The deadline for my master’s thesis was looming, and I was deep into the job search. I asked my girlfriend, Sienna, who was a tenured professor at The Met, to write me a letter of recommendation. She looked at me with a cold stare, her lips forming a thin, disapproving line. “You should rely on your own merits, Rowan. People who always look for shortcuts don’t go far. You need to be fair.” I flushed with shame. I spent the next weeks obsessively preparing for interviews, fueled by late nights and sheer anxiety. I tried to forget her words. But after my final interview, the floor dropped out from under me. I was walking past the official university bulletin board when I saw the list of new research fellows. My name wasn’t there, but another one was: Dean Ellis. And right next to it, under the “Spousal/Partner Consideration” clause, was the name of his “spouse”—Sienna Wells. They were married. Legally. Suddenly, I wasn’t the one preparing for a new life; I was the other man. When I finally confronted her, Sienna didn’t even flinch. “Dean is my late advisor’s son. Helping him isn’t a ‘shortcut.’ As for the marriage certificate… it was temporary. A professional arrangement. Once he’s secure in the position, I’ll file the papers and we’ll finally get married.” I laughed. It was a sharp, ugly sound that caught in my throat. I turned away, and in that instant, I made a new decision. I would contact Natalie Grant, my senior, and join her research team abroad. The woman with no boundaries and the wreckage of this relationship. I was done with both. 1 I pushed my way through the crowd gathered around the university’s official posting board, straining to see the list. Finally, I got close enough. I scanned the list of new research fellows at The Metropolitan University again and again. The thin sheet of paper didn’t hold my name. I sighed, deflated. The competition for The Met’s prestigious positions was always brutal. I was turning to leave when a woman beside me gasped, pointing toward a smaller section. “I’m so jealous of people whose spouses have Ph.D.s. Imagine getting a job at The Met just because of who you married.” My girlfriend has a Ph.D., I thought bitterly, and I still didn’t get in. Out of the corner of my eye, I caught a name on the special talent acquisition list: Sienna Wells. It was listed clearly: New Research Fellow – Dean Ellis. Spouse – Sienna Wells. My entire body swayed as if I’d been punched in the gut. Dean Ellis? He was Sienna’s junior colleague, her mentee. If they were legally married, then what the hell did that make me? I immediately pulled out my phone and dialed her number. “Sienna, hey, I—” “I told you not to call me during the day, Rowan. I’m probably in a lecture.” The line went dead, clipped and precise. Staring at the silent phone, I still couldn’t accept it. I walked quickly to Sienna’s office building. Before I could even raise my hand to knock, I heard a man’s voice inside. “Sienna, thank you. I don’t think I would’ve gotten into The Met without you.” “Dean, don’t be ridiculous. It’s no trouble. If The Met hadn’t suddenly changed its policy—only hiring Ph.D.s or Ph.D. spouses—we wouldn’t have had to do this.” “But, Sienna, what about Rowan? Won’t he be upset? Maybe I should explain it to him.” “Don’t worry about him. He didn’t get the job on his own merit. We don’t need him getting jealous and making a scene.” “Okay. Well, let me take you out to dinner tonight.” “I’d like that.” I pulled out my phone and quickly typed a message to Sienna: [I didn’t get the fellowship. I’m feeling really awful. Could you have dinner with me tonight?] I heard the distinct ding of her phone inside the office, but no reply came. I could picture it perfectly: her picking up the phone, seeing my message, and putting it back down with a frown. The door opened. I scrambled to hide, only managing to catch the sight of Sienna and Dean walking away, laughing together, their backs to me. I returned to my shared apartment and sat on the sofa in the dark until deep into the night. Sienna finally came home hours later. “Sienna, I texted you. Didn’t you see it?” Her body stiffened, and a look of annoyance crossed her face. “What message? I’m busy all day, Rowan. I don’t have time to constantly check in with you.” “Did you know I was rejected for the research fellowship?” She shrugged dismissively. “With your qualifications, I’m not surprised. The competition was intense.” My chest felt like it was being squeezed by an invisible hand. “My qualifications? I was top of the program! I won countless awards in my field!” I couldn’t hold back the anger any longer. “Dean Ellis has never won a thing, but he used your name to get the job. You wouldn’t even write me a recommendation letter, and you call that not taking a shortcut?” “You know?” Sienna showed no shame, only irritation that I had discovered her secret. “Rowan, it’s just one fellowship. Don’t be so aggressive. Dean was rejected for every other job he applied for. He’s my advisor’s son—my advisor is gone. I couldn’t just leave him high and dry.” “And my career doesn’t matter? He’s your husband. What does that make me? The mistress?” I choked out the last word. Sienna’s tone softened slightly, a practiced shift. “Rowan, it’s a temporary measure. A contingency. As soon as he’s stable, I’ll file the divorce papers. Then we’ll have the wedding we planned.” Hearing that, my resolve weakened, as it always did. “Fine. But no contact outside of what is strictly necessary for his job.” “Deal.” 2 After the rejection from The Met, I focused on finishing my final thesis while restarting the job hunt. The next day, after submitting my final work, I was reviewing job postings when my faculty advisor called. “Rowan, what happened? Your final thesis submission is identical to Dean Ellis’s, and he submitted his yesterday.” “That’s impossible, Professor. Please, wait while I check my files.” I opened my laptop and found that the creation history for my thesis had been completely manipulated, all the timestamps altered to show a submission date of yesterday. The sickening realization was immediate, but I fought against believing it. “Professor, please, you have to trust me. This work is entirely mine. Give me a few days; I will provide irrefutable proof to the department.” My fingers trembling, I called Sienna. No answer. Then I checked the anonymous campus Confessional App. A post accusing me of plagiarizing Dean Ellis’s final project had just gone up, racking up hundreds of comments within thirty minutes. [No way. Isn’t Rowan Finn top of the program?] [Who knows how he got those grades before?] [Dean seems to have the original creation files. That proves Rowan stole it.] I quickly hacked into the app’s backend, intending to delete the post, but an immediate counter-attack blocked me. Someone was actively protecting the thread. I gave up on deleting it and started a new post, detailing my academic history, listing my awards, outlining the core idea of my thesis, and promising to deliver proof of my independent creation within days. It took mere minutes for my post to be deleted. I contacted the administrator, who cryptically told me it wasn’t him, but that I shouldn’t bother trying again. Someone powerful was clearly working to shut down any defense. I understood immediately: someone was covering for Dean, someone with technical skills equal to or better than mine. In the entire graduating class and faculty, only a handful of people—Sienna being the most likely—fit that description. I ran to the main Computer Science lab, only to find Dean introducing his project to a group of classmates. “This is the latest artificial intelligence prototype…” Watching my two months of relentless work being displayed on the screen, I roared, “Dean Ellis, that is my final thesis!” Dean turned to me, his expression wounded. “Rowan, what are you talking about? You can’t just claim it’s yours because I showed you a few early designs.” “If you say it’s yours, show them the proof!” Dean calmly pulled up the creation log, which, predictably, showed a timeline beginning two months ago—the exact time I had started the work. My classmates began to intervene. “Rowan, we know you’re smart, but Dean has the evidence. Just apologize to him.” “Yeah, plagiarism is a huge deal. The department is already investigating. Apologize quickly before Dean decides to press charges.” Their gazes felt like daggers, but I refused to back down. “Dean Ellis, I will prove that this work is mine.” I had installed specific tracking and backup software on my machine, a redundancy even Sienna didn’t know about. I’d done it out of paranoia, never expecting it would be necessary. Now, it was my only hope. I knew the truth would come out soon, but until it did, I was stuck wearing the scarlet letter of a plagiarist. 3 Inside Sienna’s office. “Sienna, this is all my fault. Rowan looks furious.” Sienna frowned slightly. “He still has time before graduation. He can just make a new one. Don’t worry about him. My advisor asked me to look after you. I can’t let you fail to graduate.” “Sienna, I know. My father told me the core of the AI you developed years ago was named ‘The S-D Core’—after our names.” Dean paused, his voice turning soft. “I was young and stupid to refuse you then. Who knew Rowan would come into your life later? I had to bury those feelings. But if, Sienna, you were willing to…” Sienna cut him off. “The past is the past, Dean. Let’s not bring it up again. We’ll file the divorce papers once you’re settled in your job.” The S-D Core. That explained why she had always refused my requests to study her AI algorithm. It was the legacy of her past love. A “White Moonlight” object. And I had just been the placeholder, a stepping stone for her to pave the way back to him. The realization was bitterly comical. I texted Natalie Grant, my senior: [I’ve made my decision. I’m joining Professor Alistair’s research team.] [Excellent. I’ll fly back to pick you up in a week.] When Sienna returned to the apartment, I was packing my suitcase. She grabbed my arm. “What are you doing? It’s just a final thesis, Rowan. Are you running away over this?” I yanked my arm away. “Just a thesis? Do you know the heart and soul I poured into that? And Dean plagiarized it. I will make him pay for this.” “It was me. It had nothing to do with him. Don’t blame Dean.” I threw the clothes in my hand onto the floor. “I knew it was you!” I flashed back to that night. After tapping out the final line of code, I’d saved the file and was about to send it when Sienna walked in. “Finished your thesis?” “Just now. I was about to send it to the department.” “Wait a minute. Let me check it over for you.” Sienna was a year ahead of me and a verified genius in our field. She sat down. Less than two minutes later, she told me there was a minor bug she had already fixed. “Don’t worry about it. Let it stabilize overnight. Send it in tomorrow.” She then rushed out. Returning to the present, I demanded, “You did this for Dean. Did you even consider my position? How am I supposed to face the university and my colleagues now?” Sienna bit her lip. She did know. But in her mind, Dean needed that thesis more, so she hadn’t cared about the cost to me. “It’s done. Just drop it, Rowan. I’ll help you create a new thesis.” She reached for my laptop, but I slapped her hand away with force. “Don’t touch my computer! I’m afraid I’ll plagiarize someone else’s work if you do!” I fought back the tears and pushed her out the door. “Get out!” For the next three days, I holed up. I didn’t just create a new thesis; I perfected the original, developing a powerful, improved version of the AI project. I sent the file to Natalie, asking her to relay it to Professor Alistair. I successfully avoided Sienna for those three days, sidestepping her attempts at conversation. 4 That evening, the class president notified me about the graduation trip scheduled for the next day. Since I was leaving the country soon, I agreed to attend. When I boarded the bus, I saw Sienna seated next to Dean Ellis. The class president rushed over when he saw my glance. “Everyone, this is Dean’s wife, Sienna Wells, our department’s legendary senior alum!” I walked past them without a word and took a seat in the back. A shadow fell over me, and Sienna sat down beside me. “I didn’t think you’d come. Dean said some of his classmates were talking, so I decided to join for support.” I managed a dry smile. “Talking? Weren’t they talking about me?” Sienna’s face darkened. “I owe you an apology for that. But you have to believe me…” “I don’t.” I cut her off, putting on my headphones and closing my eyes, signaling the conversation was over. Dean came over and sat on the armrest next to Sienna. “Rowan, I know you’re angry, but it’s done. You just need to stop struggling.” “Stop struggling for what? For you stealing my work? Or for you stealing my girlfriend?” My words were loud enough to cause a stir in the seats behind us. Dean looked panicked. “What are you talking about? I was kind enough to have the president invite you, and you not only refuse to repent but you slander me!” “Slander? Ask her.” I looked pointedly at Sienna, hoping that even now, she’d offer a shred of honesty out of respect for our relationship. “Rowan, we had something, I know, but please don’t talk about Dean this way. He is, after all… my husband.” Sienna’s eyes pleaded with me. “See? I told you she wouldn’t lie about being married.” “Rowan Finn is totally shameless, isn’t he? A plagiarist and a homewrecker.” Their whispers made my heart pound with rage. “Sienna Wells, I hope you never stop regretting what you just said!” The bus soon arrived at our first stop. I bolted out and began walking into the distance. Sienna started to follow, but Dean pulled her back. “Sienna, my dad said you’ve been to this place before. Can you show me around?” Sienna hesitated, looked at my retreating back, and then stopped. I walked for a long time, lost in my own resentment. When it was time for the next part of the itinerary, I rushed back to the bus parking lot, only to find the spot empty. No car, no people. I called the class president. “Dean said the next site was much more interesting, and everyone agreed to leave early,” the president explained. “You should have notified me! You can’t just abandon me here!” “Rowan, honestly, you haven’t been easy to deal with. No one really wanted you along. Sienna said it wasn’t far from your apartment, and you could just call a cab.” The president hung up. Holding the dead phone, I buried my face in my hands, fighting back tears of humiliation. It doesn’t matter. Graduation was tomorrow. I would prove my innocence then. The Metropolitan University’s commencement ceremony was about to begin. I had already submitted my final evidence—the original data, the recovery logs, and the new thesis—to my advisor and the department. I took my seat. Dean Ellis, having been designated an Outstanding Graduate for his “thesis,” sat in the front row. Next to him was Sienna Wells, invited back as a celebrated alumna to address the graduates. Sienna was clearly agitated, constantly scanning the room. She finally spotted me and started to stand, but Dean pulled her back. I made sure to avoid her gaze entirely. The ceremony proceeded: President’s address, Dean’s speech, then the capping and diploma distribution. Two hours passed. The final graduate walked off the stage. I was still sitting in my seat. “Our capping and diploma distribution ceremony is officially concluded…” Suddenly, a familiar voice boomed over the microphone. “Wait a minute. It’s not over yet. There’s still one student who hasn’t been capped.”

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The killer who took my life was finally arrested seven years after I died. He’d clawed his way up from street-level thug to a crime boss, and he looked utterly unbothered during the televised trial as the judge read the verdict. As the court officer finished reciting the list of victims, his voice, already rough, sliced through the courtroom silence. “You missed one,” he drawled. “The very first one I ever killed, when I was just starting out. The one who died the worst.” “Amend the charges,” he proposed, meeting the stunned silence with chilling confidence. “And I’ll tell you who’s missing.” The room plunged into an eerie stillness, broken only by the judge’s stone-cold rejection. “Your crimes are monstrous. You don’t get to negotiate.” The crime boss merely shrugged, his eyes fixing on the female detective captain standing front and center. “Badge Number 071923, Rhys Alcott. Detective Jenkins, do you know that name? Don’t you want to know where he’s buried?” Avery Jenkins stood tall beneath the weight of every gaze in the room. Her voice was steady, each word a crisp assertion. “The person you’re referring to did exist.” “But Rhys Alcott is not dead. He’s not a detective now, either. He has been a fugitive, missing for seven years.” 1 To lend credibility to his outrageous claim, the crime boss confessed the entire process of the torture, live on the feed. How his crew had first knocked him unconscious. How they’d pulled out my fingernails and my teeth, trying to force me to reveal our police informants. And how they’d methodically shattered every bone in my body. “He screamed like hell, but he wouldn’t give up a damn thing. Not until a call came through.” “He heard the voice, and then, he just stopped screaming.” “We tried every trick in the book. Slow cuts with a razor, smashing his knees, pouring hot oil on his skin and then scrubbing it with a wire brush… He wouldn’t make a sound after that.” “That’s when we knew. It was useless. We weren’t getting anything out of him.” “Out of a perverse sense of mercy, I asked the big boss to finish it fast, and later, I handled the disposal myself.” As his flat, detached narration unfolded, the online comments slowed to a stop. A nation held its breath, choked by the horror. Only Avery Jenkins stood ramrod straight, her eyes blazing with fury. “Keep playing your role.” “You people? Show pity for a cop? Get out.” The crime boss asked for a cigarette. “Killing him and pitying him are two different things, Detective.” “At the time, I even hated myself for what I was doing. I genuinely respected the guy.” “But what can I say? I wasn’t the one calling the shots.” “I’ve killed so many people over the years—those who betrayed me, rivals in the game, people who owed me money… I’ve never regretted any of it. He’s the only one I feel bad about.” The public’s instinctive reverence for law enforcement spurred spontaneous efforts to find any clue. But Avery merely gave a cold, dismissive laugh. She stood abruptly, her voice ringing out like a final gavel. “I don’t believe a single word you’ve said.” The crime boss sighed, shaking his head. “The time, the process, the people involved—I’ve told you everything I can. There’s no point in lying to you now.” “Besides… I’m the only one who knows where he’s buried.” “It’s up to you. Decide if putting him to rest is worth a reduced sentence.” My superiors demanded a recess, ordering the prisoner be pulled back for renewed questioning. The public clamored for a full police investigation. Avery, however, stood firmly opposed. She stormed into the precinct chief’s office, slamming her hand on the desk. The chief, equally furious, issued a stern command: she was to personally head the team excavating the site the dealer had confessed to. The engine of the patrol car roared, a heavy, desperate sound. The accelerator was mashed to the floor. Watching the rage barely suppressed on her face, my spirit was consumed by a familiar, crushing sense of helplessness. She probably still believed I had willingly disgraced myself all those years ago. That I’d betrayed my ideals for dirty money, betrayed the legacy of my father’s badge. And, most painfully, betrayed her. And now, I was back to ruin the new life she’d just started with Damon. When she shifted gears, her wrist exposed the worn-out cinnabar bracelet on the gearshift—the one I’d given her years ago. But all her other dashboard decorations and trinkets had been replaced with miniature succulent charms. Even the car air freshener was a cloyingly sweet Coconut Lime Verbena scent. It was clear that Damon had thoroughly integrated himself into every corner of her new life. What she didn’t know was that I, the ‘old man,’ had been abandoned in the damp, cold earth. Suffering for seven years. 2 Seven years later, she seemed unchanged. Her features were sharp and cool, her body tall and lean, her expression detached and striking. Only, she spoke less, and her emotions were buried deeper. The silent flash of red and blue lights cut through the mountain road, pulling up to a patch of desolate, brittle winter scrub. In the dead of winter, the ground was frozen solid. A shovel struck the dirt, leaving nothing but a white scrape on the frozen surface. She took command of the scene. “Start softening the soil with the heaters. The wind’s picking up—widen the downwind isolation zone by five meters.” Damon emerged from the group of volunteers, offering her a thermos. “Drink some hot water, your voice is getting hoarse.” Avery took a sip, asking softly, “Why did you come here?” “It’s crowded and chaotic. You should head home soon.” Damon’s voice was laced with concern. “I watched the trial.” “Do you really think… it could be true?” Avery let out a low, scornful scoff, but offered no reply. Back then, both our fathers were detectives. They worked together, went on missions together, and ultimately died in the line of duty together. At their wake, we leaned against each other, our only support in the world. From that moment on, we were inseparable. We went to the police academy together, inheriting our fathers’ badge numbers. We were partners in purpose, and lovers utterly consumed by each other. Before we married, my mother, smiling through tears, hugged us both close. “I’m gaining a daughter,” Avery had said. She never broke that promise. If I wanted to chase an old case, she’d stay up for days organizing the files. When I was cornered by an armed suspect on patrol, she’d throw herself in front of me without a second thought. I couldn’t handle spicy food, and she—who loved chilies—didn’t touch a single pepper for the entire duration of our marriage. We both thought then that there was no bond stronger in the world than that of a partner and a soulmate. Who could have predicted that our relationship would shatter over a lost soul we pulled out of a drug den? I studied Damon’s handsome face. It was hard to believe that in just a few years. He’d transformed from a man reeking of addiction and fear into a polished, brooding man. Perhaps a man’s cultivated fragility is the ultimate undoing for a woman’s heart. After Damon was ‘rescued,’ he started calling Avery in the middle of the night. Crying that he couldn’t find a good job, crying about the stigma of his past drug use. Avery’s heart dissolved in those tears. Her pity and her need to save him bloomed like an unstoppable weed. She brought him into our home, giving him her entire paycheck—calling it ‘housekeeping fees.’ All the real expenses of our lives fell to me. We were barely getting by. Several times, I tried to fire Damon, but she insisted. “Rhys, Damon is so vulnerable. He’s been through so much. We have to help him.” Yet, over Avery’s shoulder, I distinctly saw the cold defiance in his eyes, aimed squarely at me. I lost it. I grabbed his hair and dragged him out the front door. He held his stinging scalp, his eyes utterly silent. And Avery, the woman who had sworn her life to mine, my partner, my soulmate. She didn’t hesitate. She raised her hand and slapped me across the face. She then cupped Damon’s face, her thumb gently wiping away the tears at his eyes. “Don’t cry, I promised you. No one will hurt you again.” She lowered her head, her voice harsh and cold when she spoke to me. “When are you going to stop with this arrogant temper of yours?” “Damon is a victim, too. How can you wear that badge and treat him like this?” But in this relationship, the one that had been betrayed. Weren’t she and Damon conspiring to emotionally ‘assault’ me? A thousand desperate words clogged my throat in that single moment. In the end, I simply packed my bags in silence and moved into the police academy dorms. Apart from official work correspondence, I didn’t speak another word to her. I actually knew that she and Damon had never been physically intimate. I was just so angry. She was giving the gentleness and indulgence that used to be exclusively mine to another man. While leaving me to pay for the boring, expensive realities of our life together. We kept this awful stalemate going for months. Every day, I thought, maybe tomorrow, I’ll apologize, and we’ll go back to normal. But the next day, the words would die on my lips, choked by my pride and my sense of being wronged. Tragedy, as always, arrived faster than reconciliation. I never got to see her turn back. Instead, I stumbled upon a devastating truth. Damon had secret, undeniable ties to the ruthless criminal syndicate we had been chasing for years. 3 A sudden, jarring sound of suction dragged me out of the memory. The crowd erupted in a clamor. “We found something!” “Careful, lend a hand!” Avery recoiled, blurting out, “No, impossible!” “He wanted to make a statement, to see me look foolish and desperate. There can’t actually be bones…” Her voice was low, a whisper of self-deception. Damon’s voice was filled with false worry. “Avery, do you think… Rhys might have killed someone?” “He always had a quick temper. If pushed, he could do anything…” Avery instantly clamped her mouth shut, her jaw tight. She shoved her way into the crowd. “I’ll take a look.” My spirit hovered above the scattered, residual fragments of my bones. The cold wind pierced the fragments, and I gave a bitter, soundless chuckle. This was the true definition of ‘cold to the bone.’ She brushed the dirt off a broken piece of bone. Even through the thick gloves, I could feel the faint warmth of her fingertips. My soul trembled. Suddenly, I desperately didn’t want her to see me like this. If I could have any memory of myself left for her, I wished it would be of the strong, stubborn, vibrant man she had loved. But now, I could only look up in silent worship at the woman who was once my life. I greedily drank in that single, fleeting trace of warmth from her touch. The medical examiner collected the remains, and the crowd slowly dispersed. Avery stayed behind, alone. Until the first weak rays of dawn touched the horizon, she suddenly pulled out her phone and began frantically dialing a number. “Du—Du—” “The number you have dialed is not in service. Please check the number and try again.” The wind in the desolate field was harsh, turning her nose red. A few muffled sobs were shredded by the cold. “Rhys, this isn’t real…” “It’s a prank, isn’t it?” A pair of arms wrapped around her neck, the man’s breath hot against her ear. Damon’s voice was shaky. “Avery.” “Are you still… holding onto him?” Avery’s body jerked violently. A heart-stopping silence. She let out a slow, tired breath. “It’s over.” “I only have you now.” Damon’s arms tightened. “Avery, I’m so afraid you’ll leave me—” “I gave you everything. Please, don’t let me down.” Seven years of being a ghost had tempered my temper. I could now appreciate his performance with perfect calm. This man was born with two faces. Towards Avery, he was forever the damaged, silent victim; towards me, his eyes were full of venom and provocation. Sometimes, I genuinely wondered what deep, ancient feud lay between us. Why did he hate me so much? It wasn’t until my last moments that I finally understood. There was a feud. His father had died years ago, shot by my father and Avery’s father during an armed standoff. Stripped of protection, he quickly became a tool for the local syndicate—a ‘sacrifice.’ “You know what I hate about you the most?” He crouched in front of me, his voice sinister. “We both lost our fathers. Why do you get to live so easily?” “Why does Avery still love you more?!” The realization hit me with the force of a hammer. Love and hatred—both equally destructive. Damon had originally intended to avenge his father by destroying both me and Avery. But he fell in love with Avery instead. And that only made him hate me more. 4 The morning sun stretched their shadows long, intertwined. Watching their overlaid figures, I felt a flicker of curiosity. If Avery knew Damon’s true identity, how would she react? Would she continue to pity and cherish him, or would she be repulsed? I couldn’t guess the answer. Fate is a playwright obsessed with cruelty. It arranged for the police officer who killed a criminal to die at the hands of that criminal’s son. And it arranged for the police officer’s daughter, unknowingly, to marry the man who orchestrated the murder of her soulmate. Sometimes, I wish Damon had been an adult when his father died. His file wouldn’t have been sealed. And we wouldn’t have mistaken the son who took over his father’s criminal enterprise for an innocent addict seeking salvation. Then, perhaps, I wouldn’t have died so horribly. Every single one of my bones bore scars, both deep and shallow. In that place, I had screamed, fought, begged, and questioned. But they only laughed, breaking my limbs and pulling out my teeth one by one. They kept demanding the location of the police mole and our informants. In the end, they injected me with three shots of adrenaline. So I could be wide awake to watch them slice open my abdomen and throw my organs into a dog bowl. But I had actually been given one chance to live. Before they completely hollowed out my body, Damon, flanked by several grim-faced men, came to me. “You’re good. You almost took down my entire operation.” “I was going to kill you, but Khai convinced me you could be useful.” “All you have to do is confess to corruption, take the fall, let the police close the case, and you can live out the rest of your life comfortably in prison.” I managed a grimace. “In your dreams.” His smile instantly turned ugly. “Refuse, and you disappear.” “A few years from now, Avery will forget all about you anyway.” I closed my eyes in silence. Damon suddenly spoke again. “It’s the anniversary of your father’s death today, isn’t it?” “Every year, Avery goes with you to the cemetery to pay respects.” I became instantly alert. “What are you planning?” “Nothing. I just happened to drop a little paper trail suggesting you were bribing dirty cops. The money flow coincidentally points straight to you.” Damon’s voice was a hiss, like a viper striking. “I know she won’t believe it. But she’ll use it as an excuse to reach out and try to reconcile.” “Men are petty, Rhys. What I can’t have, I’d rather destroy.” The words were barely out of his mouth when Avery’s call came through, insistent and frantic. Damon nodded. “Answer it. Tell her to bring the cops here.” I took the call. Avery asked where I was, wanting to confirm some things in person. She also wanted to apologize, and then take me to the cemetery. But her apology had come too late. Even if I survived, I would be a husk of a man for the rest of my life. So I said nothing. Khai grew impatient and raised a blowtorch to my thigh. The smell of searing flesh filled the air. I forced myself not to make a sound. Avery. She was my closest partner, and my dearest lover. She gave me the happiest time of my life. If I had one wish left at the end of my life, I would give everything to ensure her safety. However, Avery seemed to sense something. Her tone instantly became fraught with tension. “Rhys, are you in danger? Can you not talk? Hold on, I’m coming to find you right now!” I shook my head violently, pouring the last of my strength into a desperate shout into the receiver. “Don’t—” “Don’t come looking for me! We’re done, do you understand?” “Go live your life with your charity case! I’m… I’m sick of you!” I hung up, a bleak smile twisting my mouth. “Damon, you win.” Go back and comfort her. She’s yours now. After that day, they slept together. They fell into a natural rhythm and became a model couple, even having a child together. And I died on the coldest day of winter. Buried under the wilderness for seven years. Until today, when the medical examiner held the DNA results, his eyes filled with sorrow. “Detective Jenkins, the deceased is confirmed to be Rhys Alcott.” “Badge Number 071923… is sealed again.”

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Scrolling through the Westlake University student forum, I saw someone asking for help with a Startup Challenge assignment. Out of habit, and frankly, a bout of professional curiosity, I logged in with my old student account and offered some guidance, tweaking a few financial models and market strategies. The group was ecstatic. They hailed me as a “super-alum” and a “guru,” constantly chasing me for feedback and urging me to polish the smallest details. Two months later, with the project nearing perfection, the group chat went dead silent. Curious, I scrolled back through the messages and discovered they’d created a new, private chat— “She’s not even on the official roster. Let’s keep the competition win quiet and not loop her in on the presentation.” “Exactly. The final team list only has our names. She better not show up at the finals tomorrow trying to take credit.” “Fewer people means an extra fifty grand split between us!” I leaned back from my screen and smiled, a cold, almost cruel expression. So, this was never just an assignment. The irony? Tomorrow, I happened to be the one sitting in the center of the judging panel. 1 They created a private chat but forgot that one of the accounts belonged to the University’s shared system. As soon as I logged in, the new group messages started flashing: “Some guru. We were just stroking her ego. She doesn’t know anything.” “Right? She just moved a few numbers around. We’re the ones who pulled the all-nighters writing the pitch, doing the PPT, and running the errands. Why should she get a cut?” “Yeah. We stick to the story that this was just a term paper. Nobody speaks up in the old group. Just let it fizzle out.” A term paper? They lured me in with a lie and now they were going to double down on it. A sharp annoyance sparked in my chest. I opened the old group and posted a message from my personal account: “After spending all this time guiding you, I need to remind you: the core financial models and market projection data in that report are far too granular. The sourcing and depth mimic a real-world commercial pitch.” “They are suitable for a regular class assignment, but they are absolutely inappropriate for a serious business competition. The judges will immediately question your data provenance.” In the two months I’d spent with them, I had rarely spoken with such professional gravity. If they stopped now, if they pulled the plug and went back to collecting open-source data, I would pretend this never happened. I wouldn’t make things difficult for them tomorrow. But the new chat immediately exploded. Mia Jenkins, the youngest of the group, sent a terrified emoji. “Does she know we’re competing?!” Trent Harrison, the captain, scoffed: “Don’t panic. ‘Remind us’? She’s trying to play the high-and-mighty professor. Who is she showing off for?” “She’s just mad she’s getting cut out of the money. She’s trying to scare us.” Another male team member, Luke Keller, quickly chimed in: “Trent’s right. She just can’t stand to see us succeed using her stuff. She wants all the glory.” I rested my chin on my hand, a weary smile spreading across my face in my quiet office. So they knew. They knew this was my stuff. When I first joined, their proposal was a hot mess. I constantly walked them through theory and practice, but they still handed in error-ridden drafts. I had no choice but to take over and fix them myself. In the end, I had sacrificed my own sleep to write almost every word of the final submission. Their so-called all-nighters, their “PPTs,” and their “market research errands” were little more than Googling free templates, slapping them together, and forwarding them to me as genuine effort. Now, they had made it to the finals with my work, and they were trying to erase me completely. Ten minutes later, Trent replied in the old group: “Fine. Since you want to be direct, I won’t hold back. All your ‘guidance’ was just basic theory anyone can Google. We already knew it. What was the point of your help?” “Now you hear we made it to the finals, and you pop up with threats, trying to strong-arm your way into a prize money split.” Luke rolled his eyes—the emoji practically oozed condescension: “Couldn’t pull a team together yourself, so you crash-landed into our group to mooch off our hard work. Now you want a cut? Talk about audacity.” The insults grew more personal. I frowned, replying bluntly: “I joined because you asked for help with an assignment on the forum. It had nothing to do with the competition or the prize money.” As soon as I sent it, Luke sent a middle-finger emoji: “Still playing dumb? Why else would you volunteer to help us?” “Unless… you saw one of the cute guys in the team photo and got a little crush?” Skylar Dean, the other girl on the team, jumped in: “The Captain’s the best-looking guy on the team, right?” Trent’s response was a full-out smirk: “Oh, Professor? Was it me you were after?” “Well, let me burst your bubble. I’m picky. With you? Tsk. I’d have to be blind to hook up with you.” He then posted the only selfie I had on my social media profile into the group chat. We had only communicated in the forum group, but Trent had my personal cell number and knew my accounts. In the early stages, when they had zero seed money, I personally Venmo’d Trent $5,000 to get them started. Last month, when his mother was diagnosed with cancer, I saw him soliciting help in the group. I pulled strings to get her a specialist appointment and sponsored over $10,000 toward her medical bills. I remembered what it was like to be a struggling student. Trent had sent me tearful voice messages thanking me, saying the chemotherapy was working wonders thanks to the specialist. Now, he had forgotten every favor I’d ever done for him and was insulting my appearance and slinging vile, sexually suggestive words. In that moment, I truly regretted joining the group. Two months of hard work wasted on a bunch of ingrates. “I’ve said my piece. If you insist on going through with the competition, don’t say I didn’t warn you.” Right after I hit send, Trent removed me from the group. 2 I didn’t dwell on it. I went back to my own pressing work. When I finally took a break, I found a new, viral post on the university forum. It tagged my old student account. “WARNING: Scammer Alert—Do NOT Fall for This ‘Alum’!” “This student, posing as an alum mentor, manipulated her way into our Startup group. Her advice and models were stolen from other people’s successful projects.” “Out of respect, we didn’t call her out. We busted our butts and made it to the finals on our own merit. Now she’s demanding a $20,000 ‘consulting fee’ and 90% of the prize money. She threatened to make us regret it if we didn’t pay up!” My body went instantly numb. In forty short minutes, the thread had hundreds of replies. The student comments were a storm of outrage. “She gave you stolen work? That’s blatant plagiarism!” “The audacity. Trying to demand a $20K fee for stolen work. The Challenge rules clearly forbid using outside professional advisors, let alone paying them.” “She’s just a student! Not a real advisor. She must be loving this attention.” One comment asked for clarification: “Wait, I read ‘Anya Rossi’s’ comments on other threads. Her advice was actually sound.” Luke immediately jumped in: “We have proof! Check the screenshots! Also, just so everyone knows, Anya pursued our captain. He rejected her, and she’s been harassing him nonstop. It’s disgusting.” I felt faint. Our two months of innocuous professional dialogue had been maliciously screen-capped, cropped, and pasted together with vicious black captions. Dozens of images painted me as a serial plagiarist who aggressively demanded money and prize shares. Worse, they manufactured evidence that I had sent Trent vile, inappropriate messages, outright soliciting a sexual relationship with him. The final, sickening blow was the transferred funds. The receipt for the $5,000 I had sent Trent had been mirror-image Photoshopped. Now, it looked like he had transferred the money to me—a “go-away payment” because he couldn’t stand the harassment. I immediately tried to respond. My account had been restricted. All posting and commenting functions were blocked. I remembered Trent bragging that his roommate was a forum administrator. My personal cell buzzed. Trent sent a laughing-crying emoji. “See, Professor? This is all your fault.” “From the start, you kept saying ‘This is rough,’ and ‘That won’t fly.’ You forced us to refine the financials until Mia was crying from stress. Luke wanted a 50% market growth projection, and you forced that conservative 15% on us—he literally smashed his mouse in the dorm.” “You’re a student, too! We called you ‘Professor’ out of courtesy, but you actually started believing your own hype.” “Truth is, we were sick of your micromanaging. If you hadn’t interfered, our project would be even better!” Before I could process it, he deleted all the messages. The post was a preemptive strike, a shield against me reporting them. The retracted messages were to erase evidence. I had underestimated them. They had orchestrated this entire play, right down to my expulsion. “Trent, aren’t you worried about what happens at the finals tomorrow?” “Still trying to scare me?” His next message was instantly retracted, too, but then he sent: “But thanks for the reminder, Anya. You better not show up at the Westlake Hall tomorrow. If you do… we’ll release everything we have. You wouldn’t want to ruin your reputation and be ostracized, would you?” My reputation? I saved the screen-recorded video to my cloud, then re-read their viral post. The entire team—Trent, Luke, Mia, Skylar, and the two others—were all playing the victims, complaining that I was autocratic, demanding money from them, and screaming at them when they refused. They wanted to destroy my reputation? As a judge for tomorrow’s competition, why on earth would I not show up? 3 The moment I stepped into the Westlake Hall lobby, a hand shot out and shoved me against the wall, pulling me into a secluded corner. “You’ve got a death wish, don’t you? I told you not to come.” It was Luke who had pushed me. Beside him, Trent—immaculate in a sharp suit, ready for his presentation—looked me over, his eyes lingering. He made a lecherous, clicking sound with his tongue. “Tsk. The photos don’t do you justice. You have a great figure.” “I’ll catch you later, Professor, but you need to get out of here right now.” “If you don’t, we’re adding a lot more dirt to that forum post.” I took them all in. The difference between these six aggressive, panicked faces and the sunny smiles in the team photos was jarring. It was a sharp reminder: never judge a person by a picture again. This mistake had brought me nothing but trouble. “Trent, we can discuss the forum post later.” “Now, step aside. The final round is about to start.” The six of them glared, none willing to move. Only Mia timidly whispered: “But the finals are invitation-only. Her name isn’t on our team roster. How did she get in?” They suddenly realized something was wrong, glancing back at the security guard checking invitations. The competition was about to begin, and I didn’t have time to argue. Just as I was about to state the truth, Trent’s expression warped into one of grotesque understanding. His smile grew even more sickening. “Oh, I get it. Did you sleep with a judge or one of the angel investors?” “Look at that hourglass figure. Exactly the type those old guys go for.” I narrowed my eyes. “Trent, watch your mouth! That’s slander. I can call the police!” They all burst into laughter. “Go ahead, call them! We have all the proof.” Luke smugly pulled out his phone, holding it high for me to see. The sight made my blood run cold. They had taken my selfie and used AI to generate dozens of obscene, large-scale deepfakes. Every image showed “me” completely naked, with my name written underneath. The man opposite “me” in the photos was blurred, a placeholder for anyone they wanted to suggest. “You’re insane! This is a serious felony!” “What felony? That’s your face, isn’t it? Anya Rossi is your name, isn’t it? How can the facts be a crime?” The situation was escalating terrifyingly fast. I grabbed my phone, intending to dial 911, but Luke snatched it away with lightning speed. “Give that back!” “Try and take it.” Luke swaggered, stuffing my phone deep into his pocket. My heart sank. A few male students walked past and greeted them: “Trent, I thought your team had six people. Who’s this… oh, the plagiarist alum! Did you guys cave? Are you giving her the fee and the prize money?” Trent adopted a solemn, pained expression: “No way. She got in here using… some underhanded methods.” Luke deliberately shook his phone, letting the screen flash the images. Students within ten feet gasped. “Holy cow! She’s got no bottom line! She actually used the casting couch to get to the finals!” Luke winked cheekily: “The top prize is $1.5 million. If you’re a hack who only knows how to plagiarize, but can sleep with an old guy and walk away rich, what good is a ‘bottom line’?” Skylar poked his arm: “Are you sure it was only one time?” The whole group, even Mia who was usually quiet, erupted into knowing laughter. A shiver of horror ran down my spine. There were two other women on this team, yet they were all—for the sake of a larger split of the prize money—insulting me with the most despicable means possible. The passersby were clamoring for the photos. “I’m sending this to the College group chat! It’s never been this exciting!” “Which college are you in, Professor? We’ll make sure not to post this to your department’s fishing-for-a-sugar-daddy chat.” I’m not a tall woman, and I was now completely encircled by a dozen people, with no escape. I paused. My fists clenched. Then, a cold, almost cruel smile touched my lips. “When did I ever say I was a student?”

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Twenty years of knowing Rhys. On the eve of our wedding, he sent me a message: “I’m doing this with someone else right now. You want to hear it?” The text was merely a warning. Before I could process the words, Rhys immediately started a video call. My reflex was to smash the screen to hang up. The tremor in my hand shocked even me. Call after call came in. The last one was a 60-second voice note. The instant I pressed play, the unbearable sounds shredded my eardrums. In total despair, I texted Rhys: “Why?” Rhys replied, his breathing still ragged: “We’ve done it so many times secretly, and you never noticed. It was getting boring.” The wedding dress I’d spent hours organizing, the one that lay on the bed, seemed to instantly deflate, transforming into a pile of cheap cloth. 1 Five minutes later, a loud knock rattled my hotel room door. Rhys stood outside, his collar undone, a glaring, crimson mark on his neck. He had been in the room right next to mine, with another woman. Yet I had been completely oblivious; he had to tell me himself. When he saw my red-rimmed eyes, he let out a short, dismissive laugh. “Anya, you’re so dense. How are you ever going to be my wife?” My voice shook as I asked him: “How long?” Rhys sighed, sounding genuinely weary. “I thought I was deliberately leaving so many clues for you.” “The day we went dress shopping? The minute you went into the changing room, I said work called me away. Really, the girl was throwing a fit and needed me to placate her.” “She’s not like you—she’s not a good girl. She always gives me a headache.” He said ‘headache,’ but the smirk never left his face. I had felt something was wrong. I have severe psychological trauma. For twenty years, Rhys was the only person I could tolerate being near. I hadn’t wanted a wedding at all, but Rhys insisted. He said he wanted to see me in a white dress, which is why we started planning a small, intimate ceremony just for us. He’d been so excited to go with me to pick out the gown. But on that day, he’d rushed off before he ever saw me put it on. “All those photos you sent me later? The ones of you trying on the dresses? I didn’t look at any of them. She picked this one out for you.” “So, what do you think? Happy with her choice?” A thick, invisible hand seemed to grip my throat, suffocating any sound. Rhys walked in without waiting for an invitation, his fingers brushing the train of the gown. “Well, looks like she wasn’t focused when she picked it. This dress is pretty mediocre.” The custom-made, illuminated monogram on the wall glowed crimson, threatening to bleed. The fluttering ribbons seemed to tighten around my neck. Ten minutes ago, I was lost in the fantasy of marrying Rhys tomorrow. This was the closest I had ever been to happiness. Rhys had built that sanctuary for me with his own hands, and now, he had personally torn it down. Tears burst forth like water from a broken dam, uncontrollable. My blood felt frozen; my whole body was numb. I whispered, lost: “Why tell me now?” Rhys made a tsk sound. “Because you’re too compliant. And too dense.” “If I wanted to hide it, I could have for the rest of our lives.” “But keeping up the act every day is exhausting.” He pressed his hand on top of my head, an action indistinguishable from petting a small dog. I woke up, jolting backward several steps until my spine hit the cold wall. Only that frigid surface offered a sliver of safety. Rhys seemed oblivious to my terror and fragility, advancing slowly. Cornered, I finally screamed at him: “Don’t come any closer!” In that moment, I was six years old again. Only this time, the person inflicting the harm was Rhys. He stopped, his feet rooted to the spot. “Fine. I won’t.” “You do need to calm down.” He paused, then added: “Don’t worry. I haven’t said I don’t want you. I just don’t want to pretend anymore.” “The wedding tomorrow is still on. Everything you’re entitled to, you’ll get.” Rhys said more things, but I couldn’t hear them over the deafening, suffocating buzz in my ears. He left me there. Someone next door was waiting for him. December was too cold. The air felt like it would kill me. I fumbled for the hotel lighter and, in a daze, set the wedding dress on fire. The blaze was hot, illuminating my pale face, yet it did nothing to dispel the deep cold around me. I was reminded of another huge fire Rhys had set when I was sixteen. When I was six, my parents threw me out into the snow. I hid inside the small-town diner his family ran. Rhys was the one who found me, huddled and shivering like a stray. After that day, whenever my parents kicked me out, I could always go there for a hot meal. When I was sixteen, Rhys’s stepfather cornered me in the back when no one else was home. Rhys was the one who knocked his stepfather out with a brick, then set the diner ablaze to cover our escape. He took me and ran. Rhys was eighteen then. We boarded an old Amtrak sleeper car, huddling together for warmth in the corner when there were no seats. He told me: “Don’t be scared. You have me. No one will ever hurt you again.” After that day, I developed a severe psychological barrier. Except for Rhys, I couldn’t bear anyone’s touch. I always believed Rhys was my savior, a gift from heaven. Now, I felt I should have just died in the snow when I was six. The smoke alarm triggered, and hotel guests fled in a panic. When the police led me away, Rhys was holding that girl in his arms, shielding her from the flashing cameras of the gossip reporters. 2 I spent the night in a cold holding cell. In the haze of a high fever, Rhys posted my bail. News about him meeting a mistress on the eve of his wedding was all over the internet, yet he was the one who looked annoyed and disappointed. “God, Anya, you need to learn from the society wives. Why are you such a liability?” He didn’t seem to notice I was sick, or perhaps he noticed and simply didn’t care. I saw no compassion in his eyes, only a profound annoyance. I curled up in the back seat of the car. The heater was blasting, but I was still cold. Five years ago, when he was just starting out, he’d taken me to a high-society event. Even dressed by professionals, my poor social presence was glaring among the wives draped in diamonds. People whispered and pointed. The countless stares made it hard to breathe; I felt like fleeing. Rhys had wrapped his arm around me then and said: “It’s because I haven’t had the time to properly cultivate my woman yet.” His light remark shut everyone up. He truly did ‘cultivate’ me. I became graceful and chic, and no one looked at me with pity anymore. Instead, they looked with envy. When I struggled with my outfits, he’d tell me: “You don’t have to compare yourself to them. No matter how well they dress, in my eyes, they’re not worth a fraction of you.” I trusted Rhys implicitly. I still couldn’t figure out when he had changed. The wedding was called off. Rhys brought me home. The girl who opened the door was wearing only a sheer silk slip. Her pale skin was dotted with red marks. Scattered clothes littered the floor inside. I didn’t need to ask what had happened last night. Seeing me, the girl’s smile faded. “Didn’t you say the wedding was canceled and you were going to spend the whole day with me?” She whined and draped herself over Rhys with practiced ease. He stroked her hair, exactly as he used to do to me. “Tomorrow, Bianca. Didn’t you say you wanted to see the Aurora Borealis in Norway? I’ve already arranged everything.” Bianca seemed appeased. She started changing right in front of Rhys and me, without any shame. I stared at her, lost. She noticed my gaze. “Don’t look at me like that. I just came to help break in the bed for you two. Wishing you a swift and happy conception.” The wedding was canceled, making the words ‘happy conception’ absurd. Her tone dripped with mockery. I realized something staggering: the girl in the hotel parking lot yesterday, the one Rhys was holding, was not this girl. Bianca left. My strength failed me, and I collapsed to the floor. Everything blurred. I reached out a trembling hand to Rhys. He just stood there. “It’s not worth being this shaken, Anya.” “You need to learn to get used to it.” I passed out. I woke up in the bedroom. I had been changed into a new set of clothes. The house doctor had given me a shot to break the fever. I had been unconscious for an entire day. Rhys’s voice sounded, annoyed: “Why are you so stupid? If you’re sick, why not say something sooner?” “Fine. You rest up here. I’m leaving.” If I had known Rhys would leave the moment I opened my eyes, I would have stayed asleep. I called his name from behind, forcing myself up. “Are you going to see her?” Rhys didn’t turn around. “I promised her. I can’t go back on my word.” But Rhys had also promised me that he would make me happy forever. How could he go back on that? I didn’t have the courage to break up with Rhys. Twenty years. He was a part of my soul. I didn’t wait for him to return. Instead, his social media updated with a photo of him and Bianca in Norway. Under the brilliant Aurora, they looked to all the world like a couple passionately in love. I hired a private investigator and found the woman Rhys had been with in the hotel. Her name was Sloane, a minor social media personality. I put the photos in front of her. “You might not know this, but Rhys isn’t only with you.” Sloane barely glanced at the photos and laughed scornfully. “Mr. Rhys has truly kept you sheltered, Anya. You’re so naive.” The tiny shred of hope I had clung to was crushed by her words. It turned out everyone but me knew Rhys had countless lovers. I was afraid to sleep in the master bed, unsure how many women Rhys had brought home. I was simultaneously lucid and dazed all day. Desperate for sleep, I unknowingly consumed an entire bottle of sleeping pills. 3 That night, of all nights, Rhys came home. He saw the empty bottle by the bed and immediately rushed me to the hospital to get my stomach pumped. He had saved my life again, yet I felt worse than dead. Rhys’s face was dark with anger. “Is it worth trying to kill yourself over this?” “Look around, Anya. Is there a single man in our circle who only has one woman? How can everyone else cope, and you can’t?” The way he framed it, it made everything sound like my fault. I lay on the hospital bed, whispering weakly: “We’re not like them.” The year Rhys and I ran away, he had already been accepted to Manhattan University (MU). He didn’t enroll. Instead, he found a high school for me. He said: “I’m eighteen. I can go work.” He worked multiple jobs. But after my night classes, he would still come to my school to see me. One evening, I walked out of the school gates and found him leaning against a tree, fast asleep from exhaustion. He didn’t wake until I wrapped my arms around him. I told him I didn’t want to study anymore; I wanted to work with him, even for less pay. But he told me: “You study hard. Get into MU, and you study my share, too.” MU was a dream he’d mentioned more than once. For me, he could give up his dreams. So why was he giving up on me? Rhys’s voice was cold. “What’s the difference? We’re just a man and a woman.” “Anya, we don’t have that kind of love anymore. I keep you here because you’re family. You need to learn to be fine with that.” “You need to start acting like it.” I was out of immediate danger, and Rhys didn’t stay by my side. But he hired two people to monitor my movements constantly. Rhys continued to move between different women, only now, he didn’t bother hiding it from me. Gossip about him was delivered directly to my phone. I realized the news hadn’t been absent before; Rhys had simply paid to bury it all. Day by day, I wasted away. The house doctor contacted Rhys, but he didn’t come back. The doctor just put me on an IV drip for nutrition. Then, one day, the scheduled gossip reports suddenly stopped. Rhys brought a new, much younger girl home. The moment she saw me, she gave a saccharine call: “Hello, Sister.” I didn’t cry or scream. I simply had no energy left. Perhaps seeing my skeletal state, Rhys felt perfectly comfortable leaving the girl alone with me. Her name was Skylar. She was a student at MU, with a brilliant future ahead of her. I asked her, bewildered: “Don’t you know how many women Rhys has? You have a better future than this.” Skylar shook her head. “Sister, how can you be so naive?” “Don’t you understand? I can get more from a few nights with him than I could earn in a lifetime.” She said this without caring if Rhys overheard. In her words, even if Rhys grew tired of her one day, she was young and could use the resources he gave her to find someone else. I knew Rhys had coached her to say that to me. Skylar and I were different. She could leave Rhys with a shrug. Leaving Rhys would kill me. I expected Rhys to replace her soon enough. But before long, Rhys proposed a breakup. He spoke the words lightly, as if discussing the weather. “She’s different from the others. She thinks she’s a canary in a leased cage, always ready for me to open the door.” “Even though I’ve cut off the other women for her, she still believes that as long as you’re here, I’ll eventually get rid of her.” Rhys smiled as he spoke. I knew then that he had developed real feelings for Skylar. No wonder I hadn’t seen any gossip lately. Skylar, in his description, was so vibrant, while I felt like a dying old woman. All my turmoil and struggle were meaningless to Rhys. The hole in my chest tore wider. A cold wind whistled through me. A part of my soul was being peeled away. “Rhys, even you are giving up on me.” Rhys just said: “We’re still family.” He gave me a massive amount of money, more than I could spend in a lifetime. He also gave me several properties in the city. “Come back if you run out.” “If Skylar hadn’t loved this apartment so much, I actually would have left it for you.” I couldn’t hold back the nausea any longer. I bent over, dry-heaving, tears and saliva mixing. My jutting spine scraped painfully against my clothes. Rhys patted my back and offered a glass of warm water. “Let’s end this well, Anya. I want you to be okay.” I smacked his hand away. The place where he’d touched me was agony. Nauseating. So nauseating. I wanted to die right there and then. I didn’t wait for Rhys to hurry me. I left that apartment that was no longer mine immediately. Even if I died, I wouldn’t die pathetically in front of Rhys. As I walked out, Rhys called out, sounding genuinely concerned: “Do you want me to take you to a hospital first?” I waved him away painfully. From that moment on, my life had nothing to do with Rhys. 4 I moved to a different city. The day I settled in, I used a surgical blade to scrape his name off my forearm. Rhys. His arm had my name, too. When we got them, he said: “A marker. We belong only to each other.” The next time I saw Rhys’s name in the news, it was media celebrating him and Skylar as a perfect, made-for-each-other couple. Their names even sounded harmonious. I was plagued by nightmares every night. My abusive parents, the man who’d attacked me, and the faces of countless strange women circled me, emphasizing over and over: Rhys doesn’t want you anymore. I smashed and replaced the things in my apartment repeatedly. Time and again, I flirted with death. And time and again, I pulled myself back. I realized I was sick. I went to the hospital alone. After hearing my story, the doctor scheduled me for MECT (Electroconvulsive Therapy). After the treatment, I would lose all my previous memories, forgetting all the pain. I felt as though I’d grabbed a lifeline, practically begging the doctor to start immediately. The doctor advised me: “You might want to write down things you don’t want to forget.” I shook my head frantically. I didn’t want to remember anything. Rhys’s goal was achieved. After the breakup, Skylar stopped planning to leave him. Instead, she became increasingly clingy. The girl was full of creative, childish notions. At first, Rhys found it charming. Later, he started to feel overwhelmed. After a while, he realized, it was just fine. He started sleeping with other women again. One day, he met a woman who looked five parts like me. She wore a familiar, eager-to-please expression. Rhys’s rage was sudden and unexpected. “Don’t use that face to charm a man!” He stopped, stunned by his own outburst.

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The moment Dean Harrison, for the thousandth time, tacitly allowed someone to refer to my sister-in-law as “Mrs. Harrison” during a professional event, was the moment I stopped screaming inside. I didn’t lose it. I didn’t cause a scene. I even raised my glass, a graceful arc of silence and surrender, and echoed the compliments they were lavishing on the two of them. “They really are, aren’t they? A perfect match.” Dean’s head snapped up. The shock in his eyes was naked, a raw, uncontrolled thing. “What did you just call her?” I met his gaze, my smile shallow and deliberate. “Mrs. Harrison, of course.” 1 Dean’s astonishment lasted only a second. Just as quickly, the mask of indifference settled back over his features. “Eliza, do you have to be like this?” His brow furrowed, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “We’re flying to New York to meet a major client for New Year’s. Sloane is coming with me.” “You stay home, and don’t even think about interfering. We are simply…” He paused, waiting for the predictable explosion. The breakdown he was so used to. I simply nodded. “I know. You two are inseparable, all for the sake of the business.” He squinted, searching my unnervingly calm face for a crack, a sign of the hysteria he expected. “She’s also the face of the new brand launch,” he prodded. “You know how crucial this is…” I smiled again, a serene expression of total understanding. “I do know. Helping Sloane build her career is part of Graham’s last request, isn’t it?” “And as his brother, you absolutely should see it through.” He froze again. He leaned in, his mouth forming an incomplete thought. “Eliza, you…” I shook my head, my composure absolute. “Relax.” “I won’t interrupt your work anymore.” 2 Whatever Dean had been about to say was cut short by Sloane Merritt’s soft, sweetly demanding voice. “Dean, darling, come on! It’s time to cut the cake!” Sloane was on the podium, playing the part of the triumphant hostess. She waved him over with a bold, proprietary gesture. Under the spotlights, her skin was luminous, a pampered, perfectly cultivated rose. The massive screen behind her then flashed an intimate, laughing photo of the two of them. The room erupted in cheers. “They’re stunning!” “The boss’s wife is absolutely killing it!” This company gala felt less like an annual corporate celebration and more like a wedding reception. Few people, given the speed of the company’s growth, even knew I was the actual wife, the one whose initial investment had made all this possible. A few older employees shot me pitying glances. Dean didn’t move. He only raised a lazy eyebrow at me. He was waiting. Waiting for me to lose control, to shriek, to smash that ridiculously oversized cake into Sloane’s self-satisfied face, just like the old days. But I simply reached into my clutch and pulled out the small, gold-wrapped box I’d carried around for months. I extended it toward him. “A belated IPO gift. Congratulations, CEO Harrison.” He was visibly startled, then his usual, languid smirk returned. “The company went public ages ago, and you’re just now thinking about it?” He took the box, his fingers brushing my skin. “Took you long enough to finally act your age.” Tucked beneath the flashy gold wrapping was a simple, bound divorce agreement. Thinking back, we started with a gift, and now we would end with one. It felt poetically complete. “Eliza,” his voice suddenly softened, the warm light above us creating a gentle, false halo around him. “Come up here with me.” Was he asking for peace? No. It was a calculated handout. A public crumb to keep me tethered to him, right in front of all these witnesses. I shook my head. “No, thank you.” The last time I’d dared to stand beside him, an employee who didn’t recognize me had unceremoniously elbowed me aside. “That’s Sloane Merritt’s spot, the CFO’s! Who do you think you are, trying to take center stage?” Dean had acted as though he hadn’t heard a thing, coldly letting me suffer the humiliation before intimately pulling Sloane to his side. The memory was a sharp, bitter draft that I instantly shut down. His eyes instantly hardened. He closed the gap between us, his voice dropping to a low, rough whisper meant only for me. “Trying to play the gracious wife? What’s the new scheme, Eliza?” His breath feathered my forehead. “Half a month ago, you were on your knees begging me not to leave. Who are you putting on this performance for?” I lifted my eyes and looked at him, clearly and calmly. “It’s not an act,” I said. My inner tsunami has finally gone quiet. All the pain, the hysteria, the desperate refusal to let go—it had all evaporated. I had no reason left to stay. 3 He tightened his jaw and turned away, stepping onto the stage where the spotlight instantly claimed him. That tall, familiar silhouette suddenly overlapped with a memory from years ago. I almost forgot that he was once the man who swore to bring the entire world to my feet. One evening, unannounced, the doorbell rang. I opened the door to see a delicate, slight figure who, with a small, manufactured gasp, seemed to stumble right into Dean’s arms just as he was leaving. He instinctively stabilized her. I still remember her tear-stained face and the ridiculous, unbelievable words she spoke. “Dean… Graham is gone…” “He never got to finish the things he promised…” “He said you would finish them for him. Is that true?” In her hand, she clutched Graham’s long, detailed “last requests.” Kissing by the Italian coast, a wedding on a cliffside… She was asking my husband to carry out the romantic courtship promised by his dead brother. And that absurd plea was met by Dean’s silence. A silence as cold as ice, creeping inch by inch into my chest. “You’re not… seriously going to date his fiancée for him, are you?” I asked, my voice thin and shaking. He instantly met my eyes, the coldness vanishing from his face as he pulled me into an embrace. “What are you talking about?” “If I’m busy chasing Graham’s girl, who’s going to take care of my wife?” My heart, which had been suspended in mid-air, settled instantly. But then… On our wedding anniversary, he flew to the Himalayas with Sloane for an “inspirational trek.” On New Year’s Eve, he went scuba diving with her off the coast of Bali. I realized, too late, that our plain silver wedding band had been quietly replaced on his finger by a custom-cut, million-dollar diamond—the exact same design Sloane wore. When I confronted him in a rage, his response was dismissive. “The dead come first.” “It’s just a list, Eliza. Graham owed her this, and I have to make it right.” He began to use work as a convenient excuse to keep her close. Vice President title, seven-figure salary, always together. It was then I understood. There was no last request. It was a man’s premeditated excuse for betrayal, and a woman’s calculated, entitled theft. And I had become the most pathetic joke in the entire game. 4 The arguments, the accusations, the screaming. I tore through the restraint and composure I’d built over twenty years. Late one night, I yelled into the phone, “The list says you have to get married! Are you going to marry her next?!” He wouldn’t answer. He just left me with longer silences and later nights. My final public breakdown happened at his Series C funding celebration. Champagne flutes reflected dazzling light. Sloane was on his arm, accepting compliments about the beautiful, successful couple they made. I stared at them and whispered. “Mistress.” My voice wasn’t loud, but the entire room instantly went dead quiet. Dean’s eyes swung toward me, the coldness in them freezing the blood in my veins. A week later, I received my dismissal letter from the university and a permanent ban notification from my professional platform account. Ten years of professional dedication and reputation, gone overnight. I stormed into his office like a maniac, slamming the papers onto his desk. “Clear this up! Dean, you need to tell them the truth—” He leaned back slowly in his chair, his eyes scanning my tear-streaked face. He looked at me the way one might appraise a failed, defective product. “Look at you,” he sneered. “You look like a lunatic.” “You’re a psychologist, aren’t you? The expert on the human mind?” He leaned forward, his voice a slow, cutting drawl. “With this behavior, how can you possibly counsel anyone else?” “I told you, Sloane is here for work. Nothing more.” He chuckled, picking up the termination letter and tossing it lightly at my feet. “You insisted on making a spectacle. Eliza, you brought this misery on yourself.” 5 Clinical therapist. Psychology scholar. The specialized knowledge I’d been so proud of, the success stories I’d written—they offered no protection, no extra calmness or courage in the face of my own betrayal. I gave a self-mocking laugh. Watching them on stage, side-by-side, I calmly turned and walked out of the hotel. My phone screen glowed. A new email notification: [Invitation for Visiting Scholar, University of Pennsylvania, Psychology Department.] Attached was a one-way ticket order to Philadelphia, departing the day after tomorrow. Today was my birthday. Twenty-eight years old. I deleted every notification reminder except for one note in my memo app. Happy Birthday, Eliza. My wish for the coming year is to never see Dean Harrison again. 6 That night, the internet exploded. The tag #HarrisonPowerCouple was trending, quickly followed by #SongGalaRomance. The photos showed him leaning down to listen to Sloane, a softness in his profile that I hadn’t seen in years. [OMG, look at the way CEO Harrison looks at Sloane—pure adoration!] [The “Don’t approach me” look and the “Puppy-dog eyes” expression on the same face! I’m dead.] [Who doesn’t know that Dean Harrison donated millions just to give Sloane Merritt a massive platform and status? Seriously spoiled wife!] [They are the definition of an epic love story!!!] Yes. For years, Dean had meticulously cultivated Sloane’s image as the “Boss Babe” entrepreneur. The character didn’t quite stick, but the manufactured romance between the two of them had the internet completely hooked. [Wait, are they married?] [I thought Dean Harrison was married? His wife doesn’t look like that?] I silently closed the trending app. I scrolled past it, my internal landscape utterly flat. A moment later, my best friend, Clara, called, her voice high and distorted. “Liz! Did you see the news? Dean Harrison actually—” “I saw it,” I cut her off, my voice even. “That’s it? That’s your reaction?!” She sounded closer to tears than I was. “Your husband is openly flaunting his affair! Are you just going to sit there?!” A key turned in the lock of the front door. Dean was home, carrying the cold, clean scent of the night air. A satisfied smirk touched his lips. He’d clearly heard our conversation. “You saw it?” He tugged at his tie, walking toward me, his eyes mocking. “Weren’t you playing the role of the incredibly detached wife? Are you going to cry now? Or maybe start throwing things?” He leaned in, his breath hot. “Eliza, you’re trying too hard. It’s a bad performance.” I looked straight into his eyes. “Do you need me to cry? I can put on a show right now if it would satisfy you.” My tone was almost polite. He visibly stiffened. “If you’re truly upset,” he straightened up, returning to his familiar tone of high-handed condescension. “I can have the story pulled off the feeds.” “No need,” I said, picking up my water glass. “I don’t mind.” His eyes darkened, finally pricked by my lack of reaction. He suddenly gripped my wrist, his strength jarring, his voice low and hoarse. “What about your consulting account? You got fired from the college; that was your last tether to your career, wasn’t it? Aren’t you afraid that this drama will wreck it completely?” The water in the glass sloshed. That account. It had been my life’s work. But the moment he chose to expose my private breakdown to the world, the moment he took the college job away, that platform was dead. His offer now was meaningless. I offered a kind, gentle suggestion. “I’m sure it was Graham’s wish that Sloane be welcomed into the Harrison family in a very public way, too, wasn’t it?” “You making her Mrs. Harrison for him would be the ultimate fulfillment of that legacy.” 7 “Eliza!” He barked my name, his jaw tight. “You think if you pretend not to care, I won’t know you’re just trying to make me jealous?” “Jealous?” I looked at the face that used to make my heart beat faster, and felt only utter clarity. “I’m not trying to make you jealous.” I heard myself speak, the sound light, almost cheerful. “I think I just don’t love you anymore.” He seemed nailed to the floor. His pupils slightly dilated. I didn’t love him. That’s why he could fly Sloane to private islands, scuba dive, bungee jump, and take photos at the Lover’s Bridge. I no longer had to scream. That’s why he could come home after half a month, with faint red marks on his neck, and I would simply hand him a glass of water and ask, “Which item on Graham’s list was that one?” Even when Clara angrily texted me that he’d bought Sloane a ridiculously expensive necklace at a charity auction, I could agree calmly. “Of course. It’s the least he can do for the woman his brother cared for so much.” He stared at me as if I were a stranger. His eyes held confusion, disbelief, and a flicker of panicked loss of control. “Eliza,” his throat bobbed, his voice dry. “Why are you… not mad anymore?” He didn’t know that I had already fought and won the last psychological battle against myself. Desensitization complete. I was ready to walk away. 8 My wishes rarely came true. Two days later, I ran into Dean and Sloane at the airport. “Eliza? You actually followed us?” Her eyes were smug, and she mouthed a silent message to Dean. Told you so. Dean’s expression was remote, but the moment he saw me, a knowing, triumphant smile touched his lips. “I thought you said you wouldn’t interrupt us?” I nodded. “That’s right. I won’t.” I tried to slip past them, giving them a wide berth. Dean’s hand shot out, stopping me. “Where are you going?” “Home,” I said vaguely. “Home? Since when do you take an international flight to go home? Couldn’t you come up with a better excuse?” Sloane snickered. “Just say it, Eliza. You’re here to stop Dean from leaving, aren’t you?” The ridicule that used to stab me felt completely dull now. I admitted it, my face blank. “Yes.” Dean grinned. “If you truly wanted to come with me to New York, you could have just said so. Why the clumsy attempt at chasing me?” “You’re right.” “Fine. I’ll buy you a ticket right now.” “Or you can go back to the house. I promise I’ll come home early to you.” I filtered out all the maddening words, responding only in single-syllable acknowledgments, eager to end the conversation. Dean’s face darkened. “Eliza, are you even listening to me?” “Mhm.” “Eliza?!” I seemed to startle awake. “You’re absolutely right.” “May I go now?” 9 “Dean, just let her go. She won’t get three steps before she comes running back to you.” Sloane’s voice drilled into my ear. I stopped. I realized I had one thing left to confirm. I turned around, and the relief in Dean’s expression was palpable. “There is one more thing I need to confirm with you.” He watched me, perfectly composed, waiting for me to falter. I asked, “Did you open the gift I gave you?” He laughed lightly, shaking his head with an air of mild exasperation. “Not yet. I’ve been too busy these past two days.” He paused, scanning my face for a flicker of anxiety or disappointment. “What, you flew all this way just to hurry me up on unwrapping a gift?” I thought for a moment. I went straight to the crux of the matter. “Dean Harrison. You once said that if we divorced, you would give up your entire fortune.” “Does that offer still stand?” 10 I remembered the time I saw the bill for the piece of jewelry he bought Sloane. The long string of zeros had rendered me speechless. He had slowly taken off his glasses, looked at me, and said, “Let’s just divorce, then.” “I’ll leave with nothing. You can take the hundreds of millions. You can buy anything you want for yourself, okay?” I had seen the madness in his eyes. I saw the disdain of a man who thought his extraordinary ability to make money meant he was superior. I also saw his absolute confidence that I would never leave him. Back then, I was consumed by a desperate stubbornness. “Is it about the money?” “How dare you try to buy me off with cash?” “No. You will never get a divorce from me!” How foolish I had been. Money was excellent. Especially since, legally, a significant portion of it was mine anyway, built from my original investment, no matter how much it had been diluted. 11 His eyes hardened again. “Eliza, you are never going to let this go, are you?” “You want a divorce? You really think you can handle that?” “She’s probably just mad about that tacky yellow tiger’s eye necklace, Dean,” Sloane scoffed. “It was something I was going to trash anyway, and I guess he just gave it to you instead.” “Next time, we’ll make sure the gift we pick out for you is expensive enough, alright?” I felt a small sting of disappointment. So, the full asset transfer wasn’t real. That was a shame. I looked down and quickly forwarded all the evidence to my lawyer. File for divorce. I’m done waiting. 12 I pulled my suitcase, slowly moving toward the security checkpoint. I heard Dean say something behind me, but the noise of the airport crowd swallowed his words. The loud, rhythmic chime of the New Year’s clock began to ring, and bright lights flashed in the distance. Philadelphia. The name rolled off my tongue, carrying a long-forgotten tremor of anticipation, a feeling that belonged only to me. The mecca of clinical psychology. I had planned this trip countless times, packing and unpacking my suitcase, booking and canceling my ticket. Each time, Dean had an excuse to postpone. Too busy. Next time. Or a sudden, urgent crisis involving Sloane would effortlessly wipe away all my plans. Now, the final obstacle—the one named Love—had been completely removed from my heart. The path ahead was clear. Just then, my long-dormant professional account suddenly received a comment. [Dr. Eliza, I’m in love with a toxic man but can’t leave him. I keep going back. I feel pathetic. What do I doooo?] I was surprised anyone was still posting on the account. I realized I’d spent the last few years stuck in that exact cycle. It was like looking at my former self. My finger paused, then I began to type: [Adopt a Player Mindset. If you can’t leave, stay. But stop tying your self-worth to his affection. Extract the emotional comfort you need, and nothing more. Your pain is real, and it doesn’t need his validation to prove it. Remember, you’re temporarily lost, not permanently cheap.] Send. It was the final answer I gave to the person I used to be.

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388895”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

I am rich. Seriously, absurdly rich. Add to that my face that’s always been more than serviceable, and my entire life has been a relentless parade of thirsty suitors and envious whispers. So, when my path was suddenly blocked by a man in an expensive but slightly too-tight suit, my mind went completely blank. I didn’t recognize him. I only registered the fact that he was rude, standing in the middle of a high-end gala without moving. I offered a polite, clipped request: “Excuse me, sir. Could you please step aside?” 1 His brow instantly furrowed into a tight knot. He didn’t just look angry; he looked genuinely incredulous, like I’d just broken a fundamental law of physics. “Are you seriously pretending you don’t know me?” The woman draped over his arm like a drama queen. She covered her mouth, a dramatic performance of shock. “Scarlett Hayes? Is that really you?” Her eyes, predatory and quick, scanned me from head to toe. She zeroed in on the understated, low-key blazer I’d chosen for professional comfort. The smug, gleeful pity in her gaze was impossible to hide. “Oh my God, you actually fell this far? Are you… are you serving tables now?” She stepped closer, dropping her voice just enough to ensure the surrounding circle of guests could still hear. “We’re classmates, aren’t we? If you were in trouble, why didn’t you say anything? This kind of serving-staff work? You, Scarlett? You were the most fragile princess in the whole class.” “If others couldn’t help, you had Ethan Bell. Remember? He was so devoted to you. He worked three months straight just to buy you that gift. He even hurt his hands trying to cook you a meal.” Her voice carried load. A ripple went through the crowd, and dozens of appreciative eyes settled on Ethan. Ugh. There it was—the Hero of Devotion narrative, perfectly executed. A few older, heavy-set executives nearby began to coo. “Not many young men show that kind of devotion anymore. Ethan Bell? Isn’t he the one from Ascend Tech?” “He just landed a major project, I heard. A man of substance. We should get in touch.” The wives and socialites swooned with a collective sigh. “A man that devoted? His current girlfriend must have saved an entire galaxy in a past life.” “Though I wonder, if he was so perfect, what kind of idiot would ever break up with him?” That was the question Chloe was waiting for. She shot a triumphant smirk my way, then pivoted back to the crowd. “Oh, I forgot. Back then, Scarlett threw the necklace Ethan gave her in the trash. She said her dog wouldn’t wear something that cheap. And she poured out the dinner he worked so hard to make, complaining it wasn’t made with imported ingredients.” The air went dead silent. The pitying looks that had been directed at me curdled instantly. After a long, uncomfortable pause, someone finally spoke in a low murmur. “I knew it. No good man like that gets dumped unless the woman is a gold-digging nightmare.” “A waitress? Snuck into a high-society event like this? She’s probably here looking for a ‘special side-gig.’” Finally, Ethan opened his mouth, his voice a low, self-satisfied rasp. “Scarlett Hayes, I told you back then you’d regret it. And now…” He took his time, staring at my basic suit, at the empty hand that had just been steadying a server’s tray. He sneered. “It looks like I didn’t even need to lift a finger. Karma handled the job for me.” A blank finally lifted from my brain. I dug through the forgotten basement of my memories and pulled out the bin file. “You’re… Ethan Bell?” I glanced at the clinging woman beside him. “And Chloe Davis?” Chloe snickered, a high, brittle sound. “I thought you’d keep up the act forever.” “Scarlett, I remember exactly how you humiliated Ethan. How you treated me. You can’t tell me you’re not regretting it now that Ethan is the one who’s made it big?” Regret? Not even close. I simply remembered the persistent, self-appointed Martyr who had stalked me through college, and the jealous hanger-on next to him. The first time I saw him, I’d just stepped out of my family owned Bentley and saw a commotion outside a fancy restaurant. A guy in a faded, washed-out button-up shirt was yelling, his face beet red. “This one dinner cost how much? That’s my whole month’s allowance! This is robbery!” The manager, looking bored, rolled his eyes. “It’s clearly marked on the menu. Why weren’t you complaining while you were eating it? Pay up, or I call the police for dine-and-dash.” That was Ethan Bell. Next to him, shoulders hunched and eyes wide with manufactured terror, was Chloe Davis. Chloe was clutching his sleeve, sobbing into his arm. “Ethan, I’m so sorry. It’s all my fault. I just wanted to try some fancy meal, but I didn’t know it would be this expensive…” The manager laughed, a harsh bark. “Too late now, kids. Pay the check! And what kind of college students try to play high-roller when they can’t even afford the bill?” Ethan’s fists were clenched so tight his knuckles were white. He glared at the manager. “I’ll give you fifty now. The rest…” A flash of genuine shame crossed his face. “I’ll find a job. I’ll earn the money and bring it back.” I later found out he was the pride of his small town, a first class college student whose family had sacrificed his sister’s tuition to send him out. Grabbiing that check, and under the worshipful gaze of his hometown friend, Chloe, the guy got a little too big for his britches. Chloe gave him the puppy-dog eyes about the restaurant, and his fragile male pride—that damned pride—made him walk straight in. The manager was about to relent when I cut in. Ethan’s face was the color of a plum, but his spine was ramrod straight. The next second, a pale, manicured hand slid a black card between them. “Count it on me.” Both Ethan and Chloe froze, staring at me. I was completely expressionless. I just wanted to get to my table; they were blocking the entrance. “It’s fine. We’re classmates. This one’s on me.” It should have been a non-event. A mild, passing courtesy. Instead, Ethan yelled after me as I walked away, “What’s your name? I’ll pay you back! I don’t accept charity!” Without turning around, I tossed my name over my shoulder: “Scarlett Hayes.” Honestly, my initial impression of him was… fine. Mostly a decent kid with too much pride. Two months later, he cornered me. He was clutching a wad of cash—the thousand dollars, or whatever the bill was—like it was his entire self-worth. “Here. This is what I owed you. I’m paying you back.” His posture suggested that if I didn’t take the money, I was personally committing a felony against his dignity. I didn’t have a habit of crushing people’s egos. Besides, a debt is a debt. I took the money and asked, “Can you move now? I’m late.” He flinched, his face flushing again. “I… I’m Ethan Bell.” I was running to a lunch with my father, so I waved dismissively. “Ethan Bell. Got it. Thanks.” I genuinely thought he was a one-off extra. But apparently, the man had a spectacular inner monologue. Staring at my retreating back, he suddenly inflated with adrenaline. “Scarlett! I love you! May I ask you out?” I was thunderstruck. Buddy, this is the second time we’ve spoken. I was in a rush, so I didn’t give it a second thought. I turned back and said flatly, “No. I don’t like you.” The incident went exactly as you’d expect. Some people laughed: “A scholarship kid trying to date Hayes? What a joke.” Others pointed fingers at me: “Spoiled bitch. Couldn’t even let him down gently. Public rejection like that is cruel.” Wait, what? He proposed in public, but I was the asshole for rejecting him in public? “I try to do a good deed, and I get branded the villain,” I vented to my girls in a private dining room. Just then, the door slammed open. A pristine, ten-thousand-dollar bottle of Cristal, freshly uncorked for us, flew off the table and shattered on the floor, the golden liquid splashing everywhere. It was Chloe Davis, wearing a server uniform. She pointed a furious finger at me, as if she’d caught me molesting a puppy. “That bottle cost over a grand! Do you know how long Ethan had to wash dishes to pay back that thousand dollars? How dare you waste his hard work like this?” I was stunned. My friends were stunned. The manager, running in, looked utterly bewildered and let out a string of expletives. “Are you out of your mind?!” The manager was having a bad run with his staff. He tolerated Chloe’s constant, muttered complaints about customers—”wasteful trust fund kids,” “slutty clothes,” and so on. But this? This was a new level of insanity. She had destroyed client property and insulted the most valued patron. I gave the manager a cold smile. “Manager, your service here is truly… unique.” Manager’s face went white. He apologized profusely and immediately dragged Chloe out. As she was being hauled away, Chloe screamed, “Am I wrong? Scarlett, don’t think your money makes you superior! Poor people have dignity!” “Ethan worked his hands raw to pay you back! And you just throw your money away! Don’t you have a conscience?” I nodded slowly. “You’re right. I made a mistake.” Chloe instantly lifted her chin, radiating the glow of moral victory. “Good! Then send the bill back and go apologize to Ethan!” I gestured to the puddle of shattered glass and champagne. “I won’t be drinking this one. Whoever broke it pays for it.” Chloe’s triumphant expression dissolved into panic. Then I continued. “And based on that quality, please bring me ten more bottles. I’d like to hear them all clink.” “Ten… what ten?” Chloe stammered, horrified. Another server dragging her out had to remind her. “The wine list, remember? That bottle is two thousand a pop.” Chloe’s legs buckled. She was dragged away. My friend, Maya, stared after her. “Who was that psycho?” I rolled my eyes. “A psycho fangirl.” Of course, I wasn’t actually going to smash ten bottles of champagne. My family’s wealth came with strict discipline against that kind of childish, nouveau-riche arrogance. But when we left, Chloe was standing by the entrance, eyes red-rimmed, acting like a fragile heroine. Seeing me, she bit her lip and choked out a grudging, “I’m sorry, Miss Hayes.” With the ice broken, the tears came fast. “I just… I just felt so bad for Ethan. He’s so smart, he’s meant to do the study, but he was washing dishes for a week to pay you back. He only suffered because of you…” “Because of me, what?” I cut her off, my voice ice cold. She looked startled. She expected tears or a softening of my heart. “He did that menial work for you. How can you spend his money with a clear conscience…” “His money? It was a debt he owed me. A transaction. He owed money, he worked, he paid it back. What does that have to do with me?” I examined my freshly done manicure, completely unconcerned. “I didn’t charge him interest. The ten thousand dollar champagne is my choice. My standard of living is my own. Why should I lower it to filtered tap water just to spare his fragile pride?” “You! You!” Chloe was shaking with rage. “How could Ethan ever like someone as vain and cruel as you?” It was laughable. If you can’t afford to date me, don’t ask me out. Was I supposed to pretend to be poor and subsist on fast food just so his ego could feel satisfied? Who did he think he was? The next day, Ethan showed up, Chloe sobbing dramatically behind him. He was shaking with suppressed anger. “Scarlett. I need to talk to you.” “Can you please drop the complaint against Chloe? She didn’t mean it. That ten thousand… we can’t pay it right now.” A crowd of students was already forming. I didn’t even look up. “No.” Chloe’s crying instantly ratcheted up a notch. “Why? That’s nothing to you! Is it because of me? I truly love you!” Ethan roared, trying to force a confession of love into a financial negotiation. “I don’t love you. And as for her…” I pointed at Chloe. “She broke the glass; she pays the tab. I’m not her mom, and I don’t clean up other people’s messes.” Ethan looked devastated, as if my refusal to be financially exploited was a moral failing. “You are just like everyone else. You look down on people who come from my background.” He grabbed Chloe’s arm to leave, but before walking away, he threw a parting shot at me. “Scarlett Hayes, I will prove to you that I love you. Even if you reject me now, I will never give up!” And that was it. The entire university had its newest campus legend: the tormented, dedicated, lovesick hero from the engineering program. And me? I was the greedy, cold-hearted villainess who used her money to crush a noble woman. Everyone said he loved me “into the grave.” He worked three months to buy me a cheap necklace. “I know you usually wear expensive things, but when I get rich, I’ll buy you the best.” His friends were there, chanting. “Say yes! Say yes!” “Scarlett, do you know what Ethan went through for this necklace? Where will you find a man this devoted?” I was so furious I almost laughed. They wanted a show? Fine. I’ll give them a show. Since they already labeled me as an arrogant bitch, I’d play the part. He liked moral grandstanding in public? I’d like to destroy him. I snatched the cheap chain from his hand and slammed it on the ground, grinding my heel into it. “I said I don’t want it! Are you deaf?” “This thing? My dog wouldn’t wear it. She’d get a rash.” Ethan’s face went corpse-white, as if I’d physically slapped him. The cheering instantly died. The proudest “Village Hope” had never been humiliated like this. But he was persistent. The Martyr narrative was strong with this one. A few days later, he brought a Tupperware container to my dorm. “Scarlett, I know you like expensive food. This is a meal I made for you by myself.” In the summer heat, he deliberately showed his hands—they were covered in fresh blisters. I gave a cold laugh and kicked the container into a nearby trash bin. “What trash are you bringing to me now?” “Unless the ingredients were flown in on a private jet, I’m not eating it.” Chloe popped up instantly. “Can’t you see the burns on his hands? He’s never done dishes at home!” I feigned shock, covering my mouth. “Wow, such a huge sacrifice. He definitely deserves a medal. Should I call the president?” Then my face fall. “Now, how is that my problem?” The real turning point came in our year 3. I was leaving campus when a middle-aged woman grabbed me. She looked me up and down. “You must be Scarlett Hayes? Ethan’s girl? You’re not bad looking, but you dress a little loose. Not proper.” “Once you marry into our family, you’ll need to be a decent wife. Ethan spoils you, but don’t push it.” “Little Chloe told me how wasteful you are. Your family is rich, but so what? You’ll be Ethan’s wife, and his money is yours.” “Oh, where is Ethan? I brought my home-made pickles. This one’s half-finished, but it’s still my wish.” She shoved a greasy, half-full jar of cloudy, home-made pickles into my hands. She kept the other, pristine jar—packed full of pickles — clutched tightly to her chest. I stared at the jar, then up to the clear sky. I zoned out for a while and waved to my driver. “Get this person away from me.” My driver, a former Marine, gently but firmly moved the woman aside. Ethan’s mother started screaming, throwing a fit. “What are you doing? Who is this man? You’re cheating on my son with a thug!” “I’m getting my son! He will break up with you!” Ethan rushed over. Seeing the scene, he immediately went to shield his mother, his face a mask of wounded outrage. “Scarlett, how could you treat my mother like this?” Chloe, sensing her moment, fanned the flames. “Mrs. Bell, see? She doesn’t respect you at all.” Ethan’s mother was practically hopping mad. “Break up! You must break up! Unless she gets on her knees and apologizes to me, she’ll never set foot in a Bell home!” I was beyond done. “Did my being your ‘girlfriend’ ever pass by me for approval?” Ethan stiffened. He looked at me, a silent, pleading expression in his eyes. Don’t embarrass me, Scarlett. Don’t ruin the vibe. His mother, taking my silence for submission, leaned in. “What? Cat got your tongue?” I pulled out my phone and dialed the non-emergency police line. Then I answered her calmly. “Ma’am, you have just publicly slandered and physically accosted me. I have the right to press charges.” “And you can tell your son to stay away from me. If he harasses me again, I’d be happy to see your whole family behind bars.” Chloe gasped. Ethan’s mother was frozen, gaping. I got into the car, leaving them in the chaos. In the rearview mirror, Ethan chased the car for a few steps, roaring my name. “Scarlett Hayes! Aren’t you afraid that one day, karma will get you, and you’ll end up poor like me?!” As he cursed. Five years after graduation. He clawed his way up and became the new tech darling. And me? I was the one attending the gala who casually steadied a tray for a hurried waiter—the CEO of a financial empire. 2 Ethan’s face was a study in toxic, triumphant smugness, like he’d just won the lottery and couldn’t wait to spend it all on revenge. He pulled a business card from his jacket pocket, pinching it between two fingers, and offered it to me like a handout to a beggar. “Take it. Ascend Tech. I’m the CEO now. For old times’ sake, if you’re truly desperate, I can give you a janitorial position.” He paused, a cruel smirk twisting his mouth. “Specifically, cleaning the men’s restroom. How about that? Since you were so high-and-mighty, it’s time you experienced how the other half lives.” Chloe dissolved into peals of fake laughter. “Oh, Ethan! Scarlett is so capable, I’m sure she’ll make that restroom sparkle!”

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The intern my husband hired for Procurement walked in and immediately started telling me how to do my job. “You’ve been bleeding the company dry! Don’t you know how to use AcquiPay?” She tapped her phone, pulling up a discount app — Temu — and flaunting her ridiculous order history from the previous month. I froze, speechless. “Seriously? You’re such a relic, you don’t even know this?” she scoffed. “If I were the Procurement Manager, this company would have gone public years ago!” I swallowed my annoyance, determined not to engage with her nonsensical bravado. “Drew needs help organizing the old invoices. Go see him—” Before I could finish, Skylar Finch slammed her palm flat on my desk. “I’m not here to be a glorified file clerk! I’m here to save this company!” She gave me a dismissive once-over. “Someone like you, who doesn’t even understand basic corporate financing like AcquiPay, should just wait to be replaced by someone who does.” I calm down, slow my breath. Fine, I thought. In that case, let’s make your next paycheck on AcquiPay too. 1 I immediately reached for my phone to call my husband, Ethan Hayes. Where on earth did he find this… creature? The phone rang and rang, but went unanswered. Just then, the office door burst open. Skylar strutted in, clutching two huge plastic bags overflowing with junk food. The plastic rustled loudly. “Come on, everyone, dig in!” she yelled, her mouth full of chips, showering the floor with crumbs. She tossed the bags onto people’s desks. “My treat! You can’t survive a corporate grind without a sugar rush.” The other colleagues swarmed her, grabbing handfuls of snacks and showering her with praise. “Skylar really knows how to play the game!” “She’s got people skills, that one!” Skylar puffed up her chest, brushing the crumbs off her hands with a smug look. “Oh, this? It was nothing. I used AcquiPay for all of it. Didn’t spend a single cent today!” I was about to step out and shut down the unprofessional noise when my phone vibrated. The screen lit up with a notification from the corporate-adjacent market downstairs. [AcquiPay Notification: Your Use First, Pay Later feature was activated this morning. Order total of $999.00 due next month.] The rustle of the plastic bags of chips and the colleagues’ raucous laughter felt miles away, yet Skylar’s triumphant voice was gratingly loud. “It’s the smartest way to stock up! They only deduct the money next month!” I stared at the unfamiliar payment record on the screen, my fingers suddenly cold. I pushed the door open and walked out of the office. The laughter died instantly. Every person in the room froze. Skylar was mid-toss, trying to get the last bag of Doritos to Drew. She turned to me and rolled her eyes for the entire office to see. “Oh, looking for a snack now, are we?” she sneered, her voice shrill. “No way. You don’t get any of mine.” She deliberately shook the empty plastic bag at me—Hssshhh!—the sound echoing in the silence. “Some relics around here,” she announced to the room, “don’t even know what AcquiPay is. Do they really deserve to eat my stuff?” I held up my phone, the glowing screen pointed directly at her. “The $999 payment at the supermarket downstairs. Was that on my account?” 2 Skylar snatched the phone out of my hand, her eyes lighting up instantly when she saw the screen. “Aha! You figured it out!” She shook her head with a triumphant air. “See? Now you know how to use modern tech!” She shoved the phone back into my chest, a look of righteous indignation on her face. “You should be thanking me for setting it up for you!” A few coworkers couldn’t help but chuckle. “It’s so convenient, the payment is only next month,” she said, patting my shoulder like a condescending therapist. “Think of this $999 as a little lesson fee. The dinosaurs have to evolve, after all!” With another plastic hssshhh, she ripped open a bag of cookies, crunching loudly. I felt a surge of cold fury. I slapped the bag of cookies out of her hand, sending them scattering across the floor. “What the hell did you do?!” Skylar shrieked, grabbing a handful of chips from the desk and throwing them straight at my face. “You psycho! You’re wasting food!” A shower of potato chip flakes stuck to my cheek. She was yelling now. “The market only lets employees use the corporate feature! I’m just an intern, so I didn’t have the authority. I just used your name—” She grabbed her own phone, pulling up a screenshot of my pending payment. “The market manager knows you. I had him link the bill to your profile, AcquiPay style. You’re definitely paying that lesson fee!” I grabbed her wrist. “You will pay that money back immediately! And I’m shutting that ridiculous feature down right now!” Skylar ripped her arm free, her voice hitting a high pitch. “Ungrateful! I teach you modern finance, and you want to punish me for it?” Her greasy hand grabbed the lapel of my jacket. “It’s your own fault the company is going to phase you out! Why are you so desperate to pay a bill that isn’t due until next month?” My colleagues were trying to hide their snickers. This fueled her. “I boosted your spending power! You should be bowing to me!” I hauled her toward the door, yelling over the chaos, “You’re fired! Get out!” SMACK! The sound was sharp and shockingly loud. I felt the sting on my cheek before the realization hit me—she’d just slapped me. I stood there, stunned, the fiery pain spreading across my face. She shoved me hard, her voice ragged and loud. “Everyone in this company knows you’re the most useless person in Procurement! You need me to teach you basic tech!” I noticed a few colleagues were discreetly holding up their phones, recording. “What are you looking at?” She stepped closer, spittle landing on my face. “Mr. Hayes personally brought me in! Who are you to fire me?” 3 Skylar raised her chin, radiating confidence. “Go on, try to get Mr. Hayes to fire me. Let’s see who he listens to—you or me!” She gave me a final vicious push, grabbed the pile of snacks off the desk. “Honestly, throwing pearls before swine! I wouldn’t even give this to you to feed the dogs!” Shaking with rage, I pulled out my phone and called to Ethan. Let’s see if I can get rid of you today. The phone rang endlessly. No answer. The collective gaze of my colleagues was a physical weight, pinning me in place. The continuous busy signal felt like a series of slow-motion slaps across my face. I redialed. Still no answer. The third time, the phone was just with cold, robotic beeps. Skylar let out a derisive snort and started cracking cashew nuts, the sound loud and obnoxious. “Trying to hire an actor? Get a professional one,” she drawled, waving her phone, the screen blindingly bright. “What’s the point of calling someone who won’t take the call?” She deliberately turned her phone’s volume to max, then slowly traced a number on the screen. “Watch this,” she said, dragging out the words, then thrusting the phone right into my face. “This is Mr. Hayes’ private line.” I knew the number intimately. It was, undeniably, Ethan’s private number. She tapped the screen and hit speakerphone. Beep… Beep… The line was picked up after just two rings. Ethan’s gentle voice floated out of the speaker: “Skylar, what’s going on?” The office instantly went silent. You could hear everyone’s ragged breathing. Skylar threw me a look of pure, unadulterated malice, then her voice turned sickeningly sweet. “Ethan… Mr. Hayes, darling. Someone’s trying to fire me!” She paused deliberately, waiting for my reaction. I stared at the phone, rigid with shock. A two-second silence followed. “Who?” 4 Skylar immediately switched to a shaky, tearful voice, but her finger was pointing triumphantly at me. “It’s that older employee in Procurement! I saw she didn’t understand AcquiPay, so I tried to kindly show her, and she didn’t just refuse—she called me a busybody!” She sniffled dramatically, her voice trembling. “I told her this could help the company’s cash flow, and she actually said… she said it was just a cheap trick and immediately threatened to fire me!” I lunged for the phone, but she deftly dodged my hand. “Even worse, she tried to hit me just now!” Skylar embellished, her voice reaching a dramatic crescendo. “Mr. Hayes, I came here wanting to do meaningful work. I never expected to face this kind of bullying…” Ethan’s voice immediately softened. “Skylar, you’re a high-level grad. Don’t pay any mind to that old gen.” He paused, then his tone turned ice-cold. “Don’t worry. I’ll make sure you get justice.” “I’m wrapping up this meeting and coming over right now.” His voice suddenly rose, sharp and commanding. “This is a perfect opportunity to finally root out the parasites in this company.” I threw myself toward her to grab the phone. “Ethan Hayes! You absolutely will—” Skylar smoothly cut me off, hanging up the line with a sharp, final click. She slid the phone into her pocket, then pointed a finger at my face. “Such an old Karen. Trying to steal my phone?” She rushed at me, shoving me hard with both hands. I was caught off guard, stumbling backward. My lower back slammed into the sharp corner of the office desk. The jolt of pain was blinding, and I collapsed heavily onto the floor. Before I could even try to get up, Skylar’s high heel came down hard, grinding onto my outstretched fingers. A sharp cry of pain escaped me, but she didn’t flinch. She twisted her foot, applying more pressure. “Everyone look!” she yelled, surveying the silent room. “This company is being dragged down by useless parasites like this one!” I curled up on the ground, whimpering from the agony. She stared down at me, a cold sneer twisting her lips. “Mr. Hayes is right. It’s high time we clear you out.” 5 My colleagues didn’t know the true nature of my relationship with Ethan, but seeing Skylar’s close with him on the phone, they instantly made their choice. They rushed forward, a wave of venom. “Skylar’s right!” Brenda was the first, pointing her finger right at my nose. “Taking up postition and doing nothing! You should have been gone years ago!” “Exactly!” Drew, the younger colleague, crossed his arms and sneered. “She doesn’t even understand AcquiPay! This company is stalled because of old deadwood like her!” “Skylar is a high-level grad! Mr. Hayes personally recruited her! Who are you to challenge her?” “She deserves to be hit!” “Walking around here with that attitude like the company is your personal property!” The insults and accusations were a torrent, practically drowning me. Skylar crossed her arms, a look of complete satisfaction on her face. She spat a disgusted syllable near me. “Hear that, old parasite?” “Start from today, Procurement is getting a massive overhaul under my direction!” Skylar grabbed the stack files of current purchase orders off the desk. “What is this trash?” Her sharp eyes scanned the list, her mouth twisting into a sneer. “You’re trying to save a few pennies by sacrificing the company’s image?” She hurled the entire stack of papers right at my face. The sharp edge of the ream cut my cheekbone, stinging me. “Only instant coffee? No fancy fruits, not even decent snacks for clients?” Her finger practically poked my nose. “We entertain clients with this garbage? No wonder this company isn’t growing!” I clutched my burning cheek as she stomped her foot down on the scattered files. “Starting now, make every single item tripled” she announced to the room. “First, we stock the warehouse up to the ceiling!” “And if the money runs out, we use AcquiPay for everything!” She slammed her hand on the desk. “We pay for the goods after we’ve sold them! That’s called capital management!” I couldn’t take it anymore. I scrambled up from the floor. “You’re out of your mind!” I yelled, pointing a trembling finger at her. “AcquiPay? Capital management? That’s utter bullshit!”

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My voice, naturally high and soft—what everyone called a “baby voice”—was apparently a crime. The campus queen, Delilah, didn’t just call it “fake” or “putting on an act”; she weaponized it, using it to freeze me out. I ran to Lucas, my best friend since kindergarten, crying until my face was blotchy. He didn’t rush to my side. He simply lifted his chin, glanced past me toward Delilah, and the distance between us stretched out, cold and immediate. “Delilah isn’t wrong, Avery,” he said, his voice flat. “Maybe you should stop asking me out for a while.” I froze, staring at him, the tears instantly drying on my cheeks in disbelief. Later. Backstage at the All-Campus Vocal Showcase, the guy everyone called the “Campus King of Chaos,” Jax, cornered me. By the time I could breathe, my carefully applied stage makeup was smeared with tears from a frantic, punishing kiss. That’s when Lucas hammered the door open. His eyes were pure crimson rage. He launched himself across the room, his fist driving toward the boy holding me: “Get your damn hands off her!” 1 I walked into our large History of American Culture lecture and slid into the empty seat next to Lucas. Before I could even open my notebook, a tall, striking girl holding a stack of books approached. She wore a pristine pleated skirt. She stopped in front of me, glanced at Lucas, then gave me a soft, wounded look. “Excuse me, but this is my seat.” I frowned. “It’s a public lecture, seats are first-come, first-served. There’s an empty spot at the back row.” A light breeze from the vent stirred her hair. She bit her lip, her eyes suddenly welling up. She turned to Lucas. “Lucas…” The classic distressed damsel move. I’d seen it a million times. I ignored her, pulling my books and laptop out of my bag. Not only was Lucas and I practically attached at the hip since kindergarten, but he had always, always backed me up. He had never once crossed me for anyone else. Even if I were a stranger, why should I be forced to move for someone who came late? In college, seating rules were simple: Possession is nine-tenths of the law. But then, a long, lean hand tapped sharply on my desk. I looked over. Lucas was giving me a mildly exasperated, almost apologetic half-smile. “This is the spot I saved for Delilah, Ave. You should probably move.” The shock was physical. I stared at him. In a petty fit of defiance, I upended my backpack, scattering my books and pens across the desktop. “I got here first! I’m staying put right here.” Delilah’s voice immediately cracked with a sob. “Just because you have that voice, Avery, and can turn on the coy act, doesn’t mean you can steal someone’s spot and be a bully, does it?” The all people in the entire lecture room went silent under her accusation. All eyes, including the professor’s, swiveled toward our corner. 2 Delilah was the campus’s reigning beauty queen—the “angelic” type, all white skin and delicate, pointy features. When she looked upset, she truly resembled a distressed fawn. Suddenly, a chorus of male voices from the crowd began to protect her. “Avery, that’s too much. Are you just picking on the easier target?” “This is why I hate that childhood-friend stuff. They use that history to team up and intimidate people.” “Lucas seems fine, he’s usually a gentle guy, but his childhood friend… seriously, that voice is so affected. Does she actually think pretending to be cute makes everyone side with her?” The noise level was too high. Our Professor, Dr. Hill, a man known for his sharp patience, walked down from the podium, his expression cold. “What’s going on here? We’re about to start class.” A student chimed in instantly. “Professor, Avery here tried to steal Delilah’s reserved seat and is being totally unreasonable about it!” I opened my mouth to explain, but Dr. Hill’s steely gaze cut me short. He looked to Lucas. “Is that true?” Lucas was the class representative, always level-headed. The Professor was right to trust his version of events. I turned to Lucas, pleading silently with my eyes for him to set the record straight. He barely glanced at me. Then, he simply nodded. “Avery didn’t want to sit near Jax, Professor. She took Delilah’s spot.” I shot up out of my seat. “That is a lie!” “Enough! Seats aren’t assigned in this class, and there’s no such thing as choosing who you want to sit with. Young lady, if you want a good spot, come early next time. Class is starting immediately. Sit in the back or step outside!” The professor slammed his hand on the podium, sending me a look of profound disappointment. “Avery, you’re usually so engaged in class. I didn’t expect this kind of petty behavior from you.” I genuinely loved this course, American History. I always came early, pre-read the chapters, and fought for every chance to contribute. Being misunderstood by a professor I admired felt like a betrayal twice over. As he walked away, I wanted to charge up there, he can check the surveillance feed in need. But all the words caught in my throat, swallowed whole by the sharp, ringing sound of the tardy bell. I sank back down, defeated. 3 The only empty seat was in the very back row, next to a guy who had his face covered with a denim jacket. Jax, the campus legend. The hardest person to cross on campus. Rumor had it his family had just donated an entire wing to the university library, and the time he’d gotten into a fight with a tutor, the President had practically walked him out of the office personally. I sat down tentatively, trying to be silent, terrified of waking him. My phone, resting on the desk, suddenly vibrated twice. I clamped my hand down on it. Jax lifted his head from under the jacket. His narrow, dark eyes, sharp as a predator’s, were staring coldly at me. A chill ran down my spine. I immediately offered a submissive whisper. “S-sorry.” His gaze remained fixed on my face. Just as I braced myself to be yelled at, Jax simply dropped his head back down, pulling the jacket over his face again. I exhaled sharply. I checked my phone. Several unread texts. Lucas: [Ave, I didn’t mean to side with Delilah back there.] [The thing is, she failed her last pop quiz, and she’s already used up all her participation points. If the Professor gets a bad impression of her now, she’ll definitely fail the class.] [Promise me you won’t go talk to the Professor after class? I’ll buy you the latest Pop Collectible Figure—the limited drop just happened, you’ve been dying for one, right?] [Don’t be mad at me, okay?] [Animated GIF: Calming an upset kitten] What struck me as cruelly ironic was Lucas’s profile picture: a simple stick-figure drawing of two cats—one blue, one pink, one large, one small. I had drawn them when I was ten and first learning to sketch. He had used it as his profile picture for nine years without fail. And now, using that profile picture, he was asking me to forgive him for letting another girl publicly humiliate me. My pencil tip snapped under the pressure of my grip. I took a deep, shaky breath and looked out the window. The sky outside was an angry smear of blood-red sunset, swallowing the last blue light. How could he ask me not to be angry, Lucas? How could anyone not be angry after that kind of public betrayal? 4 “Stop the waterworks. It’s a bad look.” The cold, low voice from beside me startled me. I quickly wiped my face, glaring at Jax. He was propped up now, messy dark hair falling lazily over his forehead, his button-down shirt worn carelessly unbuttoned at the neck. The sunset streamed through the window, tracing the sharp curve of his jaw and neck, hitting the desktop like a piece of sweet, golden amber. Honestly. Ignoring the whole terrifying reputation thing, Jax was impossibly good-looking. I must have been staring, because I quickly forced my expression back into tense neutrality, remembering his capacity for violence. “Tch. Looks like a scared kitten.” Jax scoffed dismissively.

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The backlash hit my inbox thirty minutes after I turned down the request to cover the New Year’s shift. I was scrolling through my work feed when I saw it: an anonymous post titled, “Are Pregnant Coworkers Entitled to Special Treatment?” The outrage was immediate. The comments were a firestorm of judgment and self-righteousness. What the thread failed to mention, of course, was that I hadn’t taken a federal holiday off in nearly a year. I was the one who was constantly covering for everyone else. Tara had framed it perfectly—a desperate appeal to the court of public opinion, painting herself as the victim while leading strangers to openly harass me and, sickeningly, even curse my unborn child. I watched the venom spread with a cold, clear focus. So, Tara wanted the New Year’s shift covered? Fine. No problem, then the whole department should come and work with me together. 1 The holiday season was upon us, and the shift schedule was being finalized. Customer service was twenty-four-seven, which meant two people always had to be on the clock, even on federal holidays. It was the company’s way of ensuring we hit those quarterly numbers, and for the overtime pay and compensatory days off, most of us tolerated it. Except for Tara. She was always the exception. The moment her name appeared on the draft schedule for New Year’s Day, she was at my desk, all false humility and cloying smiles. “Chloe, honey, I hate to ask this of you, but…” It was a routine. We had done this dance so many times I didn’t even need to hear the rest of the sentence. She needed me to take her shift. But this time, I wasn’t playing along. I kept my eyes fixed on my monitor, pointing to a flight search page with a sigh. “Ugh, look at these prices. A simple trip home is costing a fortune this year.” Tara’s eyes went wide. “You’re traveling for New Year’s?” I feigned innocence, flashing a bright, fake smile. “I haven’t been back to see my parents in ages. Figured I’d take advantage of the holiday weekend.” “Oh, no, you absolutely can’t,” she blurted out, her saccharine tone immediately dropping. She caught herself, pivoting back to her sickly-sweet voice. “What I mean is, you’re pregnant, Chloe. You should be thinking about the baby. Your hometown will still be there in February, but you shouldn’t be on a plane right now.” When I didn’t argue, she took it as permission to move in for the kill. “Look, you’re not going anywhere, so why don’t you just stay here and cover my shift? My son is finally done with chemo and in remission. School is out for winter break, and this is our only chance to take him somewhere special.” A memory flashed: Tara’s son had been diagnosed with leukemia last year. I had felt genuine pity, not only agreeing to cover her shifts for months but also driving to the clinic to donate blood. It had felt like the right thing to do. It meant I’d missed every major holiday with my own family, but I had genuinely believed I was helping a struggling mother. Now, that same good deed felt like an open invitation for her to exploit me. Her son was healthy, yet she still wanted to cash in on my past kindness. It was maddening. “My tickets are booked, Tara,” I said, my voice ice-cold. “The cancellation fee is significant. Besides, your son is out for the whole winter break. You can go any day.” The smile slipped from her face, replaced by a rigid mask of entitlement. “Chloe, it’s the only time my husband has off. We rarely get a chance to take a family trip. Just help me out.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping into a patronizing stage whisper. “And honestly, is a cancellation fee more important than the safety of your child?” I turned back to my screen, ending the conversation with a line so cruel it almost surprised me. “If I can’t handle a domestic flight, I’m not fit to raise him. Only the strong survive in this world, Tara.” She stood there, speechless, before turning and stalking back to her cube, her face a thundercloud. 2 I thought that was the end of it, a minor clash resolved. I should have known better. It was during my late-morning coffee break that I saw the initial post. At first, I didn’t recognize the user. It was the comments section that gave her away. There, in a thread, was a blurry photo of the back of my head—and the distinct profile of my pregnant belly. The “entitled pregnant coworker” she was dragging through the mud was me. Tara had posted a litany of my fabricated “atrocities,” wrapping it all in a cloak of self-pity and motherhood. “I tried to be the bigger person and cover for her, even with my son only recently recovering from leukemia, but she demanded I cover her shift…” Followed by a string of oversized, weeping emojis. The thread exploded. Thousands of comments poured in, most of them viciously aimed at me. “Who let this little princess out? Didn’t think to consult her coworkers when she was getting knocked up, but now wants them to pay the price?” “One bad apple spoils the bunch. These self-centered jerks are why office culture is so toxic.” “Don’t let her walk all over you, Tara. People like this think niceness means weakness.” The sight of the vile comments sent a white-hot spike of rage straight to my head. I was about to storm over to her desk when Diane, our senior rep, materialized by my side. “Sweetie, Tara has been through a lot,” Diane said, placing a hand on my arm. Her eyes were warm, but her words were the sharp blade of misplaced concern. “Just be a good sport and swap with her. It’s the holiday spirit, right?” I stared at her, stunned. Diane, a woman I had always respected, was taking Tara’s side, sacrificing my peace for Tara’s convenience. It was easy for her to play the magnanimous veteran; she was taking the full week off. Tara, meanwhile, was smiling a smug, triumphant smile at her desk. “Diane has been your mentor since you started, Chloe,” Tara chirped, sensing victory. “She’s stuck up for you countless times. You wouldn’t throw her advice back in her face, would you?” My expression hardened. “I remember everything Diane taught me, and I appreciate her guidance. But this isn’t about loyalty. It’s about a work schedule.” Tara scoffed. “A pretty sentiment from someone who won’t even grant a small favor to her mentor. If you won’t do this, you certainly won’t be around when Diane really needs a favor later on.” The moral blackmail was so blatant it made my stomach turn. Before I could fire back, Brad, the department manager, came stomping in, a new clipboard clutched in his hand. “Last minute change!” he announced, his face tight with annoyance. “This is the final roster. No more modifications, understood?” He slammed the paper down on my desk. I picked it up, and my stomach plummeted. CHLOE was listed for the New Year’s Day shift. I frowned, my tone edged with impatience. “Brad, Tara was scheduled for that. Why am I on this list?” He scowled, his face darkening. “Wasn’t it you who agreed to swap with Tara? I went to bat for you two, pushing this through with HR, and I got a major dressing-down from above! Do you know how much paperwork that takes?” Tara’s smirk deepened. The confirmation I needed. “I never agreed to swap,” I explained slowly, trying to contain the fury thrumming in my veins. “My flights are booked. I cannot work that day.” Brad wasn’t hearing it. He threw his hands up, scattering documents on the floor. “I don’t care! You people treat this office like your personal playground. This is the final schedule. Anyone who doesn’t show up on New Year’s Day is marked as a no-call, no-show and will be terminated immediately.” I couldn’t believe his hypocrisy. Brad was a manager who was routinely saved by me when his quarterlies looked shaky. Last year, when he was in a desperate situation with a bad lease, I had housed him for a month, free of charge, as he sorted out his mess. Now, he was sacrificing me to cover his own managerial mistake, not even bothering to verify the story. Tara gave me a superior, pitying look before settling back at her desk, perfectly content. “Chloe, we all know the pregnancy hormones are spiking your temper,” she said, loud enough for the department to hear. “But you shouldn’t take it out on the rest of us. The company pays us well, and we have to respect their scheduling decisions.” Then, with perfect theater, she pulled out her phone and called her family. “Sweetheart? You know how much you wanted to see the National Mall? Well, guess what we’re doing for New Year’s!” The feeling in my chest was no longer rage. It was a cold, desolate clarity. I was too soft. I let them see me as a mark. 3 Tara didn’t stay quiet. Why would she? She had won a small battle and, true to form, immediately ran back online to gloat to her cheering section. The congratulations rolled in immediately. But then, a new conversation began. “She got what she wanted, but don’t let her off the hook. People like this need a real lesson.” “Right. She thinks the world orbits her belly. She’ll just do it again next time.” A comment buried in the thread caught my eye, and a knot of dread formed in my throat. “I recognize this woman. She works on the floor above us.” “She’s huge, but I’ve never once seen a husband or boyfriend pick her up. It’s probably a textbook single mom situation.” In less than two minutes, the thread blew up with speculation. “That far along and no baby daddy in sight? She probably doesn’t even know who the father is.” “Explains the entitlement. Probably having sex with a senior exec for ‘special treatment.’ Gross.” The slut-shaming and personal attacks were so vile they made my stomach clench. I tried to post a rebuttal, but it was immediately dismissed as a paid attempt to “wash the floor.” Then, Diane’s voice chirped from behind me. “Chloe, sweetie, your bump is getting so big. Why doesn’t your husband ever come get you after work?” I knew immediately she had read the post. Whatever answer I gave, Tara would spin it as a lie. To speak was to give them more ammunition. I stood up and walked straight out of the office. “Just had a coworker ask her. Looks like the rumors are true. She couldn’t even answer the question.” Tara’s latest comment was now pinned to the top of the thread. It was Diane’s betrayal that stung the most. She wasn’t just not helping me—she was actively aiding my tormentor. I had respected her, seen her as a mentor, and showered her with gifts that cost more than her monthly car payment. And for what? For her to join the digital mob? I had been a fool. I walked to the nearest coffee shop, canceled my airline tickets, and messaged Declan about the change of plans. He called me immediately. “The folks are expecting us. They’ll be crushed. Should I call your manager and sort this out—” “No,” I interrupted, cutting him off with a firm finality. “Don’t. If I don’t handle these venomous people myself, I won’t be able to live with it. I need to finish this.” 4 When I returned to the office, Tara and Diane were huddled together, gleefully comparing photos of travel outfits. “Oh, the white puffer is so cute, Tara!” “I know, but the black one is better for traveling. It hides the grime.” The laughter died the second I entered the room. Diane looked briefly embarrassed. “Chloe, hey,” she stammered. “Look, working the holiday isn’t so bad. It’s a good way to show initiative when you’re still young.” Tara jumped in, oozing false concern. “Diane is right. It’s for your own good. It’s icy outside this time of year. What if you slipped and fell? We’re just looking out for the baby’s safety.” I stared at her. A mother who had begged for her own child’s life was now wishing harm on mine. It was a depth of malice I hadn’t expected. My fists clenched. “Working New Year’s is a minor inconvenience,” I ground out, my voice low and dangerous. “But a soul that rotten is a lost cause.” Tara merely tilted her head back, a smug, untouchable expression on her face. “You can keep talking, Chloe. That’s all you’ve got left.” At that precise moment, Brad rushed in, his face serious. The noise in the office died immediately. Tara, convinced she was safe, jumped to the front. “Manager Brad! Happy almost-New Year’s!” Brad ignored the cheap pleasantry, holding up a printout. “New directive from the C-suite. The entire Customer Success department will be on mandatory, all-hands overtime for the duration of the New Year’s weekend. Everyone. We’ll arrange comp time after the holiday.” The announcement landed like a bucket of ice water on Tara’s head. Her smug smile froze mid-stretch. “W-why?” she squeaked, the sound barely a whisper. Brad glared at her. “Since when do company decisions require a consultation with you, Tara?” “No, that’s not what I mean!” she rushed to explain, her voice rising in panic. “It’s just that our call volume is never that high during the holiday. We shouldn’t need a full staff.” “It’s because the call volume is low that we’re doing this,” Brad snapped, spittle flying. “You need to be proactive. If every employee operated like you, we’d all be out of a job by spring. You will work. You will find projects. We need to be seen as indispensable.” The office was silent. Tara, desperate, whispered, “But… but I just booked tickets to back home…” Brad’s stare was a warning. “Tara, if you’re so committed to your vacation, no one is stopping you. Just make sure to drop your letter of resignation on my desk on your way out.” The subtext was clear: Push this and you’re fired. Tara’s face went white. She collapsed into her chair, silent and defeated. “I did all that work,” she murmured, “and I still have to work?” Diane, quick to calculate the changing tides, rounded on her immediately. “You have the nerve to complain? This is all your fault! Now the entire department is paying for your selfish, back-stabbing drama!” 5 Diane was right. Tara was the reason. But she only had half the story. The all-hands order wasn’t Brad’s idea. It was mine. I knew our department was a constant target for corporate cost-cutting. Declan had warned me about it. We dealt in high-end luxury products, and in a slowing economy, the budget axe was always hovering. Brad knew his job was always on the line. My proposal had solved all his problems at once. I had recently seen a viral video—a low-level customer service rep for a popular bread brand who used a clever, funny reference to a viral meme in a customer chat. The video blew up, driving an unprecedented surge in sales. Brad’s eyes had gleamed when I showed him the concept. “This is genius, Chloe. Write up a full strategy. Now.” “The plan is easy,” I replied, feigning hesitation. “But there’s a problem…” “Spit it out, I’ll handle it,” he said, desperate for a win. I leaned in. “Online trends are fleeting. If we want to capture the moment, we need to launch immediately. But New Year’s is next week, and we’re short-staffed.” Brad didn’t even think twice. “Short-staffed? That’s nothing compared to our quarterly goals! It’s New Year’s, not Christmas. I’ll just make the entire department work overtime.” I smiled internally. Tara wanted me to work the holiday? She was getting her wish, and then some. I would have the entire office to myself, watching them all squirm. Diane’s accusations made Tara’s face contort with fury. She shot up from her chair. “What are you talking about? It was management’s decision!” Diane folded her arms and sneered. “Was it? You set Chloe up to cover your shift, which forced Brad to scramble and change the schedule. He was so mad at the department’s instability he had to come down hard on all of us!” The rest of the team instantly saw the logic, their collective anger turning on the true culprit. “Tara, this is because of you!” “Chloe was nothing but helpful to you! She gave you everything you asked for, and you went and did this?” “I knew it. Honestly, it’s probably your bad karma that caused your son’s sickness in the first place.” The final insult was too much. But before the chaos could fully erupt, Brad returned, holding a stapled memo. “Attention, everyone,” he announced, voice clipped. “You will all adhere strictly to Chloe’s new marketing proposal. You will double last month’s performance by the end of this month. If we fail, all of this month’s performance bonuses will be withheld.” The words “all withheld” were a punch to the gut. Our base salaries were barely minimum wage; we all lived off the bonuses. Brad had just put a gun to everyone’s head. Tara, cornered, lashed out at Diane. “Don’t pin this on me! You were happy to take all my little gifts! You’re just as complicit!” Diane’s eyes darted around the room. She was flustered, her face pale. “You stop lying!” she shrieked, before snatching her bag and fleeing the scene. 6 The plan worked. Lowly as the tactic was, the marketing campaign was a massive success. Sales spiked, and Brad was practically giddy, the worry lines around his eyes softening. But in the rush to capitalize on the moment, we made a catastrophic mistake. The price of the newly listed product has been marked with an extra decimal point. A luxury serum priced at 599 was briefly listed for 59.90. It hung there for almost an hour, racking up thousands of orders before it was caught. The profits from the entire successful campaign vanished in a single, careless keystroke. Brad, apoplectic, slammed his hand on the table. “Who did this?! Own up, now!” Silence. Everyone exchanged terrified glances. “Fine. Don’t say anything,” he roared, already moving toward the door. “I’ll go drag it out of the tech department.” “Wait!” Tara suddenly shouted, leaping to her feet. Brad paused. He turned back, lifting his chin, waiting for her to speak. Tara carefully avoided my eyes, adopting a look of profound, reluctant integrity. “Brad, I know who did it. It was Chloe.” She pointed a thin, accusing finger straight at me. I was instantly the object of everyone’s scrutiny. “She’s lying,” I shot back, but Tara was already talking over me. “The new product price tag was supposed to be my job, but my computer crashed that morning. Chloe volunteered to cover it. Everyone here knows my system was down.” She glanced at Diane, soliciting support. Diane, squinting slightly as she recalled the day, nodded softly. “Tara’s computer was acting up. I remember that.” The others mumbled their agreement. I felt a cold rush of disbelief. It was a half-truth, but effective. Her computer had briefly crashed, but Tech Support fixed it hours later. Knowing her malice, I would have sooner set the building on fire than “volunteer” to help her. But everyone was too busy and too stressed to remember the specifics. They only remembered the drama. I knew, in that gut-wrenching moment, that she was the one who did it. The truly guilty person is often the first to point the finger. “It wasn’t me! Tara is lying!” Brad cut me off, his voice heavy with performative disappointment. “Chloe. I thought you were a hard worker. This is unbelievable negligence. Not only that, but you’re trying to pin a major, company-crippling error on a colleague.” He shook his head, relishing the moment of authority. “This is beyond my pay grade. I’m reporting this directly to the owner. Get ready for the termination notice.” He stomped out, leaving me speechless. He didn’t care about the truth; he just needed a fall guy. And I was the perfect, pregnant scapegoat. As he walked out, I caught Tara’s eye. A fleeting flicker of pure, unadulterated triumph crossed her face.

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I became the ‘Cool blood Mom’—the ultimate enabler my daughter always claimed she wanted—right after the car accident. She craved a sugary rush? I ordered her a Venti Caramel Macchiato every single day—full-sugar, extra whip, and enough ice to give her a brain freeze. She wanted to skip school? I called in sick for her, lying easily to the attendance office. Then, on her birthday, as she shoveled a slice of the custom Red Velvet cake I’d bought, I casually asked: “Willow, if Daddy and I decided to split up, who would you choose? Mom or Dad?” My daughter didn’t even look up from the frosting. “Dad, obviously.” She licked her fork clean, finally meeting my eyes. “I like Serena. If I’m with Dad, she can be my new mom.” A chilling silence dropped over the kitchen. Adam’s jaw tightened, and I saw his knee subtly bump Serena’s under the table—a hushed warning. Serena flinched, her soft features tightening. But I just smiled. It was a genuine, unrestrained smile. I reached out and gently wiped a smear of cream from the corner of Willow’s mouth. “Then I hope your wish comes true, sweetheart.” No one knew I had been given a second chance. I had woken up in the hospital, the metallic tang of dried blood in my mouth, the trauma of the past life burned away by the fresh horror of the present. In that first life, I had fought tooth and nail to keep Willow. And for my devotion, she was murdered by her own father. This time, I was leaving nothing behind. Especially not a serpent’s tooth like her. 1 “Clara, I feel like you’ve changed.” The sudden, cold observation sliced through the quiet hum of the dishwasher. I was standing at the stainless steel sink, rinsing the last of the expensive porcelain. I didn’t turn around. “Oh? Like what, Adam?” I replied, my voice flat. “Like… if Willow had said she wanted a new mother a month ago, you would have blown up.” His voice was low, careful—the way men speak when they’re fishing for a fight, not an answer. When I kept my back to him, he plunged ahead. “And you’ve become too lax with her. The doctors were very clear she needs to monitor her sugar intake. You’re giving her those crazy, high-sugar coffee drinks every day. That cake was half-a-pound of sugar.” He paused, his tone hardening into accusation. “Her teacher called me. She hasn’t turned in homework all week. You aren’t even checking on her assignments…” I picked up the final glass bowl. The brittle clink as I set it on the rack cut him off. “Isn’t this what she wanted?” I asked, shrugging, and tilted my head toward the living room. My ‘best friend,’ Serena Wells, was carefully peeling a ripe mango for Willow—a fruit I’d explicitly banned from our house due to the sugar content. Willow was curled into her side, giggling and petting Serena’s arm. They looked like the perfect, effortless mother-daughter pair. “You two always complained I was too strict,” I said, drying my hands with a crisp linen towel. “That I wasn’t as gentle or understanding as Serena. So, naturally, I’m taking notes.” Adam’s expression froze. His throat bobbed as he swallowed, a thousand unspoken arguments trapped behind his teeth. When he finally spoke, his voice was thick with manufactured outrage. “Clara, Serena is your friend. You brought her into our lives. Can you stop with the dramatics? Stop being so insecure.” He stepped closer, his voice dropping to a menacing whisper. “The girl doesn’t connect with you. Instead of poisoning her body, maybe look at why your own daughter prefers the company of others. It’s your fault, not Serena’s.” His words were razor wire twisting in my chest, a familiar pain. Only the people closest to you know exactly where to strike for the deepest wound. But my heart was already a mass of scar tissue. It couldn’t ache anymore. In the past life, this was Adam’s specialty—Gaslighting 101. He told me the distance between Willow and me was because of my rigidity, my inability to be soft, while Serena was the epitome of warmth. So I kept calling her. Every cold war, every family vacation, Serena was there, the “buffer.” I even allowed Willow to call her ‘Mom’ on occasion and use my first name instead of ‘Mother.’ I bit down on the memory. When Willow was sitting for her college entrance exams, stressed and frantic, I was sitting outside in the sweltering heat, waiting for her. Adam, meanwhile, was sweating through the sheets with my best friend. When I found out, I swallowed the bile and the blood. I didn’t say a word, terrified that the scandal would derail Willow’s future. When I finally demanded the divorce, I walked away with nothing but the custody papers for my daughter. I built an entire life from scratch—a successful clothing design studio, long days, zero sleep—all to send Willow to an elite college. And then she was dead. Adam had plunged a knife into her neck. It was only then, as I collapsed over her body, that I learned the rest of the awful truth. Even after the divorce, Willow had secretly been running money and favors to Adam and Serena. When my business flourished, and theirs crashed, Adam’s jealousy turned lethal. I was weeping, howling over the body of my child, and he was laughing hysterically. “I wanted you to feel what it’s like to lose everything,” he cackled. “You think Willow didn’t know I was cheating? She covered for us! She was the one who kept making up excuses to bring Serena over. Give her a few more cakes, let her skip a few classes, and the little brat treated Serena like her real mother. Just as stupid as you are.” My vision grayed. A sharp, unbearable pain ripped through my chest. A silent heart attack. I fell into the darkness, but the truth was finally, blindingly clear. The child I sacrificed everything for was an ungrateful leech. And the love she craved was just cheap, effortless indulgence. A polite knock on the door pulled me back to the present. Willow stood there, holding Serena’s hand, a rehearsed pout on her face. “Mom, I want Aunt Serena to go to the Parent-Teacher Conference tomorrow.” Her eyes, Adam’s eyes, were narrowed in practiced manipulation. “You’re too scary. My friends are afraid of you when you come to school. They won’t come over anymore.” Adam frowned slightly, his face a mask of ‘good father’ disappointment. “Willow, your mother’s discipline is for your own good.” But he turned to me, his gaze testing the waters. “But honey, she has a point. Willow’s social life is important.” I cut him off. “You two go. I have a meeting anyway. I wasn’t planning on attending.” They both froze, caught off guard by my immediate, total surrender. Serena immediately draped an arm over my shoulder, a saccharine smile on her face. “Don’t be mad, Clara. You’re Willow’s only mother. I’m just… running errands for you.” But later that week, a video popped up in the school administrator’s private feed—a quick post from the PTC. In the video, Willow was beaming, holding hands with Adam on her left and Serena on her right, calling them “the best parents ever.” The post vanished almost instantly. I, however, had already captured it on a screen-recorder, which I then sent to my lawyer, Ms. Sterling. Click. Send. “Ms. Sterling,” I wrote. “Does this qualify as evidence of their ongoing marital misconduct?” 2 My biggest regret from the previous life was walking away with only an ungrateful daughter and nothing else. This time, Adam Thorne was going to be the one stripped bare. The lawyer, a sharp-featured woman named Michelle, reviewed the evidence I’d meticulously gathered. A confident smile crossed her face. “Ms. Sterling, your files are remarkably organized. I’m ninety percent certain we can secure the majority of the marital assets for you.” She paused, flipping a page. “I do see, however, that your daughter has Type 1 Diabetes. The medical costs alone are astronomical. Are you absolutely certain you want to forfeit her custody?” I ran a finger over the rim of my coffee cup. The bitter taste of the brew was nothing compared to the acrid memory of the life I’d just escaped. Willow has an aggressive, congenital genetic disorder. Her pancreas was essentially dead by age six, and she’d been hospitalized three times for diabetic ketoacidosis. The doctors warned me: manage her blood sugar, or the complications would destroy her—blindness, amputation, kidney failure. Any of them could kill her. So I became the iron fist. I forced her into a low-carb, low-sugar diet. I demanded two thirty-minute sessions of exercise daily. I bought her the most advanced Continuous Glucose Monitor (CGM) and insulin pump, tracking every reading. Willow was too young to understand the terror of the disease. Every time she cried, begging for ice cream or refusing to run, my heart bled. But I would steel myself, thinking of the grisly photos of gangrene and organ failure, and I made her obey. The consequence: the child I had nearly killed myself to protect grew up to despise me. I recalled her eighteenth birthday. She’d screamed at me over a small slice of cake. “Clara, your need to control me is suffocating! I’m not your daughter, I’m your dog!” Even as her life ebbed out, stabbed by Adam, she instinctively called out for Serena, dying in the other woman’s arms while glaring at me with raw, venomous hatred. The thought of that glare made me involuntarily shiver. She died hating me. She never saw the three jobs I worked after the first divorce to pay for her care. She didn’t see me setting an alarm every two hours at night to check her blood sugar, sacrificing my own rest, watching my hair turn prematurely gray. Michelle watched me with concern. “Ms. Sterling, if you secure the bulk of the assets, the court, in the interest of the child’s well-being, is highly likely to award you the custody.” I shook my head. “That won’t happen.” I was not going to raise Willow again. She was the mosquito, the viper, the leech who had sucked me dry and then gifted my blood to my enemies. I pushed a separate manila envelope across the desk. Michelle glanced at the contents and her pupils dilated instantly. Before she could speak, my phone blared a familiar, piercing alarm. My heart—the muscle I thought was dead—still skipped a beat. The alarm, the high-pitched warning for dangerously high blood sugar, was the signature ringtone for Willow’s CGM. As I drove toward the GPS coordinates, she called. The thirteen-year-old’s voice was full of desperate, theatrical sobs. “Mom, my sugar is spiking, I don’t know why! I’m so dizzy!” I slammed my fist on the steering wheel. “Where is your father? Where is Serena? Weren’t they at the conference today?” Willow’s sobbing stopped for a beat. “Mom, you’re my only mom. I don’t know where they are.” I found the location—a derelict community college building five minutes from her school. By the time I realized the GPS had led me to an abandoned warehouse district, it was too late. A group of hulking men surrounded me. No preamble. No talk. Just the sickening sound of belt buckles being undone. The man in front raised a cheap camcorder and grinned. As he grabbed my hair, I saw her. Willow was standing in the shadows, watching.

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