didn’t let her finish. I ended the call. Immediately after, I went to her contact, selected it, and dragged it to the blocked list. The entire action was smooth and deliberate. Chloe’s eyes were wide and fixed on my screen. She jolted up, the chair scraping the floor with a harsh noise. “Alex! What are you doing! That’s my mother!” It was the first time she had ever shouted at me like this. Her face was bright red with agitation. “How could you hang up on my mom and block her number? That is so disrespectful to your elders!” I looked at her face, slightly contorted by anger, with cold indifference. “Disrespect?” I let the word hang in the air, the tail end dripping with scorn. “When everyone in your family gets a gift except me, is that respect?” “When your mother publicly humiliates me, and you don’t dare to utter a single defense, were you respecting me then?” The barrage of rhetorical questions was a series of pointed knives, slicing through her mask of feigned innocence. Chloe’s face turned instantly white. She opened her mouth, her throat working, but no words came out. After a few excruciating seconds, she finally found her voice, but her bravado had completely evaporated. “But… but that’s different. She’s my mother, she’s older… We’re family, you shouldn’t keep score…” There it was again. The same tired excuse. This woman would never learn to take responsibility, always hiding her cowardice and selfishness behind the cheap shield of “family.” I didn’t want to waste another second. I walked into my study, pulled a document from the drawer of my safe, and slammed it down onto the dining table in front of her. “Chloe, open your eyes and look closely.” She looked down and saw the bold title: PRENUPTIAL AGREEMENT AND ASSET DISCLOSURE. My voice was icy, devoid of all emotion. “We’ve been married five years. The funds and stock options in my name have appreciated by seven figures. That’s a number your yearly salary wouldn’t reach if you worked for a hundred years without spending a dime.” “Your first startup failed, sinking two hundred thousand dollars. I was the one who filled that hole.” “Your father’s heart bypass last year. The best imported stent, three hundred grand. I pulled the strings to get the surgeon, and I paid the bill.” “Your mother complained about her back last year. I bought her that bespoke, German-engineered stress-relief chair. Ten thousand dollars.” “Everything in this house, everything in your lives, has been supported by my effort and my capital. Your mother says I haven’t contributed? What was all of that? Feed for the damn dogs?” Chloe’s face went from chalk-white to a sickly grey. She stared at the document, then at me, her lips trembling, as if she were seeing me for the very first time. Watching her pathetic reaction, the last flicker of warmth in my heart died out. “Chloe, I paid for you and your family because I thought you were my wife and they were my in-laws.” “Now I understand. I was never family to you. I was just an outsider, someone you could all casually humiliate and exploit.” “The game is over.” 2 First thing the next morning, my older sister-in-law, Stella, called. Her tone was hostile and commanding. “Alex, you and Chloe need to get back to the main house immediately. Mom has something to say.” She hung up without even bothering to say “brother-in-law.” I looked at the dead phone screen and a cold smile touched my lips. The family inquest had begun swiftly. Chloe was a nervous wreck beside me, her face profoundly distressed. “Alex, maybe… maybe we should just go? Mom is definitely still furious. If we just apologize, say a few sweet things, this will all blow over.” I glanced at her, said nothing, and walked into the bedroom to change. She interpreted my action as a surrender and a look of relief washed over her face as she followed me. “That’s right. Family doesn’t hold grudges. I promise, I’ll speak up for you this time.” I selected a black collared shirt—simple, but making my whole demeanor sharper, colder. The man in the mirror had eyes as keen as a knife edge. Chloe looked at me, momentarily stunned. “Alex, why… why are you dressing so formally?” I turned to face her. “I’m going to a funeral. I should be appropriately dressed.” Chloe’s face instantly crumbled. At the main house, a heavy, suffocating atmosphere hit us the moment we opened the door. The living room couch was fully occupied. My mother-in-law, Patricia, sat in the center seat, her face so dark it looked like it might drip acid. Stella and her husband, Marcus, were on one side. My younger sister-in-law, Jenna, and her husband, Scott, were on the other. The setup for the three-way inquisition was clear. As we walked in, all eyes focused on me like floodlights. Marcus spoke first, his tone oily and mocking. “Well, well, the second son-in-law decided to grace us with his presence. So busy, aren’t you? Not like us. Mom says jump, we jump.” He subtly flashed the new wristwatch on his wrist, the smugness radiating off him. Patricia had bought him the watch yesterday with some of the money from the property sale, a reward for his eager flattery. I ignored him, walking directly to the single armchair and sitting down with casual confidence. Chloe followed, looking like a scolded child, standing awkwardly beside me, afraid to sit. Patricia gave a heavy grunt and slammed her teacup down on the table, the noise jarring. “Alex Philips, you finally decided to show your face! Do you have any respect left for me!” She finally launched her attack, her voice shrill and piercing. “I called you yesterday, and you dared to hang up on me and block me! Who do you think you are! That is utterly tasteless!” I watched her performance quietly, a faint, almost imperceptible smile playing on my lips. My serenity seemed to enrage her further. “Don’t think I don’t know what this is about! The properties! Well, let me tell you, those properties are for the contributors!” She pointed at Marcus, raising her voice. “Your older brother-in-law, he’s sweet, he talks nicely, he keeps me happy every day!” Then she pointed at Scott. “Your younger brother-in-law, he has a good, stable job, earns well. We’ll rely on him in our old age!” Finally, her finger almost jabbed my face. “And you? What have you done, Alex? Five years of marriage, you quit your job, you sit at home and do nothing! What is your contribution? Why do you deserve a property?” Her words were cruel nails, driven one by one into the heart. I felt Chloe stiffen beside me. She was desperately making silent gestures at me, her lips mouthing, “Apologize, just apologize.” I did not comply. I actually laughed out loud. My laughter was soft, yet it cut through the dead silence of the living room with chilling clarity. Everyone froze, confused as to why I was even capable of amusement. Patricia’s face was dark with fury. “What is so funny!” I pulled out my phone, unlocked it, and opened my photo gallery. Then, I stood up and walked step-by-step toward her. My voice was low, but clear enough for every person in the room to hear. “Patty, you asked what my contribution is? Allow me to remind you.” “Last March, when you complained about your back, I pulled strings to get you that bespoke, German-engineered stress-relief chair from Linden & Haas. Cost: ten thousand eighty-six dollars.” The screen showed a clear receipt. “Two years ago, for Richard’s seventieth birthday, you insisted on the best hotel in the city. Twenty tables. The bill was eighty-six thousand, and I paid it.” Another bill screenshot. “Three years ago, Chloe had that fleeting idea to start a company. She was scammed, lost everything, and racked up debt. I pulled out half a million dollars of my own capital to pay off her creditors and keep the bank from seizing our home.” I paused, letting my gaze drift over Chloe’s pale, stricken face. “Four years ago, Marcus’s brother needed money for a down payment. You told Chloe to get it. She didn’t have it, so she took fifty thousand dollars from me. Marcus, you remember that, don’t you?” Marcus’s face instantly paled, his eyes flickering away from mine. My gaze returned to Patricia. Her expression had moved from rage to shock, and finally to an undisguised, sickened pallor. I leaned in slightly, speaking close to her ear, in a voice only we could hear: “Oh, and one more thing. That three hundred thousand dollar imported stent currently keeping your heart beating? If I hadn’t pulled strings to move your surgery date up from a year out to the following week, you wouldn’t be sitting here yelling at me right now.” Patricia’s body spasmed, her pupils violently contracting. I straightened up, put my phone away, and let the smile drop, replaced by an expression of cold resolution. “Patty, does that count as contribution?” The living room fell into a deathly silence. The tension was suffocating. Every face was a mask of disbelief and shock. They were so accustomed to my gentle nature and my compliance that they forgot even a rabbit would bite if cornered. Patricia’s lips were quivering. She tried to speak, but no sound came out. I didn’t want to look at their faces anymore. “Since none of you can see my contribution, I’m done making them.” “I’m tired of catering to this family. I’m out.” “Good day.” With that, I turned and walked out. The sound of my shoes striking the hardwood floor was sharp, like a march of triumph. Chloe finally reacted, scrambling to grab my arm. “Alex, Alex, don’t go! Let’s talk about this!” I shook her hand off without looking back. “Let go.” The word was quiet, but it carried an undeniable, forceful authority. She froze in place. I opened the door. The sun outside was blinding, but it tasted like a freedom I hadn’t known existed. Behind me, the Smith house was steeped in silent, shocked inertia, with Patricia’s face turning from pale to blue. 3 I half-expected Patricia to have a stroke and be hospitalized immediately. But she didn’t. Perhaps the mention of the heart stent had truly unnerved her. She simply felt dizzy, took a couple of her nitroglycerin pills, and dismissed it. In her mind, my rebellion was just a childish tantrum. If they just ignored me for a few days, and Chloe cooed at me a little, I would crawl back and apologize. She was waiting for me to come back and beg for her forgiveness. The next week passed in a tense, cold quiet. Chloe tiptoed around me every day, taking over the cooking, the laundry, and the cleaning. But I remained aloof, exchanging less than ten sentences with her all week. Our house had become an icebox. Until Friday night, when Patricia called Chloe’s mobile again. I was reading in the living room, close enough to hear Patricia’s imperious commands clearly. “Chloe, ask Alex what the status is on that Swiss treatment. It’s been over a week. Why hasn’t anyone from the clinic contacted us? Tell him to hurry up, don’t drag his feet!” Chloe held the phone, her face pale, a fine sheen of cold sweat on her forehead. She stammered an answer: “Mom… Mom, I know, I’ll… I’ll ask him in a minute.” When she hung up, she slumped onto the sofa, looking like a dog whose spirit had been broken. She didn’t move for a long time. I turned a page in my book, not lifting my head. Finally, she shuffled over to me, her voice close to tears. “Honey… about Mom’s clinic slot…” I looked up, as if I had just heard her. My expression was perfectly neutral. “Oh, that.” “I canceled it.” The four words detonated like a bomb in Chloe’s ear. She sprang up from the sofa, her eyes wide as saucers, her face a picture of absolute disbelief. “C-canceled it? Why? Alex, are you out of your mind!” She rushed toward me, grabbing my shoulders and shaking me violently.

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I was the last man standing from the original crew. I’d shared one slice of pizza with Vivian Hale in the basement of our first office, slept on the folding cot for three years, and drank myself into the ER more times than I could count to land her big deals. But on the day the entire company flew out for the annual Miami retreat, she left me behind. My assignment: stay in the empty Chicago office and reformat the pitch deck for her new intern. I didn’t complain. I honestly thought it was a test—a sign of the ultimate trust she had in her co-founder, the one who kept the lights on. That thought lasted until I found the personnel confirmation list crumpled up in a trash can. My name was there, crossed out with a thick, angry swipe of red marker. Next to it, three words were scrawled in cheap ballpoint pen: Too much of a downer. In that moment, I didn’t rage. I didn’t call her. I just quietly finished pizza, packaged up the five years of meticulously kept, off-the-books ledgers, and then dialed the number of our main competitor. Vivian, can you handle a fifteen-million-dollar welcome gift? 1 I was the last man standing from the original crew. I’d shared one slice of pizza with Vivian Hale in the basement of our first office, slept on the folding cot for three years, and drank myself into the ER more times than I could count to land her big deals. But on the day the entire company flew out for the annual Miami retreat, she left me behind. My assignment: stay in the empty Chicago office and reformat the pitch deck for her new intern. I didn’t complain. I honestly thought it was a test—a sign of the ultimate trust she had in her co-founder, the one who kept the lights on. That thought lasted until I found the personnel confirmation list crumpled up in a trash can. My name was there, crossed out with a thick, angry swipe of red marker. Next to it, three words were scrawled in cheap ballpoint pen: Too much of a downer. In that moment, I didn’t rage. I didn’t call her. I just quietly finished pizza, packaged up the five years of meticulously kept, off-the-books ledgers, and then dialed the number of our main competitor. Vivian, can you handle a fifteen-million-dollar welcome gift? Chicago in January is a bone-deep cold. The central HVAC unit in the high-rise office had long since cut off. I, Asher Reed, sat at my isolated desk, bundled into the same black winter coat I’d worn for three years. He was eating the cheapest pizza, which was already cold. My phone screen flickered to life. The company group chat, “Nova Creative Outreach,” was blowing up. A photo. Sunshine, beach, bikinis. Dead center was Vivian Hale, the CEO, stunning in a flowing bohemian maxi dress and oversized sunglasses. She held a flute of champagne, grinning wider than the Miami sun. Tucked right next to her was Zane, the intern who had only been with us for three months. Zane was shirtless, flashing a peace sign, his teeth unnervingly perfect and white. The caption: “So grateful to Vivian! And the company! The Nova family, nobody gets left behind! Love you all, xoxo!” My finger hovered over the screen. Nobody gets left behind? I lifted my gaze to the pitch-black office. Only the fluorescent light over my desk was on, humming like a forgotten ghost. Three days earlier, Admin had announced that since we hit our quarterly metrics, Vivian was footing the bill for a three-day, New Year’s Eve getaway to Miami. I had been reworking that goddamn pitch deck for Vivian until three in the morning. I was thrilled, thinking that after five years of working like a draft horse, I was finally getting a chance to breathe. On the morning of the departure, the charter bus was waiting downstairs. I walked toward it with my small backpack, only to be intercepted by Zane. Zane smiled, all false innocence, but his voice was loud enough for the whole bus to hear. “Oh, hey, Ash! What are you doing here?” I blinked. “Isn’t this the all-staff retreat?” Zane dramatically clapped a hand over his mouth. “Oops! Did Admin forget to tell you? Vivian said we can’t have the office completely empty. Someone reliable needs to hold down the fort. You’re the veteran, Asher—who else could handle this kind of responsibility?” The window of the bus rolled down. Vivian’s face—sharp, elegant, and chillingly indifferent—appeared. She didn’t even look up from her phone. Her voice was flat. “Asher, the client for the ‘Horizon Account’ is hassling us for the revised data. Go keep an eye on it. You can do Miami later. I’m not cheap; I’ll cut you a bonus for the airfare.” The bus door hissed shut, and exhaust fumes choked me as it pulled away. Now, looking at the celebratory emojis and the stream of comments like “Vivian’s a legend” and “Best boss ever,” my stomach turned. The noodles were completely cold. I pushed the food away and stood up to dump the congealed mess. As I walked past Zane’s pristine desk, my foot clipped a small, overturned trash bin. A crumpled sheet of A4 paper spilled out onto the floor. I hadn’t intended to stop, but my eyes caught the printed header: Nova Creative New Year’s Miami Trip Personnel Confirmation List. Driven by a morbid curiosity, I bent down and picked it up. I smoothed the paper flat. The list was long, from CEO Vivian Hale down to the front desk intern. Even Martha, the weekend cleaning lady, was on it. Right in the middle, a single line was viciously scored through with a red Sharpie. My name: Asher Reed. The mark was so heavy it had torn the paper slightly. Next to that blinding red slash was a sloppy, hurried note, written in ballpoint: Keep him back to work. Don’t bring. Too much of a downer. The handwriting was messy, but I recognized it. It was Zane’s. And below that note, there was a signature—a quick, confident flourish from the approving executive. Vivian Hale. She had placed a small, neat checkmark right next to the note “Too much of a downer.” My hands started to shake. It wasn’t just the cold. The tremor started in my fingertips, crawled up my arms into my chest, and made my teeth rattle. Five years. I had been there since the three-person startup phase. Back then, to save money, we’d split a single takeout container. I ended up in the emergency room with a bleeding ulcer from drinking with a client. Vivian had cried by my bedside, promising, “Asher, when I eat the pizza, I will never leave you with just the crust.” Now, she was eating the pizza. And I, Asher Reed, was not only left without the broth but was dismissed as “a downer.” The phone suddenly rang, the sound jarringly loud in the empty office, like an alarm. The screen displayed two words: Vivian Hale. I took a deep breath, fighting for control, and answered the call. “Hello, Vivian,” I said, my voice hoarse, betraying nothing. I could hear the sound of the ocean, loud music, and laughter on the other end. Vivian sounded slightly tipsy, and her tone carried an undeniable arrogance. “Asher, you’re at the office, right?” “I am.” “Zane just told me there are some data issues with the Horizon Account proposal. The client is flipping out; they said if they don’t see a revised final draft by midnight, they’re walking. I need you to drop everything and send it over, now.” I glanced at the clock on the wall. Ten-thirty at night. “Vivian,” I gripped the crumpled list until my knuckles were white, “Zane was responsible for the Horizon Account. He spent the last week buying swim trunks and sunscreen. He only put the data in yesterday. I warned him there were errors, and he told me to mind my own business.” A second of silence, then Zane’s whiny, wounded voice—clearly right next to her phone—cut in: “Vivian… I didn’t think the client would be this demanding. And Ash didn’t explain the issues clearly. If I knew it was a big deal, I wouldn’t be here celebrating…” Vivian’s tone instantly turned glacial. “Asher, what is that supposed to mean? Are you pushing responsibility? Zane is new. You’re the veteran. Is it so hard to mentor him? Or are you just bitter that a younger guy is succeeding?” “Bitter?” I laughed, a sharp, humorless sound. “Vivian, this is a business, not a playground. He screwed up. Why do I have to clean up his mess? I’m a person, too. It’s a holiday. I want to rest.” “Rest?” Her voice ratcheted up, becoming sharp and cruel. “Asher, get this straight: you’re not on vacation. We’re paying you overtime! Earn your money and do the job! Stop with the self-pity!” “I won’t do it.” It was the first time I had ever been this firm. “Excuse me?” She sounded genuinely shocked. “I said, I won’t do it. Whoever made the mess cleans it up.” The line went silent. After a few tense seconds, Vivian let out a cold chuckle, her voice dripping with threat. “Fine, Asher. You’ve grown a backbone. I’m telling you now: if we lose this account, you can kiss your annual bonus goodbye! And when we do our personnel review after the New Year, you can forget about that VP spot you’ve been chasing!” Click. She hung up. I held the phone, listening to the dial tone, which sounded like the five years of my life being flushed down the drain. Annual bonus. VP spot. Those two carrots had been dangling in front of me for three years. Every time I felt like quitting, she’d wave them. I used to believe her. Now, I looked at the crumpled list, the red checkmark, and the words “a downer.” Suddenly, the whole situation felt absurd. Just then, the group chat buzzed again. Zane had tagged everyone and sent a large cash bonus. Zane: “Hey, team! I messed up and upset Vivian about a work thing. Drinks are on me! Grab this cash and let’s not let a little corporate drama kill the mood! Cheers!” The chat instantly flooded with “Thanks, Zane!” “Best manager ever!” “Love you, Zane!” No one asked about the guy who was still sitting in the freezing Chicago office, alone. No one knew that “the work thing” required me to pull an all-nighter. With a stone-cold expression, I crumpled the list again and tossed it back into the bin. Then, I walked back to my computer. Not to work. I opened a deeply hidden folder. The file name was simple: Backup. It contained five years of core client data, original pitch drafts, and records of some highly questionable financial dealings Vivian had done. And of course, it held Zane’s raw, disaster-prone data for the Horizon Account. My first impulse had been to fix it. If the project imploded, the company would take a big hit. But not anymore. My fingers flew across the keyboard. I pulled up the faulty file Zane had sent to the client. I didn’t correct the mistakes. I simply highlighted a few of the more subtle, catastrophic logical flaws that Zane had tried to hide, making them glaringly obvious in the final review. Unless the client was blind, they would instantly see they were being treated like idiots. I packaged the file and sent it to Vivian’s email. In the subject line, I wrote one sentence: “Vivian, as per your instruction, this is Zane’s ‘final draft.’ I haven’t touched it. Pure, uncut.” I closed my laptop. I stood up, switched off the light, and locked the door. Walking out of the high-rise, the wind felt like a knife on my face. But I realized that in five years, I had never felt this exhilaratingly free. The first day after the New Year’s holiday. The office reeked of expensive cologne and the cloying sweetness of duty-free souvenirs. Everyone wore that look of exhausted but satisfied post-vacation bliss, exchanging gifts: artisanal chocolates, custom-blended coffee, and cheap, colorful trinkets from Miami. “OMG, look how tan you got!” “It’s the healthy look! Vivian was amazing; we had a suite overlooking the ocean!” I walked through the bustling office like an invisible man and sat down at my desk. It was piled high with documents that had accumulated over the break. No gift. Not even a single piece of chocolate. Sarah, the accounting supervisor next to me—for whom I’d covered countless reports and even helped her kid with his geometry homework—was showing off a box of high-end skincare to the front desk girl. “Vivian specifically picked this out for me. Anti-aging magic, she said.” When she saw me sit down, Sarah’s voice dropped. Her eyes darted away, and she turned her back, pretending to organize her space. The awkward silence was worse than a direct insult. Everyone knew I hadn’t gone. Everyone was pretending I wasn’t there. “Well, look who decided to show up early!” Zane’s voice, smug and self-satisfied, came from behind me. He was wearing a brand-new, impeccably tailored designer suit and carrying a few high-end shopping bags. He strutted to the center of the office and clapped his hands. “Everyone, quiet down! We had a blast, all thanks to Vivian. To show our appreciation for all your hard work, Vivian bought a special New Year’s cash bonus for everyone! Every single person gets one!” A cheer erupted. Vivian emerged from her corner office. She was flawlessly made up, her bold red lipstick adding to her powerful aura. Zane followed her like a well-trained puppy, carrying a thick stack of bonus envelopes. Vivian handed them out, one by one. “Sarah, great job last year.” “Mike, keep up the hustle.” “Martha, the floors look great. Here you go.” Even Martha, the cleaning lady, received a fat envelope and smiled, her face wrinkling with joy. Finally, Vivian arrived at my desk. Zane’s hand, holding the remaining envelopes, was completely empty. The boisterous energy of the office suddenly choked, replaced by a suffocating silence. All eyes were locked on me and Vivian. Vivian didn’t appear embarrassed in the least. She adjusted her hair and looked down at me with cool indifference. “Oh, Asher. I’m so sorry. The envelopes were packaged according to the trip roster. Admin must have forgotten to include you. Since you weren’t in Miami, you know.”

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