I spent forty-one years in an “AA” marriage with my wife. I earned $4.12 million a year; she made three thousand a month. I never saw a problem with it. In fact, I was proud of my “fairness.” The day she turned sixty-four and retired, I finally announced, with a flourish of condescension, “The AA is over. You can be a full-time daughter-in-law now.” She smiled. The light in her eyes was utterly unfamiliar to me. “We AA-ed for a lifetime,” she said. “Let’s see it through to the end. Let’s have an AA divorce.” Before I could process the absurdity, a lawyer stepped out from behind her and handed me a thick, unsettling document. 1 The high-end Italian restaurant’s chandelier refracted tiny, expensive beams of light onto the soft, unassuming face of the woman across from me. Evelyn Reed, my wife, was sixty-four and officially retired. I swirled the four-figure Cabernet in my glass and, using the tone of a man bestowing a great gift, announced, “Evie, congratulations. As of tomorrow, the AA agreement in our household is officially over.” I watched for the expected flicker of bewilderment on her face, feeling the satisfying rush of self-granted magnanimity. Forty-one years. I, Arthur Kingston, a self-made CEO of a publicly traded company, had always upheld the most progressive—the most equitable—model of marriage. Our assets were separate; our expenses were meticulously split, down to the last roll of toilet paper. I made $4.12 million a year, lived in a penthouse high above the city, and was chauffeured everywhere. She made three thousand a month working a small-time library job until retirement, took the crowded morning and evening subway commute, and haggled over the price of produce. I never saw anything wrong with it. Marriage was a partnership, not a charity. I had given her the status of “Mrs. Kingston,” which was an honor she never could have attained on her own. “It’s… over?” she murmured, repeating the word. The light in her eyes was flickering, and I couldn’t quite read it. “Yes, over.” I set down my wine glass and leaned forward, adopting my familiar, non-negotiable business posture. “My mother, Betty, is getting older. Her health is declining, and she needs constant, specialized care. You’re retired, so your schedule is open. You will now dedicate yourself to the home and become a full-time daughter-in-law.” “I’ll take over all the household expenses, of course. You won’t have to worry about money anymore.” I watched her, waiting for her to burst into grateful tears, accepting my “retirement package” with a sense of immense relief that she no longer had to stress over a few dollars in the grocery aisle. But she didn’t. She smiled. The smile was calm, even carrying a thread of cool, almost pitying distance I had never seen before. “Arthur,” she said. “We AA-ed for a lifetime. Let’s see it through to the end.” Her voice was soft, yet it shattered the restaurant’s soothing background music like a cold hammer blow. “We’ll have an AA divorce.” My mind went instantly blank. Divorce? The word, coming from her, sounded like a cruel joke. How could a woman who had been dependent on me for forty-one years, who paid her share of the monthly HOA fee in installments, have the audacity to say that word? “Are you insane?” I hissed, my voice low, my anger beginning to boil. “Do you know what you’re saying? Without me, you wouldn’t be able to afford next month’s rent!” “That won’t be your concern.” As she spoke, a young man in a sharp suit appeared silently at our table. He looked grave and held a thick manila envelope. “Mr. Kingston,” he nodded curtly at me, then turned to Evelyn, his attitude instantly changing to one of respect. “Mrs. Reed, everything is prepared.” Evelyn made a simple gesture toward me with her hand, her eyes calm and unwavering. The young lawyer slid the envelope across the table. I stared intently at Evelyn, searching for any hint of retreat or jest. Nothing. Just a deep, incomprehensible stillness. Furious, I ripped open the envelope. What I pulled out wasn’t a standard divorce petition. The top page had a title in bold, black type. Compensatory Claim for Unremunerated Services and Emotional Distress During the Matrimonial Partnership. Absurd! I slammed the document onto the table with a crash, the expensive silverware clattering loudly, drawing the attention of nearby diners. “Evelyn Reed! This is extortion!” I ground the words out between my teeth. “Mr. Kingston, please maintain your composure,” the lawyer said, as cool and emotionless as a machine. “Every item on this list is supported by detailed records, market price substantiation, and relevant legal precedent. If you refuse to accept, we will meet in court.” Evelyn stood up and adjusted the collar of her old, slightly faded trench coat that she’d owned for years. For the first time in forty-one years, she didn’t look at me once. She simply turned and walked away, leaving me with a decisive, resolute back. I sat there, stunned, the world around me blurring. The expensive food on the table quickly grew cold, emitting a greasy, stale smell. And that list, the one I had thrown down, burned my eyes with every single word. 02 When I returned to the top-floor luxury condo I called “home,” I was met with dead, cold emptiness. The old slip-on shoes Evelyn always kept by the entryway were gone. The crocheted cushions she’d made for the sofa were missing. The small array of potted herbs and flowers she meticulously tended on the balcony—they, and their planters, had vanished without a trace. She had done this with surgical precision, clearing out every last thing that belonged to her. A strange, cold scent—or lack of scent—filled the air, making me shiver. I grabbed the preposterous “bill” with a trembling hand, determined to see what other ridiculous claims she had concocted. I had expected a property division list, but the contents utterly warped my reality. Item One: Compensation for Childbearing: $40,000. A small note followed: “Estimated based on late 1980s surrogacy market rates in major metropolitan areas. Adjusted for inflation and risk factors, this is the minimum quote.” I laughed bitterly. She was treating giving birth to our son as a business transaction? Item Two: Nursing/Lactation Labor Fee: Calculated at an 8-hour workday, for 365 days, referencing the market rate for a Senior Postpartum Nanny/Lactation Specialist: Total: $55,000. Item Three: Services for Minor Child (Owen, aged 1–18): After-school tutoring, transport to extracurriculars, parent-teacher conference attendance, daily meals, and general care. Total estimated hours: 15,768. Billed at a blended rate for a Senior Tutor and Child Development Specialist: Total: $450,000. Item Four: Services for In-Laws (George & Betty Kingston): Regular visits, holiday care, hospital transport/stays, end-of-life care, and emotional support. Total estimated hours: 5,840. Billed at the rate for a Certified Geriatric Care Aide/Palliative Specialist: Total: $325,000. … My hands shook harder as I scanned the list. Everything—from the first solid food she pureed for our son to every shirt she ironed for me; from every hour she spent at my parents’ bedside to every social engagement she maintained with our relatives—everything had been quantified by cold, hard numbers. The neat handwriting, the clear line items, the detailed notes—it sent a chill straight to my core. This wasn’t a spur-of-the-moment tantrum; this was a calculated, four-decade-long financial reckoning. The most offensive, the most unbearable item, was the last one. Item Ten: Marriage Maintenance and Emotional Value Provision Fee: Total: 41 years. “Given that the contracting party (Arthur Kingston) consistently provided negative emotional value during the partnership—including emotional neglect, verbal dismissal, and psychological pressure—the service environment for the claimant (Evelyn Reed) was classified as extremely hostile and high-risk. This item is therefore subject to a 200% risk premium on the standard market rate.” The total at the bottom was an astronomical figure that stole my breath. $5.8 Million. This number far exceeded half of my liquid assets. She was trying to bankrupt me! I snatched up my phone and dialed her number. The cold, automated voice informed me: “The number you have dialed is switched off.” Blackmail! This was nothing less than brazen extortion! I immediately called Larry, the head of my firm’s top-tier legal team. “Larry, I need you to handle a divorce case,” my voice was hoarse with rage. “A lunatic woman is trying to fleece me for a ridiculous amount of money.” “I want her to walk away with nothing! Not a single dime of my money!” Hanging up, I looked around the empty condo, my last bit of panic replaced by pure fury. Evelyn, you are so naive. You think a few sheets of paper can challenge the structure I built? I’ll show you that in this world, money and power are everything. 03 I threw a copy of the “astronomical bill” onto the conference table in front of my legal team, confidently waiting for them to assure me how easily we would win. Instead, Larry and his team looked more and more grim. “Mr. Kingston, the situation… may be more complex than you realize,” Larry adjusted his glasses, his tone uncharacteristically cautious. “Complex? What’s complex about a housewife’s baseless ravings?” I scoffed, waving a dismissive hand. Larry paused, then slid a folder toward me. “The opposition doesn’t just have this bill. They have the… evidence chain to support it.” I glanced down, and the blood rushed to my head. It was a Table of Contents for the evidence. Part One: Documentary Evidence. This included Evelyn’s handwritten journals, which she’d kept for forty years, starting the second year of our marriage. They contained daily itemizations of every household expense, every single AA-transfer record, and every small amount she had fronted me—logged down to the cent. They also included every tuition bill, report card, and award certificate for our son, Owen, from kindergarten through college. And, the medical records, hospital stays, and billing statements for my parents. Part Two: Witness Testimony from Neighbors and Family. A list stretching over a dozen pages, including neighbors from our first cramped apartment building, the current resident across the hall in the luxury condo, and our various distant relatives. They were all prepared to testify who had actually cared for the elderly, educated the child, and maintained the basic social and familial decorum for four decades. But the third part was what truly made my scalp crawl. Part Three: Audio-Visual Materials. The parenthetical note read: Recordings. Larry opened his laptop and played an audio file. It was my own voice, so clear and distinct there was no way to deny it. “Your mother’s illness is her issue. Why are we touching the joint contingency fund? My capital is for investment; every penny must generate compound returns.” “The cost for the kid’s SAT prep went over budget. That’s your mistake, not mine. You need to handle it yourself; don’t come to me.” “Make sure you transfer me the money for those fruit baskets you bought my father. We’re AA; keep things clean, Arthur. Especially between husband and wife.” I stared at Larry, horrified. “She… she started recording me when?” “The earliest recording we see is over twenty years ago,” Larry looked deeply uncomfortable. “Mr. Kingston, she was prepared. This evidence, especially the recordings, would be devastating to your social standing and company reputation if released in open court.” A dizzying wave of nausea hit me. I had to clutch the table to keep from collapsing. The audacity! This woman, who had played the role of the meek, compliant rabbit for forty-one years, was a latent wolf, hidden in plain sight, ready to strike a fatal blow! “Settle, Mr. Kingston,” Larry’s advice was a bucket of cold water. “We need to settle this out of court and minimize the damage. We cannot win this trial, and you will only lose more publicly.” “No!” I roared, my reason swallowed by monumental humiliation. “I will not surrender to this blackmail!” I will not lose! Arthur Kingston never loses! If she was going to be ruthless, I would be more so. I immediately called my private bank manager, speaking in a tone of absolute command: “Freeze all of Evelyn Reed’s bank accounts and cards immediately! Now!” I would financially suffocate her, force her to realize that without me, she couldn’t even buy a bottle of water. I would make her crawl back and beg! Five minutes later, the bank manager’s call back was a cold slap in the face. “Mr. Kingston, I apologize. Mrs. Reed’s checking and savings accounts are nearly empty, and they were progressively cleared out over the last three months.” “Furthermore… we have discovered that Mrs. Reed holds a significant sum in a Trust Fund. The trustee is not her, so we have no legal authority to freeze it.” A Trust Fund? My head swam. I remembered. A decade ago, when Evelyn’s father, an honest, simple schoolteacher, passed away, he left her a modest inheritance of about $35,000. I had “kindly” suggested she let me invest it for her, promising a guaranteed annual return of over 10%. She refused, saying she didn’t understand high finance and just wanted to put it in a long-term CD for Owen’s future wedding. I had laughed at her lack of ambition, her classic “poor person’s mindset” of hoarding dead money. It turned out she had been hedging against me since then! She had put that money into a trust that I couldn’t touch! An unprecedented, suffocating sense of loss of control wrapped around my heart like a vine. Things were spiraling entirely outside my orbit. The woman I had slighted for forty-one years had woven an invisible net, and I had just walked straight into the trap. 04 After the initial shock and rage, I forced myself to be logical. I still had one last card to play. Our son, Owen. He was my blood, raised on my philosophy of “elite education.” He was my most successful “investment product.” A top law school graduate, a rising star in his firm. His entire life had followed the trajectory I had mapped out. He would, unequivocally, stand by me. Blood is thicker than water—that was an undeniable truth. I called Owen, making sure my tone was calm and measured, carrying the proper blend of paternal affection and authority. “Owen, your mother… her emotions might be unstable right now. She’s making some outrageous demands. As her son, you need to talk sense into her. Tell her to stop this nonsense.” A long silence followed on the line. So long, I thought the call had dropped. Just as I was about to speak again, Owen’s voice returned, ice-cold and utterly alien. “Dad, I’ll see you in court.” “What did you say?” I thought I’d misheard him. “I am acting as my mother’s legal counsel.” Boom! I felt like I’d been struck by lightning, my blood instantly turning to ice. My son, my pride and joy, had become the weapon pointed directly at my throat? “You ungrateful bastard!” I couldn’t maintain the facade any longer, roaring into the phone. “I raised you! Is this how you repay me? By helping your mother plot against your own father?” “Dad,” Owen’s voice remained perfectly flat. “Did you really ‘raise’ me?” He hung up. I gripped the phone, the veins bulging on the back of my hand, nearly crushing the cold metal. Half an hour later, I received a text from Owen—a coffee shop address. He said that as adversaries, he felt it necessary to meet before the trial. When I rushed into the cafe, Owen was already seated. He wore a custom-tailored suit, his hair meticulously combed, his expression stern, like a warrior preparing for battle. He looked so much like me. Especially his eyes—calm, rational, even carrying a hint of cold, analytical critique. But right now, I desperately wished he didn’t resemble me at all. “Why?” I sat opposite him, my voice gravelly. “Why are you doing this for your mother? Don’t you know this will ruin me, and it will destroy our family?” “Family?” Owen offered a thin, cynical smile. “Dad, did we ever have a ‘family’? We were just three people sharing a roof, strictly bound by an AA financial agreement… roommates.” The words stabbed me deep in the chest. “I am your father!” “Are you?” He looked me directly in the eye, his gaze so sharp I couldn’t hide from it. “Then answer this: When I was eight, I had a fever, nearly 104 degrees. I needed an imported fever reducer—a shot that cost $120. Mom only made $300 a month and didn’t have the cash. She begged you to cover it for her first. What did you tell her?” My mind went instantly blank, the distant memory brutally dredged up. I remembered. Of course, I remembered. I had said: “That’s a failure of her budget planning, not mine. I won’t pay for her mistakes. She needs to figure it out herself.” I even added: “It’s a good lesson for him, too—what happens when you don’t follow the rules.” Owen watched me, his eyes slightly red-rimmed, yet his voice was chillingly steady. “I remember. Mom drove thirty minutes back to Grandma’s house that night to borrow the money. She didn’t get back until three in the morning. I saw her from the window. She was crouched by the flower bed downstairs, sobbing, shaking all over.” “She didn’t want to wake me, and she certainly didn’t want to wake you. She cried down there for half an hour, then wiped her eyes and came upstairs to give me the shot.” “Dad, from that day on, I understood.” “Your idea of ‘fairness’ is your inherent selfishness.” “Your ‘rules’ are just tools you use to control and exploit others.” “You only love yourself, your money, and your empty philosophy. You never loved me, and you never loved Mom.” I opened my mouth, but no sound came out. That “small incident,” which I had long dismissed, had left such a deep, enduring scar on him. “I chose law school so I could be ready for this day.” “Helping Mom organize the bill, gather the evidence, setting up the irrevocable trust to separate her assets from yours… I orchestrated all of it.” “You love talking about rules, don’t you? Fine. Today, within the rules of the law, I’m going to help her settle the account for these forty-one years.” I looked at my familiar yet unrecognizable son. He was using the very “rationality” and “rules” I had taught him to deliver the most devastating blow. My proudest “creation” had become my “gravedigger.” The lights in the coffee shop spun and warped, and my vision tunneled. I couldn’t hold myself up any longer and collapsed onto the table. For the first time in my life, I felt utterly shattered and hopeless.

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For three days, I hadn’t submitted a single expense request through the corporate system to Grant. He must have assumed I was finally learning how to be a proper high-society wife, because he sent a text message, a condescending gesture of reward. “I’ve resumed your mother’s treatment. Learn your lesson now—stop lying and padding your requests for extra cash.” “I know it’s hard for people from your background, but my money isn’t that easy to steal.” What he didn’t know was that by the time I received that text, I had already finalized the divorce papers. The only thing I could take with me was the white T-shirt and worn jeans I’d been wearing the day I moved in. No one would believe that Eleanor Stone, the glamorous wife of Grant Harrington, didn’t own four respectable pieces of clothing after three years of marriage. Every private expenditure had to be filed through the corporate expense system. All my clothes and jewelry were kept under lock and key in a walk-in safe, and I had to apply to his secretary, Serena Wu, just to access them. It was because he despised my humble origins. He was convinced I would acquire the “bad habit” of reckless spending, common among the newly rich. Three days ago, my adoptive mother’s condition worsened critically. I filed an urgent request for twenty thousand dollars for surgery. Serena, however, deliberately stalled the expense approval, a delay that cost my mother her life. She died in that hospital bed. Grant never understood. The only reason I endured him for so long was for the exclusive medical resources his company controlled—the only resources that could have saved her. Now that she was gone, there was nothing left to stay for. 1 I told Grant I wanted a divorce, but he refused. His response was a cold, three-word text: “Stop the drama.” When he finally spoke to me, his eyes never left the glow of his laptop screen. It was as if the dry electronic data held more interest for him than the conversation with his wife. I lowered my gaze, my voice steady. “I’m serious, Grant. I want a divorce.” He stood up, inhaling deeply, his expression chillingly detached. “The pause in your mother’s treatment? I authorized it. It had nothing to do with Serena; she was just following orders.” “If you hadn’t barged into my office and made a scene, I wouldn’t have felt the need to teach you a lesson.” “I had the treatment reinstated yesterday. My time is precious. I don’t have time for your temper tantrums.” He turned and walked away before I could reply, convinced that it wouldn’t be long before I came crawling back, head bowed. He was sure I’d swallow my pride and start trying to please him again, just like before. Even when he’d told me to my face, “Don’t be so desperate for my attention, it’s frankly disgusting.” I would just smile and silently return to being the dutiful, long-suffering housekeeper. But whether the treatment was reinstated now or not no longer mattered. If Grant had just taken my call three days ago, I might still be here, flattering him, bending over backward for him. But he was always too impatient to talk to me. I begged him not to hang up that day, pleaded for him to hear me out. But my desperate cries were instantly drowned out by Serena’s smooth, poisonous voice. “Is Eleanor upset because I reminded her to follow proper protocol, Grant?” She sounded delicate, wounded. “I didn’t mean anything by it. I just don’t want her to keep those messy, unplanned habits from her old life. If I stick strictly to the rules, she’ll learn discipline.” Hearing that, Grant’s impatience with my call sharpened. Ignoring my pleas, he delivered a cold, final command: “Do exactly what Serena says.” It was always the same whenever I needed him. “I’m busy. Talk to the secretary.” “Listen to Serena.” “Do whatever Serena tells you to do.” I was his wife, yet I had no dignity. Forget having a normal life. Even for the necessary social functions of a Grant Harrington wife—the ones I was required to attend—I had to submit an application for approval from his secretary. Every time, Serena would smile brightly and casually reject the ridiculous request. “Ellie, the description isn’t detailed enough. Rewrite it, please.” “The gala ends at 10 PM. Why did you write 12 AM? That’s not acceptable.” “Ellie, why are you always like this? Didn’t I tell you to review your application before submitting? Check it again.” She always ensured the approval came at the very last second, then she would watch, smiling sweetly, as I frantically scrambled to reach the venue, often late, often looking like a mess for the sake of a necklace or a dress. When I inevitably arrived late, Grant would look at me with palpable displeasure. “Eleanor, don’t you have a sense of time management?” “You can’t even handle a small task like this. Do you see now why you could never measure up to Serena?” But I couldn’t handle that small task. I was constantly late. All because of Grant Harrington’s “excellent secretary” and “virtuous assistant.” He couldn’t see it, or he simply didn’t care. Just as he knew my mother’s illness couldn’t tolerate delay or a break in medication. Yet, he still snapped at me irritably over the phone. “How many times do I have to tell you? If you need money urgently, go to Serena. Do you think she wouldn’t give it to you?” Getting money from Serena was, as always, an ordeal. “What kind of emergency needs twenty thousand dollars upfront? Ellie, are you just inventing excuses to get cash?” “Twenty thousand isn’t a small amount. I need an itemized receipt before I can approve it, darling. Application denied for now.” I explained it was an estimated pre-payment, and the final receipt would only be issued upon discharge. Serena curved her lips into a smirk. She feigned realization. “Oh, is that how it works? I wouldn’t know; everyone in my family is perfectly healthy.” “But expense approvals are very strict. We can’t let violations slide. How about you get a formal policy document from the hospital and attach it? Then I’ll approve it. Denied for now.” Later, she tried another tactic. “Hospitals sometimes fake documents, don’t they? I’m not saying you would, Ellie, but the possibility exists.” “Why don’t you attach the industry regulations instead?” And just like that, the critical time for emergency treatment was pushed back and back by Serena. By the time I finally received the money, even the most exceptional medical team was powerless to reverse the outcome. A continuous knot of hatred and anguish tightened around my heart. A suffocating feeling, beyond description, filled my chest. This marriage was a cage that restrained me. I had to escape. The moment I clearly understood my next steps, I suddenly felt light. It was as if the invisible shackles I’d carried for years had abruptly vanished. So when I received Serena’s defiant social media post—a picture clearly meant to provoke me—I felt absolutely nothing. I was calm enough to screenshot it and even click the ‘like’ button. Whenever Serena was involved, Grant’s messages always came quickly. “Serena has done great work lately. I’m simply taking my employee out to dinner. Don’t start any ridiculous rumors, Eleanor, and don’t make people misunderstand the situation.” I don’t know what Serena had told him this time, but he followed up with a self-righteous demand. “You already liked the post. If you take it back, people will get the wrong idea about Serena.” “Leave a comment, praising her work. Consider it encouragement from both of us, as a couple.” I didn’t intend to respond. But I thought about it, and the bitterness in my stomach was too much to swallow. So I complied with Grant’s demand. I commented on Serena’s post: “Serena, your dedication is admirable. Your impartial application of the corporate expense policy to both your boss’s wife and your co-workers, and your use of a simple system to wield the maximum amount of petty tyranny, is exemplary. Keep up the good work and the excellent wickedness.” “Every penny you save for the corporation now is a potential increase in your future alimony, should you succeed. Thumbs up.” I tossed my phone aside after replying. I began to calmly pack my things. My phone kept buzzing the entire time, but I ignored it. Packing didn’t take long. After all, every single valuable item supposedly belonging to me was locked securely behind a password-protected closet door and a triple-locked safe. For years, I had been a temporary guest in this house. Even my presence left only the shallowest trace. Now that my eyes were open, I finally understood the truth. 2 Grant arrived home fast. I had to admit it again: when it came to Serena, he was always prompt, never dragging his feet. He didn’t seem to notice the small suitcase by my feet, his eyes blazing with fury. “Did you not hear me calling you?” I was indifferent. “I heard it. I chose not to answer.” Grant looked at me as if I’d spoken an utterly ridiculous line, genuinely unable to comprehend my refusal. “I told you! Serena’s work has been excellent lately. I simply took her out for dinner.” “Do you have any idea how many people in the company already misunderstand her? How is she supposed to maintain her reputation after you post something like that?” I couldn’t stop myself from letting out a cold laugh. “Well, it seems not everyone is blind, then. Turns out, some people know exactly what she’s been up to.” I looked at Grant. “Besides, I’m not her mother. Why should I worry about whether her life at the company is easy or not?” Grant’s face darkened instantly. “Eleanor, when did you become one of those vulgar people who listen to every baseless rumor?” “You know how difficult it is for a young woman to achieve a high-ranking position in the corporate world. Why are you spreading slander and insulting another excellent woman? If you hadn’t thrown that fit at the office last time, would Serena have had to endure this?” His eyes were full of exhaustion and accusation. “You want to be an unproductive socialite? I won’t fault you for that. I’m happy to keep you in luxury. But not all women are as short-sighted and useless as you are.” “If you continue to be malicious and slanderous toward Serena, don’t test me. Think about your mother.” I finally burst out laughing. My voice was raw with grief and pain. Right in front of Grant, I opened my suitcase. “Luxury? Take a look at the life of luxury I lead in your house.” “I’m leaving, and I can’t pack four decent items of clothing. I have to file an expense report just to get a haircut, asking your esteemed secretary for permission. The nanny’s monthly salary is higher than mine, the wife of Grant Harrington!” I grabbed Grant’s arm and forcefully dragged him to the walk-in closet, pointing at the combination lock on the door. “Do you even know how to open this lock? It requires a code and a fingerprint scan. Even your company’s confidential files aren’t secured this tightly!” “What kind of wife living in ‘luxury’ has to beg for her daily necessities like a mistress living off scraps from her husband’s secretary?” Incredulity was etched all over Grant’s face. He looked bewildered. “Is this why?” “Is this why you’re jealous of Serena? Why you ran to the office to ruin her reputation?” Hearing his question, my heart sank completely. Everything I’d just said was utterly wasted on him. If Grant had believed for one second that this was wrong, that it was insulting and degrading to me, he would have stopped it years ago. For all these years, he had indulged every ridiculous suggestion Serena made, putting my basic necessities under the corporate expense system. I lowered my eyes. “Fine. Think whatever you want.” “We’re getting a divorce.” Hearing my absolute certainty, Grant actually smiled. His expression was one of knowing condescension. “That’s enough, Eleanor. I don’t have time to coddle you.” “Your drama is just a cheap stunt to compete with my secretary. Don’t assume all women are petty and small-minded like you.” He slowly smoothed the wrinkles I’d created when I grabbed his shirt, sounding as if he were making a massive concession. “Tomorrow, I’ll arrange for the best medical team from overseas to treat your mother. I’ll also have Serena give you the codes for the closet and the safe, and change the fingerprint access to yours.” “From now on, the finance department will wire you ten thousand dollars a month. No more expense forms.” After all our years together, I knew Grant well. For him, this was the ultimate compromise. Logically, I should have accepted the truce. But I was truly sick of this three-person relationship. No—perhaps I had never been truly involved in the first place. Even now, he made all these promises, yet he didn’t say a single word about Serena’s actions. We both knew the ridiculous expense protocol was her sick joke. The man in front of me casually agreed to change the system. It meant he simply didn’t care. If I accepted his arrangement now and returned to being Mrs. Harrington, Serena would still be a permanent fixture in our lives. “I don’t want any of it. I just want a divorce.” Grant finally realized I wasn’t just throwing a tantrum. Not only was I rejecting his peace offering, but I was determined to leave. His impatience instantly curdled into rage. “Eleanor, don’t forget the prenuptial agreement! You won’t get a dime if you divorce me!” “And what about your family business, and your mother’s illness? Do you really think your stepfather—the one with the new family—will take care of her without me?” Of course, he wouldn’t. I was painfully aware that if that ungrateful man hadn’t abandoned my mother and forced me into a corner, I never would have agreed to this absurd marriage in the first place. Grant and I were parallel lines that were momentarily forced to intersect. Now, all I was doing was letting things return to their proper course. I zipped up my suitcase again, my voice neutral. “I don’t care.” Grant froze, confused as to why his historically foolproof methods no longer worked. But his ego wouldn’t allow him to beg. So he simply watched, silent, as I walked to the door. Right as I pulled the door open, Grant almost gave in to the sudden terror and called out my name. But then he remembered what Serena had told him. “The wife is just bored at home, Grant. She wants to play out a scene from a bad soap opera.” “I’ve seen plenty of women spoiled by the good life. Just ignore her, let her stew, and she’ll come running back soon enough, apologizing to you.” She will be back, Grant thought, fighting his rising anxiety. He reached into his pocket but pulled out only a piece of handmade pear candy. He often coughed after smoking, especially when the weather was dry, so I had found many small ways to help him feel better. She isn’t completely useless, Grant conceded to himself. When she comes back, I’ll make sure she apologizes properly, sincerely regrets this, and never threatens me with divorce again. He quickly convinced himself. 3 After leaving Grant, I hesitated for a long time before going to see my old professor. When Professor Adler, her hair now completely white, saw me dragging my thin suitcase, she didn’t say a word. She simply stepped aside, gesturing me into her home, just as she had for all my visits years ago. My eyes instantly welled up, and tears began to fall. She had been the fiercest opponent of my decision to quit school and marry. Even on my wedding day, she didn’t stop texting me. “Ellie, hardship is temporary. There is no obstacle you can’t overcome.” “You can find another way to solve your problem. Don’t be foolish and sacrifice your entire life.” “The trophy wife life looks good on paper, but your contributions are invisible. Your degree will be a temporary halo, but you will always be a beggar, dependent on others for money. And when you beg, you always have to bow.” Time had proven Professor Adler correct in every way. Initially, Grant was impressed by my degree. But then Serena entered his life. She claimed that since I had been a ‘street urchin’ before my adoption, a college degree couldn’t erase the bad habits I’d learned in my youth. She said I needed to learn the rules of their class and develop good spending habits. I was the one asking Grant for money. He could choose to give it to me, choose not to give it to me, or choose to give it to me in the most humiliating way possible. I cried until I had nothing left. Professor Adler finally spoke, her voice calm. “I hope you haven’t forgotten your skills.” “I have a job here, field research that requires hiking and deep data collection. Are you in?” I was momentarily stunned. I hadn’t expected my mentor not only to welcome me but to offer the very thing I needed most—work. She frowned slightly. “What? Have you gotten too used to the good life of a socialite? Can you no longer handle the grind of us working stiffs?” The tears were still on my face, but I managed a genuine smile. “I can handle it, Professor. For myself, I’ll endure any hardship.” Professor Adler smiled warmly, immediately shifting into action. “If you agree, contact the team quickly. This is work, not a TV drama. We don’t have time for self-pity.” Under her arrangement, I quickly joined the research team. At first, I struggled to adjust. But as the days passed, the knowledge and operating procedures etched into my soul surfaced. I became increasingly adept. The serious, unsmiling team leader gave me a thumbs-up. “I was worried you’d be too delicate. But you’re proof that great teachers produce great students.” I smiled back. “Everyone is just looking out for me. Otherwise, I wouldn’t have adjusted so fast…” Just as we were joking around, an inappropriate call rang out. “Eleanor?” I turned to see Serena, dressed in high fashion, clutching a brand-new designer handbag. She looked dismissively at the people around me. “I wondered why you suddenly started demanding a divorce from Grant. Turns out you’re just slipping back to your old habits, slumming it with these sorts of low-lifes again.” She wrinkled her nose as if speaking to us was a generous gift. My face went cold. We were measuring data like savages, and we probably looked a mess, but that wasn’t an excuse for her to insult us. “Serena Wu, are you a cockroach? Are you everywhere I go?” Serena’s face flushed. A deeply familiar man emerged from behind her. “What’s wrong?” Hearing his question, Serena’s eyes reddened, and she spoke in a soft, injured voice. “Nothing, darling. It’s just that Eleanor has been gone for so long, and I saw her here, mixed up with some rough-looking people, obviously stalking us. I just tried to talk some sense into her…” “But she completely misunderstood…” Grant finally noticed me standing opposite him. He frowned slightly. His eyes held an air of knowing dismissal. “Eleanor, are you harassing Serena again? If you’re here to apologize to me, you need to apologize to Serena first!” I rolled my eyes and, with a gesture, led my team away. A female colleague beside me whispered, “Ellie, who was that?” I sneered. “My blind, brainless ex-husband.” Grant’s face darkened, and he demanded, “Eleanor! You followed us all the way out here. How long are you going to keep this up?” “You’ve been gone for weeks, showing no concern for your mother. Where is your conscience? Are you really going to force me to cut off her medical funding?” I looked at him with profound weariness, my voice flat. “Just do it, then. It’s the thing you do best, isn’t it?” Stung by my look of utter contempt and coldness, Grant couldn’t tell whether he felt more anger or the dawning fear of loss. He immediately pulled out his phone, missing the flicker of panic on Serena’s face. “Grant, maybe we shouldn’t…” Grant pushed down Serena’s hand, which was clutching his arm, and spoke to her with sudden, chilling finality. “She needs a lesson. Otherwise, she’ll never learn how to be Mrs. Harrington!” The assistant on the other end of the line sounded hesitant after receiving the order.

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I was getting a manicure when Rhys’s ninety-ninth mistress cornered me. She slapped an ultrasound image down on the marble countertop. “You’re Rhys Blackwell’s wife, right? I’m pregnant. You need to file for divorce now.” I glanced at the grainy printout, then skillfully pulled out a stack of documents—evidence of her own extracurricular activities—and slid them across to her. Her attitude executed a perfect 180-degree turn. She tore up the ultrasound. “I’ll leave Rhys immediately!” I admired my fresh manicure. Blood-red, it had taken eight hours of meticulous work. A minute later, I told the manicurist, “Take it off.” I had a certain kind of “fierce battle” scheduled for the evening. This color wouldn’t give me the range of motion I needed. Since marrying Rhys, I have either been dealing with one mistress or on my way to dealing with the next. I’d long since become the city’s favorite joke. People in the social circles would greet me with a smug, knowing look, asking for the secret to spotting an affair. The truth? I didn’t care that Rhys found mistresses; I cared that those mistresses tried to lay claim to the Blackwell fortune. Besides, every time I caught one, Rhys would unconditionally grant me one demand. This time, I chose a child. 1 “What do you want this time?” I’d barely stepped through the front door when I heard Rhys’s lazy voice. I looked up. He was stretched out languidly on the sofa, long arms open, waiting for my response. I slipped into my house shoes, walked over, and said with careful sincerity, “A child.” “I want a child, yours and mine.” His narrow, foxy eyes studied me, a trace of genuine interest flickering across his face. He patted his thigh. I moved to sit, and his arm clamped around my waist, pulling me hard. I tumbled into his embrace. Gazing at his devastatingly handsome face, I leaned in and kissed him. When the intensity peaked, he exerted a savage force while his voice was ice-cold. “Don’t you dare try to use a baby to trap me like all the other women.” “Even if you bear my child, I could never love a woman who was shoved down my throat!” He drove into me, frantic and brutal. I winced, biting back the cry of pain that threatened to escape. I don’t know how long it was before a phone call tore him away. I lay in bed, taking long, ragged breaths, my hand resting on my flat stomach. What I wanted had never been that pathetic, conditional kind of love. Rhys Blackwell was notorious—the infamous, spoiled scion of the city’s elite. Wealthy families warned their daughters away from him. Even over thirty, Rhys remained a delinquent playboy. The Blackwell parents were distraught. With no other option, they looked to “socially downward” prospects. After layers of filtering, I—a poor, high-achieving university student with no family to speak of—entered their sights. They only needed a woman who was compliant, sensible, and capable of keeping Rhys in line. I acted the part perfectly: obedient, understanding, gentle in my care for Rhys. I was meticulous, seemingly humble, and just strategic enough to offer a few well-placed, high-EQ comments that satisfied the elder Blackwells. Even with Rhys’s vehement opposition, I was installed by his side. I became the notorious Mrs. Blackwell—the butt of everyone’s jokes. After that, Rhys only got worse, sometimes juggling three mistresses at once. He constantly fed the gossip columns. As his wife, I had to assume the responsibility of damage control. Once, his reckless partying caused a major issue for the Blackwell Group, and after a severe dressing-down from his parents, he backed off slightly. That incident was the start of my plan. I began my careful, step-by-step strategy. Initially, my demands were trinkets—jewelry, designer bags. Then, expensive cars and apartments, reinforcing the illusion that I was nothing more than a grasping, materialistic woman. When I’d ticked off enough conditions, I graduated. It was a seamless transition to a role within the Blackwell Group, using my own skill set, amplified by the prestige of being Mrs. Blackwell, to climb the corporate ladder. Ding-dong. Rhys’s hundredth mistress sent a provocative message. A classic catfight challenge, every sentence designed to provoke me, Mrs. Blackwell, into a dramatic breakdown. I typed a couple of nonchalant sentences in response, turned off my phone, and walked into the bathroom. I could play the jealous wife’s game easily, but I would never immerse myself in such a pointless contest. What I wanted was to stand at the peak of power. Once I carried the Blackwell heir, the elder Blackwells’ indulgence of Rhys would curdle into resentment. And they would begin to cultivate the child in my belly— The new successor. 2 My in-laws had been pressuring us for a grandchild for years. So when I asked for a baby, Rhys didn’t put up much of a fight. He was a man who loved to play. As long as I initiated it, he was happy to indulge in a session in bed. But every single time, the moment we were done, he would be called away by a woman on the phone. This time, the call came mid-session. The sound of his phone ringing shattered the atmosphere. He froze, then carefully, gingerly, picked up the phone. I don’t know what the mistress said. Rhys pulled away from me, dressed, and walked out. This had never happened before. In the past, even when his mistresses called, he would put them on speaker. He would be driving into me on one side, while enjoying my pained expression as he whispered crude jokes into the phone to the woman on the other end. The woman would pout and feign offense on the line. He would mock me, saying he could never love me, that I was just a domestic obligation. I had listened to variations of that speech for five years. Now, this hundredth mistress had managed to make Rhys halt what he was doing and rush to her side. She had some kind of power. Ding-dong. The mistress’s text popped up: [Rhys really loves me. He ran right to me after one phone call.] [If you have any sense, agree to the divorce immediately. Stop clinging to him.] I chuckled quietly: [How can you be so sure he loves you? The last time I checked, he was still forcing himself on me just moments ago.] Silence from the other end. She must have been fuming. Getting angry over that? The position of Mrs. Blackwell was not so easily earned. Of the ninety-nine mistresses before her, how many hadn’t I personally seen? Rhys used to make me run errands, sending me out late at night to buy contraceptives. If we got carried away and forgot protection, he’d instruct me to make sure his mistress took the morning-after pill. Rhys had a gift for turning the knife. I’d send one mistress away, and he’d find another one immediately. Then he’d toss me a consolation prize—a diamond, a trust fund deposit—just to keep me from reporting him to the in-laws. But his actions never truly cut me. And naturally, I never considered reporting him. The more chaos he created, the more beneficial it was for me. Seeing the faint second line appear on the pregnancy stick, I immediately went to the doctor. Upon confirmation of the pregnancy, I told my in-laws first. Overjoyed, they invited Rhys and me to the family estate for a congratulatory dinner. That night, a heavy snow began to fall. The winter wind was an icy knife. Halfway there, Rhys took a call from his mistress: “Ah! Rhys, help me…” The line cut out. He slammed on the brakes, turning to me with an urgent growl, telling me to get out. I glanced over at his sharply chiseled face. A look of genuine panic and deep concern was etched there. This was a look I’d never seen for any of the previous ninety-nine women. He was serious. He was emotionally invested in this Skylar. When I didn’t move, he raised his leg. His long, strong leg effortlessly kicked open the passenger door, and he shoved me out of the car. “You go alone!” He spat the words out in a rush of anxiety, then floored the accelerator, driving toward Skylar’s apartment. I’d done my research on Skylar. She came from a difficult background. She had a younger brother, and her parents strongly favored him. She worked in a bar from a young age and had met Rhys during a drunken one-night stand. In front of Rhys, she was harmless and innocent, a doll-faced girl whose eyes were always brimming with tears. She always managed to look so pitiful and vulnerable. Her eye sockets were perpetually rimmed with a faint red. But behind his back, she often cursed me out. 3 It wasn’t a long distance to the estate. I considered walking. After all, in our five years of marriage, this was the first time I’d been literally thrown out of a moving vehicle. I took two steps and stopped. I was pregnant. For the sake of the child in my belly, I couldn’t risk it. I called the in-laws, crafting a perfect excuse for Rhys. I said he had been called away on an urgent corporate matter and that I couldn’t get a taxi in the snow. Of course, the Blackwells didn’t believe me. They knew their son’s character too well. I arrived at the estate less than ten minutes later. After the family doctor examined me and confirmed the pregnancy, the genuine smiles on the in-laws’ faces multiplied. “Five years, and we finally have a grandchild, Sienna,” my mother-in-law, Eleanor, said. “As for Rhys, you know what he’s like. Don’t hold it against him.” “You are carrying the Blackwell heir now. Once the child is born, he’ll naturally focus his attention on the family.” Rhys’s attention would never return to me. But I didn’t care. I responded with quiet obedience. Their concern was gentle. They insisted I stay at the estate. A dedicated nutritionist was put in charge of my meals. A top-tier housekeeper handled my daily needs. Meanwhile, Rhys… Because I was pregnant, Skylar was upset. She threw a massive tantrum that lasted for days. In the past, Rhys would have dumped any mistress who caused such a fuss. This time, Rhys broke all precedent. He abandoned his work and took Skylar on a trip overseas, pulling out all the stops to appease her. The surveillance photos showed them strolling romantically on a remote island, dancing and kissing on a yacht. He was even confronted by Skylar’s parents. Rhys used his influence and money to legally separate Skylar from her family—he bought out the relationship for $200 million. It was straight out of one of those cheesy billionaire romance novels I used to see. The billionaire handles all the heroine’s problems, defies his wealthy parents, and they live happily ever after. Unfortunately, life is not fiction. Money can’t sever blood ties; it only nourishes the greedy appetite. I wasn’t idle during this time. I continued to help Rhys manage the corporate expenses he’d charged to the company books, and I steadily climbed the corporate ladder in my own right. My ambition was clear, written on my face. I repeatedly used my own savings to buy incriminating photos from paparazzi, hiding them away. My in-laws kept a close eye on me, too. They noticed my furtive behavior and rushed in, suspecting an affair, only to discover I was collecting the evidence of Rhys’s indiscretions. My mother-in-law looked at me with a sliver of genuine emotion in her eyes. “You’ve been covering up Rhys’s messes all these years. You’ve worked too hard, Sienna.” I offered a slight smile. “Mom, it’s a daughter-in-law’s duty.” She patted the cushion beside her, signaling me to sit. She gripped my hand. “You don’t need to worry about these things anymore. Your father-in-law and I can handle it.” “Just focus on your pregnancy, and forget the office. The most important thing is for our grandchild to be born healthy.” Leaving the company meant severing my access to internal information. Impossible. I pursed my lips. “Mom, I know my limits; I won’t jeopardize the baby’s health.” “I love my work… If I stop, I’m afraid I’ll just brood and overthink.” My mother-in-law stared at me for a moment, then silently transferred $1 billion into my account. They had always been generous. They regularly transferred money to my account, usually a million at a time. I rarely needed the funds and had accumulated tens of millions. $1 billion was unprecedented. It confirmed my gamble had paid off. I thanked her, smiling sweetly for her affection. After she left, I stared at the sum, then immediately donated the entire $1 billion to a national youth education fund. My hand rested gently on my growing belly. I wanted more than this ten-figure check. I wanted the entire Blackwell Group. Power was the sweetest kind of relief. 4 When Rhys returned and learned I was staying at the estate, he moved Skylar into our marital home immediately. The housekeeper there told me Skylar hated my scent. She threw out all the scented candles and diffusers. Any object associated with me was coldly discarded by Rhys. The entire house was then doused in the cloying, heavy scent of cheap orange perfume. The housekeeper once complained to me: “Ma’am, it’s a terribly low-quality perfume, but the master insists on her wearing it, even if it stings his nose.” My belly grew larger each day. I still moved through the corporate offices. The elder Blackwells’ increasing trust meant I gained importance within the company. Coupled with my own competence, I successfully shielded the company from several high-stakes financial and reputational battles. I began to touch the core layers of the business. Rhys, in contrast, grew increasingly indifferent to his work. His obsession with Skylar intensified, reaching a point where he disregarded the company’s interests. Every time Skylar’s family created a scene, he’d dip into the company coffers. His constant pampering only fed the Su family’s greed. His spoiled, immature, and irresponsible use of corporate funds became a testament to their love. He even forced Skylar’s relatives into roles within the company. All because Skylar had once said, “But he’s my brother.” Even when her brother committed a serious infraction and I had him cornered for termination, Rhys would only snap impatiently: “Can’t you stop targeting Skylar for once?” I was always compliant. I naturally listened to my husband and stopped “targeting” her. He retaliated by assigning Skylar—who knew nothing—to be my personal secretary. Skylar was utterly clueless. She couldn’t keep up with my pace and didn’t understand half of what I said. The moment I spoke, her eyes would turn red, and she’d run to Rhys to cry without saying a word. Rhys would then burst into my office and angrily lash out at me, a heavily pregnant woman. With Skylar’s “help,” the company successfully lost several major contracts. Rhys, however, blamed my incompetence, ordering me to hurry home and focus on my pregnancy. I quietly endured it. As I neared my due date, Skylar grew visibly anxious. She tried to find ways to cause a miscarriage several times. When I repeatedly evaded her schemes, she finally lost control and violently shoved me. The impact sent me into early labor. I gripped my abdomen, crying out in pain as bright, fresh blood flowed down my legs. I looked at Rhys, my husband in name only: “Rhys, the blood, our baby…” He shielded her behind him, his face a mask of cold indifference. “The child can be replaced. Who told you to bully Skylar? You deserve it!” “No one help her!” Skylar peeked out from behind Rhys, an expression of triumph directed right at me. She intended to let me bleed out and lose the baby. But I had already prepared. My in-laws took my pregnancy very seriously. The house was riddled with their loyal security staff. Seeing me fall, they frantically rushed to my side, desperately trying to get me to the hospital. Skylar tried to block the elevator, stopping them from helping. Without a second thought, the men shoved Skylar aside, smacking her face, and hurried to get me to the hospital. Their employers were the Blackwells—the baby’s grandparents. Not Skylar. They understood the hierarchy perfectly. When the Blackwells heard the news, they rushed over, demanding Rhys immediately cut off all ties with Skylar. Rhys, however, knelt openly before them. “Mom, Dad, I’m serious about Skylar!” “She’s the only one I want.” “Anyway, you have the child you wanted now. I’ll divorce Sienna once she gives birth, marry Skylar, and let Skylar raise the baby.” As the loud, sharp cry of a newborn split the hospital air, I knew it then. Rhys was finished.

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I was the Vaughn family’s best-kept secret, their illegitimate daughter tucked away in the sprawling estate in Greenwich. Everyone in the inner circle knew Mrs. Evelyn Vaughn, the woman with the saintly reputation, had kept me out of the goodness of her heart—a quiet act of charity and perhaps a means to earn extra grace for her cherished, chronically ill youngest daughter, Willa. What they didn’t know was the cost of that charity. From the time I was six until I turned twenty-six, I had donated blood to Willa hundreds of times. A year before that, she’d needed a healthy organ, and half of my left kidney was now inside her. When Willa turned twenty-seven, her heart began to fail. Pierce Vaughn, the eldest son and the family’s CEO, was the first to act, securing me back inside the Vaughn estate before I could take another breath. I stood in the library as Mrs. Vaughn, her fingers constantly moving over her Malas—the worn, fragrant prayer beads—spoke to me. Her voice was gentle, a warm, soft benediction that felt entirely like a lie. “My dear girl, it is I who have wronged you. When you are gone, you must come back and take my life. Seek no one else.” But on the day of the planned surgery, the old housekeeper, a woman who had worked for the Vaughns for decades before she’d been dismissed and confined after a nervous breakdown, appeared, raving through the hospital halls. She screamed, “Mrs. Vaughn! They switched the babies that year! Someone swapped your child!” That day, the proud, pious Evelyn Vaughn was forced to execute her own heart, to claim her own life. 1 After I was admitted to the hospital and locked down, the person who visited me most often was Pierce Vaughn, the brother who had personally dragged me back from the airport. He never seemed to have a purpose for being there. He would just sit in my room for hours, watching me knit a scarf. Finally, I couldn’t bear the presence of my personal human freezer anymore. I dropped the yarn and looked at him, a headache starting behind my eyes. “You’ve got more than enough security guards to make sure I don’t run, Pierce. You don’t need to personally babysit me.” The words seemed to hit him. He shifted his gaze, looking away with a sudden, palpable shame. It took a long moment before he looked back, his voice thick and almost helpless. “Is there… anything you want?” He paused, a tiny, ragged breath slipping out. “Or, a wish? Before… before everything.” A wish? My fingers tightened on the knitting needles. The day I was brought back and locked up, I had been scheduled to board a flight north—to Montana—to finally see the snow. In my twenty-seven years, because of Willa’s perpetually fragile health, I had never once been allowed to leave the City. At the beginning of the year, the doctors had said Willa’s health was improving. The Vaughns had, finally, loosened their leash. But Willa, high on her newfound freedom, had gone skydiving and scuba diving with her boyfriend. Her broken body had immediately gone into shock and she’d been rushed to the hospital. Now the doctors needed a new heart. So, the snow I’d imagined a thousand times over became a fantasy I would never touch. And now, the chief architect of my predicament was asking me for my dying wish. As if speaking it would magically make him capable of granting it. I let out a soft, mocking laugh. Seeing the desperate, unyielding look on Pierce’s face, I gave a flippant answer. “Honeysuckle Jam, then.” Pierce blinked, confused, then said quietly, “Honeysuckle Jam. Mom loves that, too.” “You two are the only ones who like sweets, though. Willa won’t touch it. Says it’s too cloying.” I curled my lips and didn’t reply. I, the bastard daughter, wouldn’t dare compare myself to the Vaughn family’s saintly matriarch. Pierce had nothing more to say. He sat a bit longer, then rose to leave. He stopped at the door, his silhouette framed in the light, and glanced back at me. “Sloan. Believe it or not, after all these years, we genuinely see you as family.” I snorted. Family. The word was a horror movie soundtrack. I hoped I would never be reborn, just to avoid running into a family like this again. 2 For as long as I could remember, I knew the shame of my existence in the Vaughn house. I always hunched my shoulders, trying to minimize my presence, to become a shadow in the elegant corners. But that didn’t stop me from envying Willa. She was sick from birth, practically living in the hospital. When she was in crisis, Mrs. Vaughn would sit by her bedside all night, chanting and turning her prayer beads. Mr. Vaughn would drop everything to fly home and just see her. Pierce and Reid would scramble to find the newest toys and gadgets just to coax a single smile. Her room was a riot of fresh flowers and plush animals. Her supply of love was infinite. And I, minutes after having my blood drawn, would hide in the room next door, listening to the silver chime of her laughter. The blood loss left me weak and nauseous. But I wasn’t allowed the privilege of expressing my suffering as she did. When she was happy, she laughed loudly. When she was upset, she pouted and cried. When she was in pain, she wept. Every tear she shed earned her double the affection. My tears, my pain, were an inconvenience. My happiness was always ill-timed. To the Vaughn family, her life was precious. Mine, it seemed, was only meant to exist for the sake of hers. It was Reid Vaughn, the second son, who reminded me of this constantly. He hated me the most in the entire family. Moving my room to the suffocating attic was his idea. From grade school to college, he tirelessly educated anyone who would listen about my status as the illegitimate daughter. Thanks to him, I had very few peaceful moments growing up. His favorite line, delivered with a cool, cruel smile, was always: “Your usefulness to Willa is the single greatest purpose and value you will ever have, Sloan. You should be grateful.” Later, perhaps because Willa’s condition stabilized, he unexpectedly softened toward me. One day, I was carrying a stack of heavy old books down from the attic and nearly tripped on the staircase. He was right below and, without thinking, reached out and steadied me. He even asked if I was okay. When I said I was fine, he hesitated, then asked if I wanted to move my things out of the attic. That night, I was too terrified to sleep, wondering what kind of terrible prank he was setting up for me. Thankfully, Willa had another health scare and was admitted to the hospital. Reid reverted to his old self, finally stopping those strange, unsettling looks. Yet, when I was dragged back to the City and sent to the hospital for my final rounds of testing, he stayed by my side the entire time. His head was bowed, he never looked at me, but his hand was shaking violently. Even now, while I was confined here waiting for the operation, he hadn’t once come in to warn me to be docile and cooperative. I shook my head, clearing him from my mind. Instead, I focused on the black cashmere scarf in my hands. I held it up, admiring the progress. Just a little more. I should be able to finish it on the day of the surgery. I only hoped that the person who received this gift would have the opportunity to make it through the winter I wouldn’t see. 3 Later that evening, Pierce had his assistant deliver a jar of Honeysuckle Jam. A big, beautiful glass canister. I had just managed to twist off the lid when my door was flung open violently. The next second, the jar was knocked out of my hand and shattered on the floor. Reid’s voice, thick with rage, exploded in the room. “What did you say to Willa?” “She won’t agree to the surgery now! She was fine when she left her room, but after she saw you, she had a meltdown! Did you say something to upset her?!” I stared at the thick, golden jam spreading across the clean white tile floor for a long, quiet moment. Then, I lifted my head, meeting his frantic, bloodshot eyes. My voice was eerily calm, even to my own ears. “Yes.” “I told her I didn’t want to die. Is there a problem with that?” It was the unvarnished truth of my heart, but to a Vaughn, it was treason. Reid froze completely. I smiled, my eyes locked on his, and spoke with deliberate, measured cruelty. “I told her I was only twenty-seven, that I was too young, and that I didn’t want to die.” “Are you satisfied now, Reid?” All the color drained from his face. He stared at me, speechless. After a moment, he wrenched his gaze away and stumbled backward, practically sprinting out of the room without even closing the door behind him. The silence returned, leaving only the cloying, almost bitter scent of the ruined honeysuckle. I had lied to him. Willa had indeed been wheeled into my room that day, with Pierce in attendance, his eyes giving me constant, silent warnings. Willa believed I was in the hospital for an emergency appendectomy. Her face was pale, but she spoke to Pierce with a playful, almost childlike complaint. “Big Brother, you didn’t even tell me Sloan was here for surgery! Good thing I’m smart and saw you sneaking up the private elevator.” Pierce gently stroked her hair, his voice soft. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. My fault. I apologize.” Willa then turned to me, smiling. “Sloan, an appendix is nothing. Don’t be scared.” Her smile faded then. She lowered her eyes. “It’s not like me. I have to have a heart transplant in a few days. They’ll take my heart out… that must be awful, right?” I stood there, lifting my hand to my chest, touching the spot where my strong, healthy heart was currently beating with furious energy. Yes. Having your heart taken out must be awful. I’m terrified, too. She had left that day smiling brightly. I had no idea why she was suddenly refusing the surgery now, making Reid run in here like a rabid dog. He was the most fiercely protective of Willa in the entire family. He would literally fight anyone who dared to make her cry. I had to admit it—Willa had won the birth lottery. If there was a next life, I prayed I wouldn’t draw a script this rotten again. I sighed and slowly walked to the mess on the floor. I crouched down, dipped a finger into the sticky jam, and put it in my mouth. Sweet. So incredibly sweet. I licked my lips, looking at the pool of amber preserve. My voice was a soft whisper of regret. “Too bad I won’t get to taste this again.” 4 Willa came to my room again the night before the surgery. A nurse’s aide pushed her wheelchair. Her lips were dark, and she had an oxygen tube clipped to her nose. It took her a while to catch her breath before she spoke. “Sloan, tomorrow is the surgery. I’m scared.” I didn’t reply, my knitting needles clicking steadily, working on the last few rows of the scarf. Time was running out. She didn’t seem to need an answer. Her eyes were fixed on me as she spoke in a soft voice. “Sloan, do you… do you hate me?” “We’re both Vaughn children, and we were often sick at the same time. But Mom, Dad, and my brothers were always with me.” “And you… here…” The steel needle in my hand paused, and I suddenly missed a loop. She bowed her head, and I couldn’t see her expression, only hear the rattling sound of her breathing. “No.” I corrected the missed stitch. “There’s nothing to hate you for.” You just got used to it. I was first taken to the hospital for blood draws when I was five. At that age, my concept of ‘home’ hadn’t been completely crushed yet. I naively believed that if I helped my sister, I would finally be accepted into the family. So, when I was discharged, the first thing I did was cautiously reach out and take Mrs. Vaughn’s cold hand. I whispered, “Mom.” I don’t remember her exact expression that day. I only remember her telling me to go back and learn some manners. That was when I understood. Willa and I existed in entirely different universes. Later, as the blood draws became more frequent, they didn’t hurt as much. And later still, when they took my kidney, they granted me a small measure of privilege. I was moved out of the attic into a slightly nicer room, and I was given special, gourmet recovery meals for a few days. Not a single person, from beginning to end, told me the surgical details, or asked if I was willing. I got used to being taken from. I got used to preparing, with every critical prognosis for Willa, for the possibility that another part of my body might be claimed. I was only deeply, completely sorry that I wouldn’t get to see the snow in Montana. 5 Twelve hours before the operation, my scarf was finally finished. The black cashmere yarn, which I had chosen specifically, should complement his complexion beautifully. I smiled faintly, folding the scarf neatly and placing it on the bedside table. My gaze fell on the jar of Honeysuckle Jam next to it. It wasn’t the fancy glass canister Pierce had sent, but a simple, store-bought jar. It looked like a high-quality product. I didn’t know who had put it there. I only knew it appeared on my nightstand the moment I woke up. That morning, Mrs. Vaughn came to see me. She sat on the edge of my bed, her fingers twisting the prayer beads, and took my hand. She looked utterly exhausted. Every time Willa was hospitalized, Mrs. Vaughn would keep an all-night vigil at her beloved daughter’s bedside, staying awake for days. This time was no exception. She stared at me blankly for a long time. Finally, her eyes landed on the jam. “You like Honeysuckle Jam, too?” I nodded. Her eyes instantly flooded with tears. Large, heavy drops rolled down her cheeks without warning. “It’s so strange. Pierce told me you liked it, but I didn’t believe him.” “Willa is actually allergic to honeysuckle…” The last sentence was a mere whisper. Her tears flowed faster, and her grip on my hand tightened unconsciously, her nails almost digging into my skin. After a long pause, she regained her composure, looking at me. “Sloan, I have failed you. I won’t deny the sins I’ve committed.” “But I am a mother. I would rather die myself than fail to save my child.” I gently pulled my hand from hers and offered a faint, tired smile. “I know. Willa is truly blessed to have you as a mother.” I meant it. Willa was blessed. She had a mother willing to give everything for her. She had a family who cherished her like a rare jewel. Evelyn was silent for a moment. “When you were brought to the Vaughn house all those years ago, I hated you.” “I thought, Why is my child fighting for her life while you are healthy and smiling without a care?” “But Sloan, the more you gave to Willa, the harder it became for me to face you.” “What did you ever do wrong?” “I have no choice, Sloan. I owe you a debt that I can never repay.” “If you wish to come back and claim my life, I will not complain.” I looked at the tears at the corners of her eyes, feeling a sense of unreality. For years, Mrs. Vaughn had spent her days copying scriptures in the Vaughn chapel, seemingly detached from the world. But when distant relatives and house staff bullied me, it was she who stepped forward time and again to chase them off. Once, I was terribly sick with a high, raging fever. Through the haze, a cool hand rested on my forehead. I forced open my heavy eyelids and saw Mrs. Vaughn sitting on the edge of my small, narrow attic bed. Later, she gathered me into her arms and carried me downstairs. It was the first time she had ever held me, and it would be the only time in my life. I felt a pang of profound sadness. I had never met my mother. So, until my dying breath, I would never know if her embrace would have been as gentle as this one. 6 Just as the gurney was waiting at the door of my room, and the nurse was doing the final checklist before the operating room, Reid burst in. His eyes were terrifyingly red. He stammered, telling me disorganized memories from my childhood. Finally, he couldn’t speak anymore, his voice ragged as he repeated, “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” I didn’t respond, just watched him with quiet detachment. He stumbled back a step, covering his face with his hands, his shoulders beginning to heave. I didn’t know why he was having a nervous breakdown now, choosing to come bother me instead of being by his beloved sister’s side. But as I was about to die, I finally felt the freedom to speak the words I had always wanted to say. “Reid Vaughn!” He looked up at me. I smiled faintly. “Out of everyone in the Vaughn family, I hate you the most.” His face turned sickeningly white. I thought for a moment, then added, with a malicious satisfaction, “I will absolutely, unequivocally never forgive you.” Even as I was wheeled into the operating theater, I was savoring the memory of Reid’s ashen, frozen face. It was strangely satisfying. He looked like he had genuinely lost a beloved sister. And then, my world went dark.

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It was Serena Wells who came to me, begging me to take the fall for her childhood best friend after his drunk driving accident. “Dean’s father saved my life, Beck. Can’t you just endure this for me? When you get out, we’ll get married.” I nodded, tears blurring my vision. Two months, she’d promised. When I got inside, I learned the sentence was six years. I tried to recant my confession, but all I earned was a beating. “Someone outside is keeping a tight lid on you. Who do you think you are, a filthy criminal daring to dream about someone like Miss Wells!” My eyes were bloodshot from the blows. The last thing I saw before I passed out was the prison TV, where Serena was walking arm-in-arm with her childhood friend, announcing their engagement. My heart turned to ash. After six years of torture where every day felt like a lifetime, I was finally released. But as I quietly boarded a train with my worn suitcase, Serena’s assistant stood respectfully in front of me. “Mr. Miller, Ms. Wells wants to see you.” 1 I sat in the car, watching the city rush backward. Six years had changed Coronado Bay significantly. The car passed a towering skyscraper. A news story was playing on a massive billboard: “Coronado Bay Heiress Serena Wells Spends Nine Figures on a Watch for New Boyfriend; Couple Seen Entering Mansion.” Nine figures. I slowly counted the zeroes. I looked down at the simple woven bracelet she’d given me six years ago. It had cost maybe two dollars, and now the surface was dull and rough. I gently unclasped it and tossed it out the open window. In the blink of an eye, the car pulled up to a sprawling estate. Lost in thought, I took the phone the assistant handed me. Serena’s light, pleasant voice drifted through. “Beck, something came up. Wait for me at the house for a bit.” I listened silently, and only after three seconds of her pause did I manage a slow, muffled grunt of agreement. Serena went quiet for a moment, sounding slightly confused. I had grown silent over the past six years, no longer the person who used to chatter on endlessly to her. After the call ended, I sat in the villa, waiting. The cleaning staff behind me occasionally glanced my way, whispering. “Ms. Wells brought another one home. This one is too thin. Not very good-looking.” “I think he came straight from prison.” “Oh, God, how unlucky. Ms. Wells’s taste is getting so strange. At least before it was actors, models, or rich kids. This one is just…” They sighed, shaking their heads, feeling Serena was settling. I felt nothing, except for the urge to keep checking my wrist for a non-existent watch. Serena’s promised “a bit” had stretched into seven hours. I hadn’t eaten since leaving the facility. The air conditioning was set too cold, and I was simultaneously freezing and famished. I finally asked the butler for any news of Serena, but after asking twice, he glared at me with clear impatience. He treated me like just another one of Serena’s hangers-on. “Ms. Wells is entertaining Mr. Palmer. They’re watching fireworks from a yacht right now. She doesn’t have time for you.” Dean Palmer. His name flashed instantly through my mind. Six years ago, he’d drunk-driven and critically injured two pedestrians. I took his place. I went from being Beckett Miller, the beloved son of a respectable family, to a universally condemned inmate. He, meanwhile, had been elevated to Mr. Palmer, adored by Serena, living a life of utter privilege. But I didn’t care anymore. My family’s collapse, my parents’ suicide—nothing could stir a ripple inside me now. Except for the two things Serena had promised before I went in: marrying me, and buying back my family’s heirloom bracelet. Now, I no longer wanted the marriage. My only wish was to retrieve the heirloom. My thoughts snapped back. The wrenching pain in my stomach grew sharper. I clutched my abdomen and walked to the kitchen. As I reached to prepare something, a maid unceremoniously slapped my hand away. “Don’t touch anything. Ms. Wells and Mr. Palmer don’t like outsiders eating here.” “You’ll have to wait.” She finished with an eye-roll and walked away. After three more hours of waiting, Serena still hadn’t returned. I lay on the sofa. My vision turned black. I passed out completely. 2 When I woke up, I was in bed with an IV drip in my arm. Serena was facing away from me, angrily scolding the staff. “Are you all idiots? The man is starving and you couldn’t manage to make him some food?” “One more time, and you’re all gone!” Dean Palmer heard the commotion and walked in. “Serena, don’t be mad. Come out and have some tea.” He pulled her out of the room. The maids looked at each other, their faces pale. “That scared me. Ms. Wells hasn’t been that angry in a long time.” “It’s his fault! Putting on an act to make us look bad!” “Don’t get cocky. He’ll be kicked out in two months anyway.” The women hurried away. I pulled out the needle and slowly walked out. The first person to see me was one of Serena’s friends. She clearly didn’t know who I was, only saying with surprise: “Serena, is this the new housekeeper? Why is he coming out of your room?” Serena spun around, and when her eyes met mine, her pupils visibly flinched. Unseen for six years, she was still poised and elegant. I, however, looked like a traveler facing his final days, my expression weary and aged. Dean let out a small, smug chuckle and strode over, puffing out his chest. He addressed the woman in the silk dress like the master of the house: “Layla, this is… a distant cousin of Serena’s from out of state. Not a housekeeper.” I looked at Serena. She watched me silently, offering no denial. She must have decided that the current me was too much of an embarrassment to acknowledge openly. It made sense. I was now an ex-con. Our engagement had been six years ago—history. As the silence stretched, the chef announced that dinner was ready. We sat down. They chatted about recent events, which I didn’t understand at all. I just kept my head down, focusing on my food. But suddenly, Layla exclaimed: “Oh, right, Serena! That boyfriend of yours in prison must be out by now.” “You never seemed that into him anyway. Just give him some cash to go away. Make sure he doesn’t cling to you.” In an instant, the previously lively dinner table fell silent. Dean glanced at me, a flash of mockery in his eyes. Serena’s face remained composed, but she didn’t answer. Layla sensed the shift and started to apologize, but I interrupted her with a small, calm smile. “He won’t.” Layla turned to me, curious, and asked why. I slowly swallowed my rice, but before I could open my mouth, Serena cut in sharply. “Enough. Just eat.” She stared fixedly at me, her beautiful eyes churning with an unreadable depth. I remained still, lowering my gaze to my plate. After dinner, Layla noticed the grand piano in the living room on her way out. “That’s a gorgeous piano. Who is it for?” Dean swaggered over and began to play a clumsy, elementary piece. When he finished, he looked smugly at the appreciation in Layla’s eyes. “I just started lessons, but my teacher says I’m a natural. Better than some people who’ve been playing for ten years.” He glanced at me, clearly aiming the comment. I had studied piano, violin, and guitar since childhood, with the piano being my strongest. I even performed at a famous concert hall in my twenties. Dean had always been fiercely jealous, claiming he’d be even better if he’d had the money for lessons. Now that I’d been locked up for six years, he assumed my skills had withered. He grinned, facing me. “Beck, I hear you were quite the prodigy. Why don’t you show us what you’ve got?” 3 Serena’s brow furrowed, as if she wanted to stop me. But my fingers were already on the keys. The next second, a rich, rhythmic melody flowed out effortlessly. It was a level of mastery that made Dean’s beginner piece sound like mere noise. A look of surprise flashed in both Serena’s and Layla’s eyes. When I finished, they both applauded immediately. Dean’s face was green with rage, and he glared at me with hatred. Layla moved closer, her tone earnest. “Wow, you’re incredible. I have a concert-grade piano at my place. Want to come over and try it sometime?” I opened my mouth, but before I could reply, Serena’s voice came out, cold and sudden. “It’s getting late. You should go. Dean can take you.” Layla shot me a look of genuine disappointment. Dean looked annoyed but followed her out, glancing back at me repeatedly. The vast living room was left to just Serena and me. I pulled my shoulders tighter, shivering slightly. The air conditioning was high, but her face was colder than the air. Serena suddenly grabbed my wrist. Her tone was ugly, almost cruel. “Beckett Miller, you’re out for one day and you’re already trolling for dates? Were you dying in there?” I didn’t react. I just gave a weak, indifferent tug of my lips. I was barely a man anymore, having lost nearly thirty pounds. The confident spark of my youth was gone. Seeing my silence, she seemed startled. I used to love fighting with her. But now, looking at my face—a surface of dead water—a sharp, needle-like pang hit her heart. Her voice softened immediately. “I didn’t mean that.” “I will give you what you’re owed. Just not right now. Our marriage is still happening.” The word “marriage” made her pause. She lowered her voice slightly. “What did you mean at dinner when you said ‘he won’t’?” Serena fixed her eyes on my expression, clearly desperate to know what I’d meant. I countered with my own question: “Where is the bracelet? My family’s heirloom.” Serena froze, the light in her eyes flickering. My heart seized up. My voice cracked. “Tell me. Where is the bracelet?” She sighed in frustration. “Dean took it to wear. I forgot to get it back. I’ll call him now.” The ringing sound of her phone cut through the air. I closed my burning eyelids and waited. Suddenly, Serena looked at my wrist. “Where is the red string I gave you?” “It broke.” Serena flinched. Seeing my careless indifference, her heart tightened inexplicably. Thirty minutes later, Dean rushed back, sweat dotting his forehead. Serena’s eyes flashed with concern. She spoke with a hint of reproof. “Did you have to rush?” Dean bit his lip. He spoke in a low, meek voice: “I was worried Beck would be mad at you.” Serena stroked his head, a gesture that clearly meant thank you for your trouble. Dean stuck out his tongue playfully, then turned and walked toward me, smiling. “Beck, I was the one who pestered Serena for the cuff. You’re a bigger man, please don’t be mad at her.” Dean was a master of passive aggression, instantly placing me on the high ground of being an unforgiving villain, while he played the role of the pitiable, compassionate friend. But I was tired of his games. I simply held out my hand. “Give it to me.” Dean nodded and handed me a small, ornate box. My heart hammered. I quickly raised my hand to take it. But the moment my fingers touched the box, he let it go. It tumbled to the floor. I lunged to save it, but I was too late. The open box showed the cuff, now broken in two. 4 Dean looked genuinely horrified, but as he leaned in close to my ear, his voice slithered out like a viper. “If I can’t have it, you can’t either.” Seeing the triumph in his eyes, my head exploded. I raised my hand and slapped him hard across the face. Dean crashed to the ground, his voice shaking with feigned terror. “I’m sorry, Beck. You can hit me all you want.” He reached out to gather the broken pieces of the bracelet. Seeing his act, I felt a surge of pure fury. I reached to push him away, but in the next second, Serena’s hand clamped down hard on my wrist. She shrieked. “Enough!” A vein pulsed on her forehead. She looked enraged. But when she met my desperate, tearful gaze, her voice finally softened. “Don’t cry. I’ll buy you another one. Dean didn’t mean to.” She placed a gentle hand on my head to comfort me, but every word she spoke was an excuse for Dean. I clung tightly to the shattered jade pieces, my entire body shaking uncontrollably. Blood streamed from my palm, dripping onto the floor, blooming into stinging red stains. Serena’s eyes narrowed. She quickly pulled my hand away. She stared at my bloody, lacerated palm. Just as she was about to explode at me, I saw black spots fill my vision. I crumpled to the floor. I woke up feeling utterly exhausted, my head splitting. My throat felt like I had swallowed razor blades, so I dragged my heavy body out to get some water. As I reached the corner, I saw two figures standing in the dim hallway. Dean’s voice was fretful, as if he hadn’t recovered from the conflict. “Will Beck be upset if I sleep here?” “I run this house.” Serena’s voice was quiet but held an iron-fisted authority. The feeling of being protected flooded Dean with satisfaction. He remembered the past again. He sighed. “Serena, thank you. If you hadn’t come up with that ‘debt-of-honor’ excuse back then, I would have been the one rotting in prison for six years.” Serena’s face stiffened. She let out a small sigh. “I owe him for this, but making it up to him with the rest of my life is enough.” Her tone was casual, with a hint of distant sadness. Dean’s vanity was instantly satisfied. He wrapped his arms around Serena, leaning down for a passionate kiss. Serena froze momentarily but didn’t pull away. Watching their entwined forms, I felt as if I’d fallen into a frozen lake. My legs were so weak I could barely stand. Serena had always claimed Dean’s father saved her life. She said a person must repay kindness, which was why I had willingly become the scapegoat. In the end, it was all a convenient lie. My heart rate spiked suddenly. Through my shaky vision, Dean panted: “What if he finds out?” Serena’s expression slightly hardened, then she slowly shook her head. “He won’t find out. And even if he does, what can he do? Look at him now. I’m the best option he has left.” “Besides, I won’t let him go.” Dean’s fists clenched. Not hearing the answer he wanted, a flash of resentment crossed his eyes. “Serena, I worry about you. He is totally unworthy of you now. People will mock you—” “Stop.” Before he could finish, Serena cut him off, her voice showing clear impatience. She distanced herself from him. “Go to bed. I’m going to check if Beck is awake.”

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The annual St. Jude’s Medical Center Donor Appreciation Gala was supposed to be a night of champagne toasts and polite applause. Instead, it became the place where my world shattered. Dr. Thompson, the Chief of Staff, beamed from the podium. “Dr. Eleanor Stone is truly the epitome of altruism,” he announced, his voice ringing through the ballroom. “To personally coordinate with the Organ Distribution Center, ensuring her daughter’s perfectly matched donor heart went to a financially struggling young man… It’s a lesson in what it means to be a healer.” I was still innocent enough to try to defend her. “Dr. Thompson,” I said, my voice barely a breath. “My mother is meticulous about procedure. She would never pull strings for a patient to jump the list.” My disbelief seemed to shock him. “But didn’t she clear it with you? The recipient was a perfect match, same as yours, just behind you on the registry. Dr. Stone personally went to bat for him.” “She said her own daughter, you, could afford to wait. That the other boy’s family was about to lose their low-income housing, that his life was literally burning through their last few pennies.” I slowly turned to face my parents. My mother, Eleanor, gripped her champagne flute like a weapon. “Scarlett, that child’s family is absolutely destitute. They couldn’t wait any longer,” she pleaded. “It’s different for you. Your father and I are doctors. We wouldn’t let anything happen to you.” Anger, sharp and hot, instantly incinerated my logic. Tears spilled over. “I see! So being your daughter means I don’t even qualify for fair treatment on a waiting list!” I choked out. “Maybe I should have been an orphan then. Then I could have had my surgery, too, right? Maybe even gotten the heart you stole!” 1 I turned to leave, but Dad, Dr. David Stone, blocked my path. “Scarlett, what is this attitude? Do you know what your mother sacrificed, the time she poured into Finn? If he doesn’t get that heart, he won’t make it to his nineteenth birthday!” I stared at my father, dumbfounded. So this was it. My life was so cheap to them. They were only afraid a “penniless student” would die in their ward and tarnish the hospital’s reputation. Mom tried to grab me. “Leaving in the middle of this is inappropriate! We’ll discuss this at home.” Colleagues who’d heard the commotion crowded around, half-begging, half-forcing me back into my seat. The fear and resentment I’d repressed for two years finally erupted. Gasping, I pointed at Mom, my voice raw and broken. “He can’t wait? Do you think I can? Just because he’s poor, he’s pitiable, and he’s your public relations poster child, he gets to jump the line? He gets you to pull strings to snatch my heart?!” “What about me! I’m your daughter! I’m only twenty-four! I haven’t graduated, I haven’t seen the Rockies or the Atlantic! Tell me, what part of me is less deserving of life than him?” “Just because you gave birth to me, I deserve to stand behind everyone else? I deserve to die for your damned ‘Principle of Avoiding Suspicion’?” The collapsing shriek echoed in the silent hall. Mom trembled with rage, her hand raised as if to strike me, but she slammed it onto the table instead. “That’s enough! You are out of line! Apologize to Finn O’Malley immediately! Do you have any idea how much psychological stress these comments will put on his recovery?” Finn’s mother, Maureen, fell to her knees with a thud, bowing her head to the floor. “Oh, my sweet girl, I’m so sorry, forgive us… We’ve dragged Dr. Stone into this, we’ve stolen your chance… Please, hit me, scream at me, but don’t blame her. She’s a saint, an absolute saint!” The whole scene was an absurd nightmare. And I, apparently, was the petulant brat in the dream. I watched Mom rush over to help the dark, thin woman up. I saw the undisguised disappointment on her face. I laughed then, tears streaming down my face as I did. “Fine. Fine… He is your patient, your responsibility, your salvation.” “And me? What am I?” I looked at Dad. His eyes were red-rimmed, but he remained silent. “You won’t touch your savings for my treatment—under the beautiful principle that the hospital must not play favorites, must not accept gifts.” “The truth is, you never planned for me to live at all. You were just waiting to use my donor for someone else’s son!” When I was queuing for my own surgery, I hadn’t even dared to ask for a private room, terrified of the gossip. Yet for someone else, she could leverage years of professional connections to steal the lifeline that should have been mine! I pushed away the hands trying to hold me, ignored the familiar, sharp pang in my chest, and walked toward the elevator. “From today forward, whether I live or die has nothing to do with you. Just go back to protecting your Hippocratic Oath, and your patients who are more ‘worthy’ of being saved!” Behind me, I heard Mom’s furious shout, Dad’s anxious cry, and the strangled sobs of Finn’s mother. The elevator door slid shut, cutting off the noise. I took a cab back to the university. My phone vibrated ceaselessly the entire ride, a flood of missed calls and messages. The first was from Mom: Mom (Eleanor): Scarlett, you embarrassed me tonight. That boy is barely nineteen, and his family is on welfare. We had to do this. He had nothing. You’re our daughter, you need to be the bigger person. Scrolling down, there was Dad’s: Dad (David): Scarlett, Finn is different. He’s alone. He’s already attempted suicide twice since his diagnosis. Your mother couldn’t just stand by! Dad (David): You’ve created a scandal. The whole hospital knows now. How do you expect your mother to lead her department? Come home and apologize! I deleted the rest without reading them. When my roommates learned what happened, they were furious on my behalf. My nose started to sting. Strangers could feel sympathy for my plight. Why did my own parents insist on making me feel like a burden? I stayed at school for two days. The moment I turned my phone on, I accidentally answered a call from Uncle George, my mother’s brother. “Scarlett, how could you be so difficult? You’ve upset your parents terribly. Running away from home?” “I’m not trying to lecture you, but you’re breaking your mother’s heart. She’s a doctor, it’s her calling to save lives. How can you blame her for this?” He droned on about Mom’s sacrifices. “Your mother just saw a vulnerable child and wanted to save his life. As her daughter, you should be supporting her.” I waited until he paused, shaking my head to reassure my worried roommate. Uncle George’s voice grew quieter. “Uncle George, do you remember what the specialist said when I was diagnosed at twelve?” “I… I remember.” I cut him off. “The doctor said twenty-four was my absolute limit for the surgery.” “I’m halfway through twenty-four now.” He went silent. “I waited twelve years, Uncle. I finally got a 92% match, and my own mother, my biological mother, personally diverted it to someone else.” “For her, the Hippocratic Oath is a higher priority than her daughter’s survival.” “If I, her daughter, have to be careful to ‘avoid suspicion,’ why doesn’t the patient she saved need to? That’s what they call virtue, I suppose.” My voice dripped with sarcasm. Mom has helped many needy patients, but Finn was her biggest personal investment. To him, she was the compassionate Dr. Stone, the “Most Beautiful Doctor” plastered all over the local news. But to me, she was a failure of a mother. A person’s heart is only so big. If it’s filled up with patients, how much room is left for family? Uncle George stammered in defense. “Your mother is just doing her duty. You should understand her the most…” A sharp pain clenched my heart. I pulled out my pill bottle and swallowed two tablets. “Uncle, do you know why my mother never let me visit her department?” “Why?” “She was terrified of the optics—of colleagues saying she was abusing her power, of patients thinking she was prioritizing her own child. So my medical records are at a different hospital. My primary doctor doesn’t even know I’m Dr. Stone’s daughter.” “Finn’s surgery, however? She performed it herself. She will personally follow up on every one of his post-op scans.” “Tell me, Uncle. Who looks more like her biological child?” The line went quiet, only his breathing audible. After a long moment, he spoke again. “Don’t talk like that, Scarlett. Your mother does care about you…” “Where is my place then? On which page of the transplant waiting list? What number room on her daily rounds?” “I am her daughter, yet I can’t even receive fair access to medical care. Why? If being someone else’s child is the only way to get a break, then I’d rather have no connection to this family at all!” The voice on the other end changed. It was Mom. She had been listening the whole time. “Scarlett, can you not see the bigger picture? Finn genuinely couldn’t wait any longer!” I countered, “And me? How long do I have? When will the next matching donor appear? A year? Two? Five?” “You…” “As a hospital administrator, you know better than anyone how scarce heart donors are. The average wait time is 3.8 years. I’ve already waited twelve.” Mom’s voice was still unnervingly calm. “Medical resources are finite. They must be allocated to the most critically urgent patient first.” I nodded. “I know. You’re the department head, Dad’s an administrator. Your professional ethics, your medical resources—you can give them to whomever you like.” “Then my life, my choices, are mine to make, too.” I hung up and powered down the phone. With my transplant opportunity stolen, I was forced back onto the waiting list. But my condition wasn’t waiting. The symptoms of heart failure were growing more severe. My doctor suggested an implanted cardiac assist device. The cost was astronomical. Even after insurance, I would have to pay a six-figure sum out of pocket. I’d intended to ask my parents for a loan, but they would rather pull strings to steal a heart for a patient than break their own rules to save their daughter. I had to figure it out myself. My academic advisor, worried I was an unstable presence, asked if I wanted to take another leave of absence. I moved out instead. Short on cash, I could only afford a room in a dilapidated, multi-tenant complex in a forgotten corner of the city. A young woman in the building took pity on me and offered to let me join her streaming business, selling goods online. I began working frantically, desperate to earn enough money to survive. A month later, my parents saw me online. They found me in the dingy complex, blocking my path. Mom’s eyes were red-rimmed. “How could you… how could you possibly live in this dump?” “Your health is fragile. Come back to the hospital with us immediately.” I looked at her with cold eyes. My phone buzzed—it was time to start my stream. I tried to walk past them. Dad grabbed my arm, his face tight with disgust. “We spent all those years raising you for this? To do this cheap, degrading work?” “You might not be ashamed, but if this gets back to my colleagues, we’ll be a laughingstock!” Of course. They never cared about me. Only their reputation. I yanked my arm away. “What’s shameful about earning money with my own two hands?” “There’s no such thing as ‘degrading’ work. Do you think being a doctor makes you superior?” I stepped closer to Dad. “Right. Of course. After all, the heart of a healer is so noble that you’re willing to abandon your own daughter. You must be high and mighty!” Mom’s eyes grew frantic. “Your father and I came here to take you back for treatment! Stop this stubbornness. I’ve found the next donor…” “What for? So I can be the one accused of being a black-market beneficiary?” I interrupted impatiently. “Don’t worry. I’ll avoid suspicion for you—until the day I die!” I turned away. A neighbor and her large dog brushed past me. Mom screamed about the dog’s germs. The dog, startled by the noise, lunged at me. “Watch out!” The piercing cry came as I fell down the short flight of steps. The dog bit me. My heart rate soared, and my vision swam. I fumbled in my bag for my pills and swallowed them. Mom frantically snatched the bottle. “You can’t take this cheap medicine! Do you know how much damage it does to your body?” Leaning against the wall, I drew a shaky breath. “It’s cheap. And it works fast.” I needed the pills to suppress the chest pain through countless late-night streams. Tears suddenly spilled from Mom’s eyes. “I’m calling an ambulance right now! I’ll take you to our hospital.” I took a deep breath. “No need! Just pay for my rabies shots. I have to stream now.” Dad erupted in fury. “At a time like this, you’re still thinking about work! Is that job more important than your life?” He pulled my sleeve, tearing my cheap shirt. I shouted back, louder than he had. “Yes! Because I don’t have the money for a cardiac assist device! Because my parents would rather use their connections to steal a donor heart for a stranger than pay for my medical bills!” “What else am I supposed to do but kill myself working to survive? This stream is the best job I can find in my condition! You look down on it, but at least it feeds me!” Dad froze. The neighbor, witnessing the whole spectacle, gave me an extra thirty dollars for ‘nutrition.’ Dad looked at her, his expression saying everything. My parents stood frozen, a complex mix of emotions crossing their faces. For a brief moment, I thought I saw a flash of genuine guilt in their eyes. I struggled to my feet, limped inside, and locked the door, shutting them out. My stream didn’t end until the early morning. A colleague went out for food and came back to tell me my parents were still waiting by the door. “Scarlett, you can’t eat this junk food with your heart condition! You need nutrition!” “Come on, come home with Mom. I’ll make you chicken soup.” Mom stared intensely at the pre-packaged meal in my hand, her voice choked. Even Dad’s tone was softer. “Your mother and I were wrong about what happened before. We’ll find a way to get you the surgery sooner. Don’t be stubborn anymore.” I burst out laughing. “Did I have such a great life when I was home?” “You were always too busy with work. I don’t think I’ve had one proper, home-cooked meal in years. I’ve eaten frozen junk food for so long, and now you’re worried about my nutrition?” My parents flushed a deep red. This time, it was shame. They must have remembered how much they’d neglected me. Mom tried to speak several times, but no words came out. Impatient, I shooed them away. “If you genuinely care about me, then just disappear!” “Because right now, looking at you both makes me sick!” Under the dim streetlights, their shadows stretched long and weary. But I refused to look back. Not long after, I saw Mom on the local news. Finn O’Malley, the student, was sobbing as he thanked her, calling her his second mother. Tears in her eyes, Mom said, “It’s just my duty as a healer.” Her hospital’s prestige soared, and Mom was promoted yet again. She got what she wanted, I thought. And I, apparently, was no longer of any use. But then, I received a text from her. Mom (Eleanor): Scarlett, the hospital has scheduled your surgery. Please don’t be afraid. This time, I promise your mother will save you. All the documents were clearly marked. The Chief of Staff, Dr. Thompson, even called to say Mom had pulled every last string she had for me. I thought about it for a long time, then decided to go to the hospital. I didn’t need to play games with my own life. This was what I deserved. When I arrived at the inpatient ward, the people waiting for me weren’t the surgeons. It was the two people I least wanted to see: Finn and his mother. I immediately looked at Dad. He looked guilty, lowering his eyes, but he gripped my arm and forced me to sit down. “Finn has felt terrible about everything, he wants to apologize personally.” “Honestly, without this little trick, we didn’t know how else to get you back here.” The air thickened, turning to glass. I could barely believe it. My throat was dry. “So, the surgery is a lie? This was all just to get me to deal with your poor little patient?” Finn stood up to smooth things over. “Scarlett, Dr. Stone saved my life, but it hurt yours. It’s not her fault, it’s mine. I owe you an apology.” He knelt before me, instantly setting me on fire with misplaced morality. Mom looked at me with open disappointment. “Look how understanding Finn is. Unlike you, throwing a tantrum at every turn. Let this go. You need to help Finn, too. He came from nothing. He has a long anti-rejection therapy ahead of him. It’s not easy.” Dad quickly chimed in, talking about how poor and how hard-fought Finn’s survival was. I listened and started to laugh. I placed my own medical records and overdue bills in front of them. “I’m not doing so great either. The hospital says if I don’t get surgery soon, I’m genuinely going to die.” “Finn, since you feel so bad, why don’t you show it with a concrete action? Like giving the heart back?” Mom slammed her hand on the table, furious. “Running away from home is one thing, but now you’re forging medical records to trick us?” “How can you be so malicious? Finn hasn’t even fully recovered, and you want to snatch his heart away?” I laughed until I almost cried. She hadn’t followed my condition at all. Even her tears in the tenement complex were just crocodile tears. “I have no choice, do I? My parents have the money and connections to steal a donor heart for someone else, but they sacrifice their own daughter’s life to do it.” “And if I die, both of your careers are finished. Utterly ruined!” I looked at Mom with contempt. “I just don’t understand. You can pour your heart and soul into a stranger, but you can be this ruthless to your own child.” “I used to think you were a woman of principle. Seeing what you did for Finn, I realize you’re just a hypocrite.” “My mother is nothing but a self-serving fraud!” I had figured out why Mom was so obsessed with saving Finn. She was running for Vice Chief of Staff next year. She needed the political capital. Saving a poor student from a single-parent, welfare-dependent family? What incredible publicity. During this crucial period, she couldn’t dare prioritize my surgery. It would be called nepotism and ruin her candidacy. But that heart was mine by sequence! In this calculation, she gained a promotion, Finn gained a new life. Only I, like a fool, was sacrificed. Now I couldn’t even afford my medicine. I pulled out my phone and opened the camera. “Since you care so much about the needy student, how about you adopt him right now, on a live stream, in front of the whole internet? That will surely secure your promotion.” “As for me, I’ll publicly disown you. You won’t have to worry about the ‘burden of suspicion’ anymore!”

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The first day of college, the boy next door I’d crushed on for years talked me into his bed. The next morning, my naked photos were plastered all over the city. I was expelled from the university, my reputation completely destroyed. When my brother’s fist smashed into his face, he showed not a shred of guilt. Instead, he gripped Liam’s collar tightly, his eyes blazing red as he shrieked: “Liam, now you know what it felt like the day my sister jumped! Your sister will pay for your mistake!” He left, walking away from my brother—who was coughing up blood—and me, who had sobbed myself into a faint. To pay for Liam’s mounting medical bills, I became a risqué streamer. Three years later, I found him again in my own chat. 1 The viewer count was 2,337, and the public feed was scrolling fast. I pulled the hem of my skirt up to my mid-thigh and gyrated mechanically for the camera. “This streamer is the most dedicated, live for ten hours a day.” “She looks pretty young, is she a college student?” “College student? You must be new. This girl has been streaming for over three years.” I ignored the viewers who talked big but didn’t spend money, keeping my eyes glued to the gift notifications in the bottom right corner. “Ashes” sent a Porsche × 1. A new account, not a member of my regular fan club. The name made me pause for a second, but my focus quickly shifted to the value of the Porsche. Five hundred dollars. Not a huge amount, but not negligible either. To drop that much on a first visit meant he had money. I leaned closer to the lens, my voice softening. “Thank you for the Porsche, Ashes. What would you like to see me do?” 【Pull the strap down】 A clear, direct instruction. I smiled, hooked a finger around the thin shoulder strap, and let it slide. The fabric of my dress dipped, the curve of my chest begging to be revealed. “Is that better?” The chat exploded. “Ashes” sent a Jet, a thousand dollars. 【Lift your skirt】 Again, a blunt command. I laughed, hooking the edge of the hem with my fingers. The black lace of my underwear wrapped around my curves. The fullness of my hips sent the public feed into a frenzy of crude remarks. The viewer count surged to over three thousand. “Ashes” sent a Carnival, five thousand dollars. The most expensive gift on the platform. 【Underwear, bra—choose one to take off.】 I froze for two seconds. The feed went ballistic. “Why is the streamer stunned? Not going to deliver after taking the money?” “Is she chickening out?” “What are you saying? She’s done this plenty of times. She’s reliable.” Three gifts, a total of six thousand five hundred dollars. Even after the platform took its cut, I’d have over three thousand. That was enough for Liam’s medication for half a month. With the calculation done, I returned to my practiced smile, caressing the edge of my skirt in front of the camera. My hand reached for the lace of my panties— 【Wait.】 My hand stopped. Ashes sent another message. 【You really will do anything you’re told.】 【Avery Marsh, how low have you fallen?】 With that, “Ashes” logged off. It was him. Rhys. I smiled self-deprecatingly. Low? I didn’t know. Did he think I was low when he leaked those pictures of me three years ago? While I was lost in thought, ten Porsches suddenly flooded the screen. My top supporter, LoneWolf78, typed a message. “So your name is Avery Marsh. What a beautiful name.” “Still short on cash, Avery?” “I have a dinner party tonight. Come keep me company. The price is the usual.” 2 A private meeting, an offline job. For me, it was routine. After so many years as a risqué streamer, I’d done just about everything. A “dinner party,” to put it nicely, meant being a hostess. To put it less nicely, it meant being offered up to another man by my ‘supporter.’ I giggled sweetly and typed, Message me privately, Big Brother. I’m shy. Then, amidst the jeers and mocking of the crowd, I signed off. Arriving at the door of the private room LoneWolf78 had specified, I pulled my stockings down slightly. When I pushed the door open, I saw LoneWolf78, also known as Mr. Pierce—a client I’d entertained many times—obsequiously pouring wine for the man seated at the head of the table. My breath hitched. Rhys. The boy next door who used to playfully pinch my cheeks now wore an expensive bespoke suit. He didn’t even lift his gaze. “Mr. Pierce, where did you find this fresh merchandise?” Mr. Pierce fawned over me, pushing me toward Rhys. “This is a streamer from Prism Live. She gets thousands of viewers per stream! I spent a lot of money to book her. Mr. Rhys, is she to your liking?” Rhys looked up, his eyes immediately boring into my face. “Oh, a big-shot streamer.” His voice was laced with undisguised contempt. “I visited her stream. For three thousand, she’ll take off her panties.” “Quite high-class, isn’t she?” A burst of laughter erupted in the room. I looked down, gripping the hem of my skirt so hard my knuckles were white. When did he become like this? Where was the boy next door who used to sneak me candy? That night, he had held my hand and taken me out to look at the stars. He’d cover my head with his warm palm. He’d kiss my forehead. He would say: “Avery, I’m going to take care of you, always.” So why was it that the next day, every public bulletin board in the city was covered with my naked body? Mr. Pierce thought Rhys was displeased and yanked me back. “If this one isn’t to your taste, Mr. Rhys, I’ll arrange someone else immediately.” Rhys swirled his wine glass, his expression unreadable. “I have a fiancée.” Mr. Pierce thought he’d misread the situation and quickly started pushing me out. “It’s fine, let her stay.” “I hear she’s been with you many times. It might be entertaining to keep her around.” Rhys remained impassive. Mr. Pierce chuckled awkwardly, pulling me close to him. To ease the sudden tension, Mr. Pierce rubbed his hands together and asked, “Mr. Rhys’s fiancée… she must be very beautiful.” “Yes,” Rhys took a sip of wine. “Very beautiful. Elegant. And the most important thing is, she’s clean.” Rhys’s gaze flickered toward me. Everyone in the room understood immediately. The man they called the Devil of Manhattan Finance had history with the low-class streamer. Mr. Pierce was terrified, not daring to breathe. The others quickly shifted the conversation elsewhere. Rhys listened distractedly, his eyes occasionally sweeping over me. I pressed myself against Mr. Pierce, pouring and drinking glass after glass of wine with him. Finally, Rhys couldn’t stand it. He stood up and walked toward me. The crisp, cold scent of his cologne—a scent he never used to wear—pricked my nose. “Three years, Miss Marsh. Don’t you recognize me?” “Or have you been with too many men lately to keep track?” The bluntness of his words caused the men around us to gasp before quickly covering their mouths. He reached out, his long fingers pinching my chin, forcing me to look up. “Mr. Rhys, I—” I tried to pull away, but his grip tightened. “Are you really that desperate for money?” He pulled a check from his pocket and lightly slipped it down into the cleavage of my dress. “Is Liam dead? Why isn’t he stopping you from selling yourself?” 3 The check, still warm from Rhys’s body, pressed against my skin. Before it could fall, I raised my hand and held it in place. “Thank you for the tip, Mr. Rhys.” I smiled, my eyes curving, and expertly pulled the check out. In front of everyone, I folded it neatly and tucked it back into my bra— The atmosphere turned unnerving. Mr. Pierce was dripping with cold sweat, and the others didn’t dare make a sound. The revulsion in Rhys’s eyes overflowed, his voice dripping with scorn. “It seems you’ve had plenty of practice.” He curled his lip in mockery and sat back down in the shadow. “Since Miss Marsh loves money so much, Mr. Pierce, why don’t we make this more interesting?” Mr. Pierce stammered nervously. “Mr. Rhys, you mean…” Rhys lit a cigarette, the flame flickering between his fingers. “Miss Marsh has her prices listed in her stream, doesn’t she?” He blew a cloud of smoke, looking at me through the white haze. “Tonight, in this room, the rules are the same.” “For every man here you entertain tonight, I will personally give you ten thousand dollars.” “How much you make is entirely up to Miss Marsh’s ability.” The momentary silence in the room was followed by a burst of wild, hungry excitement. The men’s eyes traveled over my body with greedy intent. Ten thousand. What an alluring number. Ten thousand dollars, and I could buy my mother—who’d had her leg broken by my father while protecting me—a motorized wheelchair. One hundred thousand dollars, and I could extend my brother’s life for another year. I looked around the room at the group of greasy middle-aged men, swallowed the last of my red wine, and spoke in a voice that was both sweet and cloying. “Ten thousand?” “You wouldn’t lie to me, Mr. Rhys. Is the money… paid in cash tonight?” Rhys’s hand, clutching the wine glass, tightened sharply, the veins on the back of his hand throbbing. He probably hadn’t imagined anyone could be this willing to degrade themselves. “Cash.” He gritted the word out. “Then I accept.” I stood up, and right in front of Rhys, I undid the button on the side of my dress. The light in the room was dim, but I could feel their clammy, foul-smelling hands landing on my shoulders—a mix of stale tobacco and alcohol. Another hand rested on my waist, slowly moving up to cup my chest. A third hand reached to pull off my high heels. … I closed my eyes, repeating the numbers in my mind. Ten thousand, twenty thousand. Rhys sat there, unmoving, the cigarette cold in his hand. He watched the indecent farce from the shadows, his eyes full of overflowing disgust that finally solidified into a torrent of rage. Half an hour later, the sordid party in the private room ended. The men left, satisfied and laughing. The floor was littered with scattered bottles and shredded paper. I lay collapsed on the carpet, my dress ripped almost entirely off, one high heel missing. A stocking had been peeled off and stuffed into a wine glass. My skirt was hiked up, revealing my lacy, suggestive underwear. Wretched and ruined, I was like a discarded bag of trash. But I was clutching a thick wad of cash in my hand. The room emptied quickly, leaving only Rhys. After a long silence, he finally walked toward me, looking down. “Avery Marsh, you truly are a spectacle.” As he spoke, he raised his foot and deliberately crushed it down on the hand I was using to try and pull my skirt down over my underwear. “Why are you acting embarrassed? Do you have any shame left at all?” “Three years ago, when I sent those pictures out, I felt a flicker of guilt.” He scoffed, the contempt clear in his voice. “Now, I see I wasted my regret.” “A whore rotten to the core like you doesn’t deserve pity.” He lifted his foot and tossed the last banknote onto my face. “Take your dirty money and get out.” The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the private room. I picked up the bills one by one, counting them carefully. One hundred thousand.

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It was New Year’s Day, and my parents were enjoying the holiday quietly. Our next-door neighbor, little Lily, came over to play. I went straight for the treat my mom, Julia, had bought—a beautiful, frosted raspberry mousse cake—and offered her a slice. I never imagined that one bite would send her into anaphylactic shock. By the time we rushed her to the hospital, it was too late. She was gone. Because I was under fourteen, the court ruled it an accident, and I wasn’t formally charged. But my parents, David and Julia, were left with a crushing, massive settlement to pay. My dad took on three jobs, hustling day and night to cover the debt. He was killed in a delivery truck crash late one cold night. My mom, unable to bear the shock and the grief, suffered a sudden heart attack and died almost immediately. In a single, agonizing instant, I became an orphan, a cursed child, a jinx. Everyone pointed fingers. Neighbors spit on the sidewalk when I passed. Eventually, I starved to death, alone in our tiny, empty apartment. Then, I opened my eyes. I was back. Back to New Year’s Day. The first thing I did was snatch the raspberry cake from the counter and destroy it, shoving the wreckage deep into the kitchen trash bin. I needed it gone. But Lily still died in my house. 1 “Maya, that cake looks so yummy!” Lily reached out, tiny fingers brushing the edge of the slice I was holding—the very slice I had just cut for her, a piece of the doomed dessert. My heart hammered against my ribs, a trapped bird desperate to escape. I watched her hand move toward her mouth in sickening slow motion, fear paralyzing me for a split second. Then, I reacted. I screamed, my hand lashing out, sending the plate—cake, fork, and all—flying across the kitchen and onto the floor. Lily stared at the mess, her innocent, round face crumpling in confusion and hurt. She looked like she was seconds away from a full-blown cry. “It—It’s bad!” I stammered, my voice strained and panicked. “That cake is spoiled. I have to throw it away right now.” I practically shoved her out of the kitchen, frantically sweeping up the ruined mousse and crumbs, stuffing everything into a trash bag. That cake. In my previous life, it had been the catalyst for absolute ruin. Lily’s allergy, the wrongful death, the crippling financial despair that killed my parents—all of it flowed from that one dessert. After the legal proceedings, when I was deemed only partially responsible for the accident, her parents—shattered by the loss of their only child—had focused all their venom and grief on us. They swore they would kill me to avenge Lily. My parents had been forced to sell our home, our stable, comfortable life, to pay them off and, essentially, to buy my safety. We moved to a cramped, single-room rental unit. I remembered the smell of exhaust and cheap cleaning supplies in that tiny space. I remembered my father’s haunted eyes as he left for his third shift, trying to provide the life I thought I deserved. And I remembered the silence after they were both gone, the pervasive sense that the entire world saw me as a murderer, a plague. I was isolated, tormented at school by classmates who called me a killer. I had simply given up, wasting away next to my parents’ ashes, dying of my own accord. But now, I was back. I had to stop it. I tightly sealed the trash bag and hurried downstairs, dumping it into the massive, industrial bin behind our condo building, slamming the lid down with a furious, final heave. The immense stone that had been crushing my chest for five years—the guilt and the fear—finally seemed to shift. It’s over, I thought, letting out a shaky breath. The cycle is broken. My family is safe this time. I ran back upstairs, practically flying into the apartment. But as I walked into the living room, my relief evaporated, replaced by a cold, stomach-lurching terror. Lily was on the floor. Her face was puffy and scarlet. Her small body was racked with violent, unnatural spasms, and she was clearly struggling for air, wheezing and choking. It was the exact, horrifying tableau I had witnessed five years ago, the exact symptoms of a severe allergic reaction after eating the raspberry cake. But… how? I had destroyed all the evidence. I hadn’t given her anything. Frozen in sheer disbelief for a heartbeat, I then snapped to consciousness, a shrill, desperate scream tearing from my throat. The next moments mirrored the past with nightmarish accuracy. Lily’s mom, Veronica, burst through the door. A hysterical call to 911. The sirens. The sterile, fluorescent lights of the hospital. The doctor’s grave, weary face as he delivered the same, crushing news: Lily was gone, a severe allergic reaction, too late. Veronica lunged at me, grabbing my neck with a frantic, desperate strength. “You! It’s you again! You killed my daughter! I want you to pay for this, you hear me? Pay!” Her hands tightened. I couldn’t breathe. For a frightening moment, I couldn’t tell if I had truly been reborn or if the guilt and terror had simply driven me insane, forcing me to relive the nightmare. Then my mother, Julia, and my father, David, rushed in, pulling Veronica away. They wrapped me in their protective embrace, offering endless, useless apologies. Seeing my parents—alive, whole, and still unburdened by the sorrow lines that would soon etch their faces—brought me back to reality. My voice, though weak, was firm. “Lily wasn’t killed by me.” 2 Veronica shrieked, pointing a furious finger at me over my mother’s shoulder. “You vicious brat! You think you can just lie your way out of this? She was fine this morning! She came to your house, and ten minutes later, she’s in an ambulance! Don’t tell me you didn’t do it!” Her face was twisted with pain and rage. “You’re a monster! You took my daughter’s life, and now you’re going to give yours up in return!” She was completely unhinged, looking ready to tear me limb from limb. My dad stood like a wall, shielding me completely. I quickly turned to my mother. “Mom, please, call the police. Now.” I knew Lily’s father, Mark, would be even less rational than Veronica when he arrived. In the past, my parents, believing I was responsible for an accidental death, had only offered silent apologies, enduring the onslaught of verbal abuse and physical threats. I couldn’t let that happen again. I wouldn’t let them be hurt this time. The police arrived swiftly. A couple of officers managed to contain the volatile scene. I took a deep breath, trying to steady the frantic tremor in my hands. “Officers,” I began, my voice clear despite the inner turmoil. “My mom bought a raspberry cake yesterday. This morning, I thought it tasted a little stale, so I took it downstairs and threw it away. I didn’t give Lily anything to eat. I swear. I did not kill Lily.” Veronica’s volume increased, her voice cracking with fury. “She’s lying! She’s a liar! Lily died in her house! You’re all just covering for her! You evil, conniving little beast! You killed my child, and you need to pay!” My mother stepped forward, her face firming with protective resolve, finally finding her voice. “Veronica, what happened to Lily is a tragedy for all of us. But my daughter is not a liar. We believe the police will conduct a fair and thorough investigation to uncover the truth. You need to control yourself.” Veronica immediately turned her rage on my mother. “A fair investigation? You raise a murderer, what does that make you? You people won’t get away with this! You owe my daughter a life!” The situation was spiraling again. The officers quickly intervened, physically separating the two families. The investigation began immediately. One team went to our condo building to pull security footage to verify my story. The other contacted the medical examiner to perform an autopsy on Lily to determine the precise cause of the fatal allergic reaction. Because it was a death involving a minor, the police moved with terrifying speed. Within half a day, the evidence was collected. We sat across from Lily’s parents in the police precinct’s interview room, a tense, suffocating silence filling the air. Detective Miles, the lead officer, activated the screen behind him. It showed the hallway surveillance footage from our building. Lily arriving at 9:10 AM. Me rushing down the stairs with a heavy trash bag at 9:13 AM, my face grim. Me returning at 9:16 AM, looking visibly relieved, only to immediately rush inside, followed by my scream. No one else entered or left our apartment during that time. They also showed a picture of the trash bin, where the destroyed cake was recovered. It was too mangled to determine if a full portion was missing. Veronica, her eyes swollen and red-rimmed from crying, pointed a trembling finger at the screen. “Look! She leaves looking distressed, but when she comes back, she’s relieved! She was covering her tracks! Raspberries aren’t common! I strongly suspect this wasn’t an accident. She deliberately murdered my daughter!” “I did not!” I immediately refuted. “Then why the dramatic change in your face?” Veronica demanded, her voice cutting through the room. “Why the panic before you went down, and the relief after?” I knew my expression was damning. But how could I possibly explain? I was panicking because I thought I had broken the cycle, and I was relieved because I thought I’d saved my parents. Telling them I was reborn would only get me a psychiatric evaluation. My eyes darted toward the medical examiner’s report in Detective Miles’s hand. That was the key. If the report showed no raspberry residue, I was in the clear. Lily’s reaction would be proven to have nothing to do with me or my cake. Detective Miles solemnly opened the file. “The victim’s stomach contents showed trace amounts of raspberry residue,” he read aloud. “This was the primary source that triggered the severe allergic reaction and death…” 3 The roaring in my ears drowned out everything else. Trace amounts of raspberry residue. I searched my memory again, scrutinizing every millisecond of the morning. I was one hundred percent certain Lily had not touched that cake. I had stopped her. I had thrown it away. So, where had the residue come from? The autopsy report had just sealed my fate. It was the definitive proof, the smoking gun. Lily’s parents immediately erupted, screaming, sobbing, demanding justice and retribution. My parents, accepting the inevitable, tried to apologize, pleading for their forgiveness. Dazed, numb, I allowed my parents to lead me home. It wasn’t until my mom, Julia, quietly mentioned selling the condo to cover the new settlement that I fully snapped back. “No! Mom, Dad, you can’t sell the house! Absolutely not!” If we sold the house, the dominoes would fall exactly as before: the tiny apartment, the crushing debt, Dad’s overwork, the accident, Mom’s heart attack. What was the point of being reborn if I just led them to the same tragic end? Mom knelt beside me, stroking my hair. “Sweetheart, when you make a mistake, you have to own it. It was an accident, a terrible one, but Lily died because of something that happened in our home. We have to make it right.” Dad added, “Losing a child is unimaginable. If we don’t compensate them fully, we can’t guarantee your safety. Money can be replaced, Maya. We just need you safe.” I knew they loved me. That love was the very thing I needed to protect. I was adamant. “No! I refuse! You have to believe me. I did not give Lily that cake. I did not kill her.” They exchanged a look of pity and concern, convinced I was trying to avoid responsibility. “Maya, we raised you better than this. It’s okay to admit a mistake. We will face this together,” Dad admonished, his voice strained with worry. “But I’m telling you the truth! Lily’s death has nothing to do with me! She didn’t eat—” My voice hitched as my eyes fell on a decorative doll figurine perched on the living room table. It was a novelty toy, a silly thing I’d bought years ago, intending to use its hidden eye-camera to film my hamster. I’d forgotten all about it. The camera. My mind raced. I knew exactly how Lily died. It wasn’t an accident. It was murder. My parents and I drove back to the precinct, the tiny doll clutched in my hand. When we walked out hours later, I was no longer a suspect. The police immediately launched a full-scale investigation, interviewing Lily’s parents, her teachers, neighbors, and even the cake shop owner. Everyone became a potential suspect. Lily’s parents, outraged by the police’s shift in focus, staged a massive protest right outside the station, accusing us of collusion and bribery. They went straight to the media, appearing on local news channels and posting emotional videos that instantly went viral. They knelt before the cameras, weeping openly and pleading for justice. “Please, help us! Our daughter, Lily, was murdered in our neighbor’s home! Their daughter, Maya, fed her raspberries, knowing she had a deadly allergy!” “The evidence is clear, but they’ve corrupted the police and somehow walked free! Now, absurdly, the police are questioning us, the victims! We adored our daughter! Who are the real monsters here? Is there any justice left in the world?” The online response was immediate and overwhelming. We were swamped by a tide of abuse. “Hell is empty and all the devils are here!” “The parents must be trash to raise a killer like that! Lightning should strike them down!” “The juvenile protection laws protect the guilty! They need to make an example of this demon!” The virtual outcry escalated into a real-world threat. My parents’ workplaces were targeted with malicious reports, forcing them to take immediate leave. Our phones were saturated with hate mail and death threats. Our front door was defaced with violent red spray paint. Every morning, we found grim offerings—funeral wreaths, fake condolence cards, and pictures of my parents and me with black ribbons pasted over them—left on our doorstep. Afraid of being physically attacked by an irrational mob, we huddled together inside the condo. But despite the chaos, I felt a peculiar sense of calm. I knew this living nightmare would soon end. We were in constant communication with Detective Miles, following the investigation. Three days later, the phone rang. Detective Miles’s voice was tight with emotion. “Maya. We found the killer.”

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The third week of the mandated cooling-off period ended, and I rescinded the divorce filing. Eliza and I were officially, sickeningly, back together. She hosted a celebration, inviting a close-knit group of her friends. Three glasses of wine in, someone suggested we play a round of “I’ve Never.” “I’ve never had a spouse cheat on me and then still taken them back for the sake of the marriage—drink up!” Every single eye in the room swiveled to me. Eliza’s smile froze. Her brow furrowed, ready to scold the person who’d spoken. I didn’t react the way I used to—a quick, furious glare or a silent, dramatic exit. Instead, I smiled, raised my glass, and drained it. “It’s all in the past,” I said, the words tasting like ash. Grant, Eliza’s childhood best friend and the elephant in the room, snickered, leaning forward. “My man, you’re seriously whipped. No wonder everyone calls you a walking punchline.” A beat of silence, then a burst of cruel laughter. “Gotta hand it to Eliza, she’s trained him well!” “Seriously, an icon for us ladies, ha ha ha!” Eliza’s friends were exactly as they always were: cold, cutting, and full of contempt for me. She reached out to grab my hand, a gesture of performative comfort, but I shifted just enough to avoid her touch. I shook my head, keeping the smile fixed. It was fine. It truly was fine. All of it was over. Her betrayal, our marriage, the man I used to be—it had all run its course. 1 The game continued. The next person raised a hand, their voice ringing out. “I’ve never done everything a couple does—the trips, the nights, the promises—with someone I wasn’t actually dating. Take a drink if you have!” The words had barely left his lips before all attention snapped back to me. Everyone knew the score. Eliza’s affair had been with Grant. And I, historically, was the kind of person who’d burn down a village just to scorch one enemy. When I first found out about the infidelity, I went nuclear. I almost ruined her law firm’s reputation. They were all waiting, leaning back with a smug, anticipatory thrill, hoping I’d erupt and create a scene for their entertainment. But I didn’t give them what they wanted. I rested my chin on my palm and looked sweetly at the two main characters. “Go on, drink up. Don’t be poor sports.” Grant picked up his glass with a challenging smirk, slid onto Eliza’s lap, and started to lean in for a joint shot. Eliza shoved him off, stood up so fast her chair scraped, and yanked my wrist. She didn’t stop until we were outside, ignoring the calls of her friends echoing behind us. Once we were on the sidewalk, she dropped my arm, her face a storm of annoyance. “What’s with the Mr. Forgiving act? Is this supposed to be charming?” I frowned, genuinely confused by her shift in anger. I pulled a cigarette from my coat and lit it, tilting my head toward her. “Your friends asked the questions to humiliate me. You’re mad at me? Besides, you did those things. Can’t handle the heat?” That last line—Can’t handle the heat?—seemed to trigger something deep. Her eyes went flat and dark. She had used those exact words on me the day I discovered her affair. She’d claimed it was a dare, a game she lost, and that the sex was not willing. I had sobbed and screamed at her that day. She’d just impatiently lit a cigarette. “God, are you really that dramatic? It was a lost game, a one-night thing. Why are you making such a big deal out of it?” Back then, I couldn’t understand how Eliza could be so brazenly unremorseful. I demanded a divorce right then, refusing the easy out she offered. But the next day, I understood everything. The reason she could be so calm, so entitled, was simple: she knew I was already hers. I knocked on the doors of her high-rise law firm and knelt on the cold marble floor. “Please, Eliza. Help my dad. Only you can get the verdict overturned.” “I’m begging you.” Eliza’s self-satisfaction was almost blinding. She gently helped me stand up. “Dean, I told you. As long as you stay by my side, I can do anything for you.” She brushed dust off my knee. “I’ll handle the case. All you have to do is promise not to make a scene about Grant again.” My eyes burned, but I swallowed the bitter, metallic taste of my own defeat and nodded. If she could save my father, I would do anything. My mind snapped back to the present. Eliza snatched the cigarette from my lips, threw it to the ground, and crushed it under her heel. She stared at me, then rubbed her temples with an air of deep fatigue. “Fine. You better keep the act going.” She looked past my shoulder, then back at me, a strange expectation in her eyes. “Go home. I need to take Grant back to his place later.” She was waiting for it—the familiar flash of jealousy, the old demand that she choose me over Grant. But she seemed to forget that every time I had argued with her about Grant over the years, she’d been annoyed. “His parents entrusted him to me. Why are you so childish? Can you please stop being so dramatic?” So now, I just nodded. No fuss. I turned and walked toward the street to hail a cab. I could feel her stare burning a hole in my back. Just as I opened the taxi door, I paused and looked back. I caught the brief, hungry flash of hope in her eyes before I spoke. I curved my lips into a thoughtful, solicitous smile. “Get some rest. You have the court session tomorrow. Don’t forget what you promised me.” 2 Her eyes went instantly flat. The small curve of her mouth vanished, and she shot me a venomous glare before turning sharply and going back inside the bar. I didn’t stay. I got in the cab and went straight to the holding facility. The sight of my father behind the glass barrier was a physical punch. My chest tightened until I could barely breathe. He was the same kind, gentle man I remembered. He looked at me, giving a strained, reassuring smile. “It’s alright, Dean. Eliza is one of the top lawyers for cases like this, isn’t she? She’ll help me, right?” He paused, a strange, hollow relief in his eyes. “I don’t regret it, Dean. I actually feel… free.” I looked at the bruises mottling his face, swallowing back the lump in my throat. I nodded repeatedly. “She will, Dad. Eliza will get the verdict overturned.” I choked out the words. “When you’re finally out, we’ll live a good life, okay? A peaceful life.” A peaceful life had been a luxurious, unattainable dream for my father. Since I was a child, my mother had cycled through affairs and subjected my father to relentless emotional and physical abuse. He had filed for divorce countless times, only to be dragged back by her manipulations and threats. The final straw had broken recently: he discovered that my mother had been actively encouraging Eliza to cheat on me, even setting her up with men. “Are you even a mother? You’re telling your daughter-in-law to cheat! Have you no shame?” he’d screamed. “Eliza is not like you! She and Dean are genuinely in love! Stop projecting your toxic garbage onto her!” “You just want her to cheat so you can say you didn’t do anything wrong, that all women are the same! Well, I’m telling you, it’s not happening!” He and my mother got into a violent fight. He slammed the door and left. My mother suffered a massive, fatal heart attack immediately after. The police ruled it intentional manslaughter. Throughout the entire city, only Eliza had the reputation and the skill to overturn the verdict. For that, I agreed to pretend the reconciliation was real. All I had to do now was wait for tomorrow. After my father’s hopeful, shrinking figure disappeared, I lay in the cab all night, unable to sleep. Grant posted a photo to his Instagram—a selfie of him and Eliza in the bar mirror. I thought about it, then tapped the heart icon. A simple like. There was no provocation in the action; I genuinely didn’t love Eliza anymore. But she apparently didn’t see it that way. The phone rang instantly, her voice edged with a strange, hopeful arrogance. “Jealous? Grant was just joking around with that post. If you don’t like it, I’ll tell him to take it down—” “No.” I cut her off gently, my voice calm and soft. “Not jealous, not mad. I know you two are childhood friends. You can be as close as you want.” I added, a polite finality in my tone, “Get some sleep. I’ll see you at the courthouse tomorrow.” I’d blocked her entirely with three simple sentences. Her breathing deepened on the other end of the line. After a long silence, she let out a cold laugh. “Fine.” I raised an eyebrow. I knew she was mad, but I didn’t know why. I was being the perfect husband now. Mature, understanding. I didn’t want to analyze it. I waited until dawn, but Eliza never showed. The hearing was due to start any minute. I frantically called her, but her phone was off. Panicked, I rushed to her law firm, only to overhear words that froze me solid. “Eliza? She left for the courthouse early this morning! The downtown one!” “Her client? It was a Mr. Grant. She pushed aside all her other cases—all of them—just to help Mr. Grant. He claimed he found an object in his takeout and the restaurant refused to pay damages. She wanted to ‘get him justice.’” “Honestly, I think she’s obsessed with Mr. Grant. For someone at her level to take a case like this? It’s completely beneath her. It’ll damage her reputation!” I didn’t hear the rest. I charged out of the office. Just a wall separated the two courtrooms. In one, shouts of triumph: Grant had won. The merchant had been ordered to pay him a $50 compensation. In the other: My father’s lawyer had failed to appear. The initial verdict was upheld—life imprisonment. The despair on his face was agonizingly clear. Our eyes met, and he gave me a small, resigned smile, mouthing the words: “It’s alright, Dean. As long as you’re happy, your father is content.” The officers ushered my dad away, loading him onto the transport bus to the prison. I chased the bus for a few steps, then tripped and fell onto the asphalt. Blood blossomed from my scraped knees. The pain brought tears pouring down my face. “I’m sorry, Dad! Don’t leave me! Dad!” “Woah! Isn’t that the cuck? What are you doing here, buddy?” 3 I spun around. Grant stood there, radiating the smug joy of victory, chin raised, smirking at me. Eliza followed close behind him. She saw me, stopped short, and frowned. “What are you doing here?” I struggled to my feet, my voice shaking uncontrollably. “My father’s trial. Nine o’clock this morning.” My voice was a raw, painful scream in my throat. “Eliza, you promised me! Did you forget?!” She glanced down at her phone, her frown deepening. “Oh. I forgot to tell you. Grant had an emergency case, and I had to help him.” She started toward me, reaching out. “Your dad? Did it wrap up?” “It’s fine, I’ll file an appeal later. I told you, I’ll definitely help you—” SMACK! I swung my hand and slapped her across the face. The sound cracked in the air, catching Eliza completely off guard. Her face went instantly white with fury. “What the hell was that, Dean!” I was swaying, barely able to keep myself upright. I clenched my fists, my nails digging into my palms to anchor me to reality, and forced out a whisper. “A $50 consumer dispute… was more important than my father’s freedom? More important than the man who is now going to jail for the rest of his life?” “Stop being so utterly ridiculous!” Eliza snapped, cutting me off, impatience blazing in her eyes. “What is there to compare?” “Grant was pursuing legal recourse for a genuine grievance. Your father belongs in jail! I’m going out of my way to help you, which is more than you deserve!” The words exploded in my mind, a sonic boom of realization. The woman standing before me, speaking such ugly things, was a stranger. I remembered the day she found out about my dysfunctional, abusive family background. She had held up her finger and sworn a solemn oath to me: “You and your father are the victims, Dean. You have nothing to feel guilty about. I became a lawyer to fight for people exactly like you!” “More than that, you are the man I love. Your father is my father. I will fight tooth and nail for his justice!” But now, she was calling him a man who belongs in jail—all to protect Grant. Grant’s voice cut in, adding fuel to the fire. “Yeah, exactly! Your father should face the consequences! He killed someone!” He sneered. “Like father, like son. You’ll probably do something insane one day, too! You’re terrifying!” “Eliza, don’t help his dad! The mother wouldn’t have cheated or been abusive if the father and son weren’t already messed up, right? They’re the real problem—” CRASH! I launched a kick into Grant’s stomach, sending him sprawling. I went insane, swinging my fists wildly. A second later, a heavy kick slammed into my ribs. I crumpled, clutching my abdomen, and coughed up a spray of blood. Eliza, who had been helping Grant up, froze when she saw the blood pouring from my mouth. She instinctively reached for her phone to call an ambulance, but Grant seized her hand. “Eliza! Don’t fall for it!” He spat the words out. “He probably hid a blood pack in his mouth! He’s trying to guilt you, the same tricks his dad used!” “His dad sold the family home and borrowed money to fund your firm, didn’t he? It was all manipulative! That whole family is twisted!” I gritted my teeth, lifting my bloodshot eyes. I watched as Eliza slowly withdrew her hands. She looked down at me, her expression cold and remote. “Grant is right. You shouldn’t have hit him.” She didn’t offer a hand. “Go cool off, Dean. When you’re ready to apologize to Grant, I’ll reconsider your father’s appeal.” “Otherwise? Let him stay in jail for life.” The physical pain, coupled with the crushing emotional impact of her words, was too much. As they walked away, side-by-side, I blacked out. When I woke, a kind stranger had brought me to the hospital. Punctured lung. I was lucky to be alive. The phone vibrated. I answered, and in that instant, I wished I had died instead. 4 I dragged my fragile, aching body out of the cab. By the time I arrived, my father’s body had already been transferred to the crematorium. The lead officer regretfully explained the details to me. “He jumped from the transport vehicle on the way to the prison. A truck hit him instantly.” “He died on impact. Couldn’t be saved.” The officer paused, her face heavy with sorrow. “Your father spoke with us just before we left. He said he didn’t regret arguing with your mother that day, because at least it guaranteed your happiness.” “He also said… he hoped you and your wife would be happy together. That he was very content.” Legally, the police didn’t have to tell me any of this. But my father’s case had been highly publicized, and the public—including this officer—was largely on his side. She looked at me with deep pity and told me to accept my sorrow. I stood there, rigid, holding the box of ashes still warm from the furnace. My throat was squeezed shut, unable to produce a sound or swallow a single tear. The tears fell, hot and silent. I completed all the paperwork for his death, numbly carrying the heavy box out. I had barely reached the corner when I heard Grant’s voice, a screech of rage. “Dean! Did you do this?!” “How did you know I lied about the takeout contamination? How did you know I always returned clothes without taking the tags off? You exposed me, didn’t you?!” “Now all the merchants are coming after me for compensation! You think this will ruin me?!” “I’m telling you, it won’t work! Eliza will defend me! She’ll take the case for free, even if she has to pay me to do it!” “You want me to lose? Never!” He shoved me hard. The cardboard box flew from my grasp and hit the pavement. The ashes spilled, mixing instantly with a patch of rainwater. He lunged, planting his heel down, twisting and grinding my father’s remains into the dirt while cursing me to hell. Eliza stood nearby, watching his monstrous actions without interference. She was looking at me with a profound, bitter disappointment, her voice laced with disgust. “Dean, how did you become like this?” “You told me you understood my career, my ethics! Why are you using these low-class, trashy tactics to bully Grant?” “You used to be dramatic in the open! You never stooped to this underhanded garbage! It makes me sick!” I stared at the barely concealed triumph on Grant’s face and understood everything. He’d done it on purpose. But I didn’t expose him. I just reached into my jacket, pulled out the divorce papers I’d prepared weeks ago, and held them out. “Then sign it. We’re getting divorced.” “If we stay married, I’ll just keep using these ‘trashy’ methods to mess with Grant. You don’t want to see that, do you?” The quiet finality in my eyes seemed to stab her. She hesitated for a moment. Then, she composed herself, tore the papers to shreds, and laughed coldly. “You think it’s that easy to leave?” “Unless you publicly apologize to Grant and clear his name, I will never sign those papers! You have to pay for your actions!” “Of course, you can sue me, but you should know—” “I’m the lawyer, Dean.” The threat in her voice was stark, her gaze utterly certain of her advantage. My heart was numb, my body devoid of feeling. I looked down at the ashes that were now just a paste of mud and sorrow, and I smiled. “Alright.” “Let’s find out.” I carefully scooped up what little I could of the ashes, turned, and walked away. As I walked, I pulled out my phone and sent a text to my childhood friend and former lawyer rival, Mia, who had just returned from overseas. “Send me your location. I’m on my way.”

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The breaking news segment on Global News was interviewing a female war correspondent. Clad in her tactical vest, she spoke softly about the man who was her anchor, the love who gave her courage—a physician with Doctors Without Borders. She described how he’d cross front lines for a fleeting moment together. Whenever her return was uncertain, he’d wait for her at the airport. The longest stretch? Three full months. I was mesmerized, swept away by the sheer cinematic romance of it all. Love in a war zone. Then I saw her again, late the night before my own wedding. Her eyes were red-rimmed. She whispered her farewell to the camera: “You called me the courage you risked everything for… but I lacked the nerve to make you stay.” A faint, sad smile. “Still, I have no regrets. We owned each other’s entire youth.” That was the moment her phone screen flashed on, an accidental slip of her thumb. And the image on her lock screen, the man kissing her—it was my fiancé. My groom-to-be. 1 Across the room, my blood didn’t just run cold; it froze solid. I turned my head, slow motion, toward the profile sleeping on the pillow next to mine. The identical brow, the same faint crease at the corner of his mouth. The exact same impossible profession. It had to be Ronan. Who else? But how? Ronan was the gold standard of modern manhood. Everyone said so. He was the man who, on a rainy day, would carry me a full city block just to keep the tiniest drop of mud off my shoes. When my cycle hit, he didn’t spout platitudes about ‘drinking more tea.’ He’d just quietly cup my lower abdomen with his warm hand and silently take over every chore in the apartment. For one desperate, ridiculous second, I wondered if he had a long-lost, never-mentioned identical twin. I spent the rest of the night on the phone, calling every relative, every friend, the wedding planner, citing an urgent work crisis to postpone the wedding. I couldn’t, wouldn’t, smash three years of our life together based only on one photograph and a couple of tearful lines of confession. Not yet. My best friend, Dee, heard the tremor in my voice. “Anya, did you and Ronan have a fight?” “No,” I hesitated, then decided to tell her everything. As a seasoned journalist herself, she was exactly the kind of person who could help me. After hearing the whole story, Dee was silent for a long moment. Finally, she said, soft but firm, “Don’t worry. I will find out the truth.” We shared the bed that night, but we were a world apart. The moment Ronan woke up, he wrapped his arms around me, the softest edge of his voice laced with sleep. “My bride is going to be the most beautiful woman in the city today, I guarantee it.” I slipped out of his embrace subtly, my eyes drifting to the landscape oil painting he’d hung on the wall. I couldn’t help but ask, “When will you paint me, Ronan?” He rubbed his early morning stubble against my cheek. “Babe, I told you, I only do landscapes. I don’t do portraits.” A dull ache pressed in my chest. I remembered the interview. Sierra—that was the correspondent’s name—had shown the camera her lover’s collection. One hundred and ninety-nine paintings. Every single one of them was a portrait of her. The backdrops spanned from their hazy college days to the smoking craters of a combat zone. My voice came out brittle. “My unit just called in an emergency deployment. We have to postpone the wedding.” Ronan and I had met while I was deployed and he was a military medic. Now, the thought struck me: had he left the Army, become a Doctors Without Borders physician, and gone overseas just to be near Sierra? If that was true, why was he marrying me? Ronan’s throat worked a few times. “Honey, I know how important your job is, but couldn’t we just…” I cut him off. “I’ve already notified everyone. It’s moved to next week.” Hearing it was only a week’s delay, Ronan visibly relaxed. He turned and headed to the kitchen to make breakfast, his usual considerate routine. Watching his familiar, attentive figure, I suddenly asked, the words barely a breath, “If I were killed in action, would you be sad?” The motion of his hands stilled immediately. He turned to me, his gaze solid and earnest. “If you were killed, I wouldn’t last long on my own. I’d follow you to the end.” Without the context of that interview, I would have thrown my arms around him and kissed him right then. But now, I simply watched him. “Do you know Sierra?” A look I had never seen before—pure, gut-shot panic—flickered across Ronan’s face. He seemed poised to deny it, but finally, he just nodded. Even with the icy dread already gripping me, the confirmation was like falling through a sheet of ice. After a long pause, I forced the words out. “So, what she said about you two being together… is it true?” “No!” Ronan gripped my hands, his own tense and shaking. “Where did you hear that? Sierra and I were just college classmates.” He rushed the words. “If there was anything ‘special,’ it’s that I helped her out. She came from a poor background, and I sponsored her tuition.” Could it truly be Sierra’s own delusion, fueled by gratitude and misplaced affection? But something felt fundamentally wrong. “Ronan, did you become a physician with Doctors Without Borders just to run into her in a combat zone?” He let out a sigh of weary patience, an injured look on his face. “Sweetheart, you’re overthinking this. Yes, Sierra is a correspondent. Yes, we worked in the same country. But the odds of meeting on a battlefield are less than one in a million. Why would I risk my life for a coincidence?” He playfully flicked my nose. “Are you just having pre-wedding jitters? Is that what this is?” I couldn’t find a single crack in his explanation. Maybe it was just my own crazy suspicion. Then, his cell phone rang. A long, unfamiliar international number. He listened for a moment, then rushed out of the apartment, forgetting even to say goodbye. The doubts I’d just managed to suppress surged back. I walked into Ronan’s study, a room I rarely entered. Now, I was possessed, frantically searching, though I didn’t know what I was looking for. The shelves were packed with medical texts, neat and clean. No sign of Sierra anywhere. I almost laughed at my own ridiculous paranoia. Then, I accidentally clipped the oil painting on his desk. My elbow clipped the corner, and the familiar oil painting on his desk crashed to the floor. The sound of the frame snapping was eclipsed by the sound of my own heart flatlining. Because the fall had exposed the canvas’s secret: hidden on the reverse side was a detailed portrait. A portrait of Sierra. I clamped a trembling hand over my mouth to stifle a scream. The man who swore he couldn’t paint people had lied. A cold, sick fury washed over me. Like a maniac, I rushed through the apartment, tearing apart every single canvas. The one over our bed, the one in the hall, the one in the living room—no exceptions. On the back of every single landscape was a hidden portrait of Sierra.

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