The text message popped up the moment I walked in the door after work: “Babe, I sent you that little triple-chocolate cake you love. It just arrived! Open up!” In the first life, I opened the door, didn’t see a thing, and was stabbed to death instantly. In the second life, I didn’t open the door and hid in the closet, but the killer broke the lock, and I died in the closet. In the third life, I scrambled into the basement ventilation shaft. The killer couldn’t find me and left. But the moment I crawled out of the vent, the killer was there, grinning maniacally and raising his dagger. Until my death, I never understood how the killer always managed to find me so precisely. I blinked open my eyes again, and the familiar knocking sounded from outside my door. My first instinct was to slam the deadbolt shut, and I was just about to look for a hiding spot when a layer of pop-up text floated above my head. This hadn’t happened in the first three lives. 【The side character is finally going to die. The Heiress is about to have a double harvest in love and career. This is great!】 【So excited! According to the setup, the side character is just an NPC designed to push The Heiress’s storyline forward. Why can’t she just wait to die gracefully?】 A side character? An NPC? Were they talking about me? I froze for a second. They want me to just wait for death? But why? I was a person made of flesh and blood. I wanted to live! 1 The shock lasted only a few seconds. Snapping out of it, I sprinted into the bathroom, turned the shower on full blast, then grabbed an old, prepaid phone. I threw it onto the sink after hitting play on a few songs I had cached previously. Then, I quickly dove behind the abandoned clawfoot tub in the corner of the storage room. The whole process took less than a minute. Outside the door, the killer, disguised as a delivery driver, began twisting the doorknob. His voice was sickly sweet, carrying a note of deranged intimacy: “Little mouse, are you tucked away? I’m coming in now.” As he finished speaking, the lock clicked open. My nerves instantly tightened. The next second, the door swung inward. A set of light, measured footsteps slowly moved across the living room. In the bathroom, the water was still running, roaring down the drain. The footsteps paused for a moment in the living room and then headed straight for the bathroom. “Hmm, looks like she’s taking a shower.” There was a strange hint of excitement mixed in his tone. The pop-up text above me was still scrolling nonstop: 【OMG, what is the side character doing? Can she stop making futile efforts?】 【So stupid. This killer is the serial murderer from the news. Thirty people in six months, never failed. The side character is so overconfident!】 【But that tub in the storage room is genuinely well-hidden. As long as she doesn’t get reckless and try to run out the front door, she might actually survive this episode. After all, the big iron security door leading outside is already locked!】 I watched the text scroll, my breath catching in my throat. A cold sweat broke out on my back. That had been my original plan. The storage room was right next to the front door. I would lure the killer into the bathroom and then make a break for it. But now, I pressed my hands over my mouth, my body rigid and curled up under the tub, terrified of making the slightest sound. The bathroom door was open. The loud rush of water was unnervingly clear in the quiet apartment. A second later, the water shut off. The man’s voice, trembling with perverse excitement, rang out in the room: “Such an interesting little mouse. I’ve changed my mind. When I find you, I’m going to slice you into little pieces. It might be very tasty boiled in a hot pot.” The bedroom door was pushed open. He was muttering to himself: “Not under the bed, not in the closet, not behind the curtains… Where could she be?” The ghostly voice echoed through the apartment, and the slightly erratic footsteps slowly drew closer to the storage room. I tightly clutched my chest, terrified that my frantic heartbeat would give me away. The footsteps drew nearer to the tub. My heart shot into my throat. A rustling sound came from outside the tub, then the footsteps headed toward the door. “Looks like she’s not here either. Where in the world is she hiding?” The pop-up text paused for a moment, then rapidly scrolled again. 【Holy hell, is she actually going to escape this time? Then what about The Heiress? Boohoo, will the side character go back and steal the heir position from The Heiress? Is The Heiress’s sweet romance going to be ruined?】 【Ugh, refund, refund. I paid to see The Heiress’s sweet romance, not this side character’s awakening. What kind of plot is this?】 In the middle of the frantic scrolling, my phone suddenly vibrated slightly. It was a text from Sierra: “Babe, did you eat the cake yet? I bought it with my Christmas bonus. Got paid and rushed right out to get it. Aren’t you happy?” The vibration of the phone was faint, but the killer, who had just stepped out of the storage room, suddenly turned his head to look at the corner where the tub sat. A strange, eerie smile stretched across his mouth: “Sweetheart, I’m going to find you now!” 2 【The side character is finally getting her just desserts! The money wasn’t wasted!】 【But I have to say, did the side character’s best friend seriously not get bought off—pfft, I mean, seduced by The Heiress’s charm? She always messes up the side character at the crucial moment.】 【Upstairs, are you empathizing with the side character? She’s just an NPC. She’s destined to die tonight. What does her best friend have to do with it? Besides, aren’t all the NPCs here to serve the main character?】 The pop-up text was scrolling fast, but I couldn’t focus on it. The footsteps drew closer, and the killer crouched down, grabbing the edge of the old tub. I was paralyzed with fear, my body trembling slightly, uncontrollably. The next second, the tub was violently flipped over. The bizarre smile on the killer’s face instantly froze. He stared intently at the lonely phone beneath the tub, his eyes deepening with interest. “No one has managed to play games with me this long. Little mouse, I’m getting more and more interested in you. I hope I don’t catch you too quickly.” 【Oh my god, when did the side character get out from under the tub? Where did she hide this time? I was watching the whole time! How did I not notice she wasn’t under the tub?】 【+1. But, suddenly, I kind of like the side character. Can’t a smart, decisive character like her live for a few more episodes?】 【Actually, I saw it. The side character never actually hid under the tub. She just tipped the tub and tossed the phone underneath, hiding herself in the narrow crevice, like a little step, right behind it. That’s a blind spot, so the killer missed it.】 【Seriously? Did the side character know her best friend was in on it from the start?】 That last pop-up guessed the truth. Yes, I knew Sierra was deliberately setting me up from the beginning. In the first life, it was her message that made me drop my guard and open the door. I thought it was my best friend’s love arriving. I didn’t know it was a serial killer coming to take my life. In the second life, I was hiding in the closet. The moment the killer got close, a message from Sierra popped up. In the third life, I barely managed to dodge the killer and crawl into the ventilation shaft. I thought I was saved, but I ran right into the killer waiting for me at the exit. But how did he know, with such precision, that I had climbed into the vent? There was only one possibility: my phone had tracking software installed. And it was just a few days ago that Sierra had ‘accidentally’ cracked my screen. She apologized profusely and took it to the original service center for repair. I only got the phone back today. Looking back, how could there be so many ‘coincidences’ in the world? It had been a calculated ambush targeting me from the start.

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“A thousand dollars. You really didn’t send it?” The team group chat—a bustling Slack channel of forty-seven people—went instantly silent after Brittany tagged me. I was finalizing a quarterly report, and the notification made me pause, a strange, cold feeling blooming in my chest. Brittany followed up instantly: “@Eliza. I gave you a thousand dollars for your wedding, and you couldn’t even reciprocate for mine? That’s not cool, Eliza.” I stared at the screen, and a slow, toxic laugh bubbled up inside me. Three months ago, she got married. I transferred the money—a full thousand dollars. She confirmed receipt. Now, she was claiming I hadn’t. Interesting. I didn’t reply. I minimized Slack and opened my bank app. September 15th, 2024, 2:47 p.m. I remembered the exact time and date. 1 The notifications on Slack kept flashing. “Brittany, don’t be mad, maybe Eliza just forgot.” “Yeah, we’re all colleagues, a friendly reminder is enough.” “Eliza is usually so quiet. She doesn’t seem like the kind of person who’d do that…” I watched the messages scroll up. Not a single person asked a simple question: Is there a misunderstanding? Brittany posted another message: “It’s fine, it’s not like I desperately need the cash. I just believe in integrity. Some people seem nice on the surface, but you only see their true colors when money is involved.” I gripped my phone tightly. Three months ago. September 15th. Her wedding. I remembered it so clearly. That afternoon, I’d received the digital invite while sitting at my desk. I thought about it, then sent the money: $1,000. It was exactly one-quarter of my monthly salary. When I sent the Venmo transfer, I even wrote a little note: Congrats on the big day! She replied immediately: Got it, thanks, sweetie! I’d even screenshotted the exchange to show my mother, who commented on how convenient digital gifts were nowadays. Only three months had passed. How could she have forgotten? I pulled up our chat history. The September 15th exchange was right there. The transfer receipt, her instant, enthusiastic confirmation—all present and accounted for. I looked at the little heart emoji she’d used, then back at the ugly messages filling the team chat. Brittany’s newest post: “I don’t want to make this awkward, Eliza, but you really owe everyone an explanation.” I took a deep breath. An explanation? Fine. I was about to capture the screenshot and drop it into the chat when the office door opened. “Eliza, Ms. Reyes needs to see you.” It was Mia from Admin. I put my phone away and stood up. As I walked toward the door, I heard the quiet, conspiratorial whispers behind me: “Did she really not send it?” “I don’t know, but Brittany wouldn’t lie in the group chat…” “A thousand dollars, though. That’s not exactly pocket change.” I didn’t turn around. Ms. Reyes needed me to prepare materials for next month’s project presentation. I sat in her office, listening to her talk for ten minutes, my mind a blank loop of the messages I’d just read. When I came out, it was nearly quitting time. I returned to my desk and checked my phone. The chat had exploded with dozens more messages. All about me. “Where is Eliza? Why isn’t she saying anything?” “Is she feeling guilty?” “I think she needs to address this, honestly.” Brittany’s latest comment: “Look, I don’t want to cause drama. Everyone, please just log off and enjoy your evening. Don’t let this ruin the office atmosphere.” That was a beautiful performance. Sanctimonious and slick. I scrolled down and saw a private message. It was from Brittany. “Eliza, I know you might be having difficulties, but at least reply to me. Going silent like this makes me look bad.” I stared at the message for a long time. Difficulties? What difficulties did I have? I sent the money, you received it, and you confirmed receipt. Now you’re saying I didn’t. Who was making whom look bad? I didn’t reply. I opened my phone’s photo folder and found the original screenshot. The one showing the $1,000 transfer and her reply: Got it, thanks, sweetie! I then took a clean screenshot of the bank transfer record: September 15th, 2024, 2:47:23 p.m. Recipient: Brittany Miller. Amount: $1,000. I saved both images. Then I locked my phone, gathered my things, and left. By the time I walked out of the company doors, the sky was dark. Standing at the bus stop, waiting for the Route 43, my mind kept circling the same question. Why would she do this? Why lie about receiving the money when she clearly had the record? Could it really be a system error? Impossible. The bank record was there. The chat confirmation was there. She was doing this on purpose. But why target me? It didn’t make sense. The bus arrived. I got on and found a window seat. The streetlights blurred as we drove past. Then, I remembered something. Last month, when Owen and I got married. Brittany had sent $750. $250 less than I’d given her. I hadn’t thought anything of it at the time. Everyone’s financial situation is different. But now… Did she feel like she’d lost money? I gave $1,000, and she only gave $750. Did she feel slighted, and this was her way of evening the score—by simply claiming she never received my money at all? When the thought surfaced, even I was shocked by its pettiness. But the more I thought about it, the more plausible it seemed. Some people’s logic truly defied understanding. I got off the bus and walked home. My phone vibrated again. The team chat. Brittany had posted: Let’s put today’s issue behind us. I don’t want to bring it up again. I hope this won’t affect the positive work environment. Beneath it, a chorus of replies: “Got it,” “Don’t worry about it,” “Brittany, don’t take it to heart.” I looked at the messages, a cold stone settling in my stomach. I was the one who had been wronged. But she was the one receiving all the sympathy. I didn’t post anything. I knew that if I released the screenshots now, it would cause utter chaos. But I didn’t want to act impulsively. I wanted to wait and see how far she was willing to take this performance. When I got home, Owen had already made dinner. “What’s wrong? You look pale.” I handed him my phone. He glanced at the chat, a frown creasing his forehead. “Is she crazy? You clearly sent it.” “She says she didn’t receive it.” “Don’t you have proof?” “I do.” “Then what are you waiting for?” He handed the phone back. “Post the screenshots and shut her down.” I shook my head. “Not yet.” “Wait for what?” I looked out at the dark evening sky. “Wait for her to make another mistake.” 2 The next morning, the office atmosphere was subtle but pervasive. The way my colleagues looked at me… it was a clinical examination. I sat down at my desk, trying to appear unbothered, and logged into my computer. Brittany arrived later than I did. She paused deliberately as she passed my desk. “Eliza,” she leaned in, lowering her voice, “have you decided what you’re going to do about yesterday?” I looked up at her. Her face was fixed in a careful expression of “I’m being incredibly gracious right now.” “About what?” I asked. She froze, clearly not expecting that response. “The… the gift money, of course.” She whispered. “If you’re truly having financial trouble, I’m willing to let it go, but you need to at least give me a heads-up.” I smiled faintly. “Brittany, I transferred $1,000, and you confirmed receipt.” Her face flickered. “When did I ever say I received it?” “September 15th, a little after 2:47 p.m.” She blinked, her expression tightening. “Maybe you transferred it to the wrong person, Eliza. I genuinely didn’t receive anything.” I didn’t say anything. I just watched her. My silence made her squirm. She let out a dry, nervous laugh. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not lying. Why don’t you double-check? Did you send it to someone else?” “I checked,” I said. “It was you.” Her smile vanished. “Well… well, maybe it’s a system error. Venmo can sometimes have a delay…” “A three-month delay?” She had no answer. I continued to hold her gaze. She finally avoided my eyes and forced a casual tone: “Fine, fine. It’s just a thousand dollars. It’s not worth destroying our working relationship over. If you really think you sent it, then let’s just drop it. I’ll consider it my loss.” With that, she turned and walked away. I watched her retreating back, a cold satisfaction settling in my gut. Her loss? You took the money, denied it, and now you’re trying to play the benevolent martyr? During the morning meeting, I noticed a few colleagues giving me even stranger looks than before. After the meeting, I headed to the break room for water and heard voices inside. “…Did you hear about Eliza?” “I did. A thousand dollars. She says she sent it; Brittany says she didn’t get it.” “Who do you believe?” “Hard to say… but Brittany doesn’t seem like the type to lie about something so petty.” “Right? Brittany is usually so generous, buying us all coffee and lunch sometimes.” “And Eliza… she’s just so quiet. It’s hard to get a read on her.” I stood by the doorway, gripping the stainless steel handle of the water pitcher. I didn’t go in. Hard to get a read on her? What did that mean? Because I kept to myself, did that automatically make me a liar? I turned back to my desk. Just before closing time, the chat lit up again. Brittany posted: I talked to Eliza today. She insists she sent the money, but I still haven’t seen it. It must be some system glitch. Let’s just move on. No more discussion, please. The replies rolled in: “Good call,” “Brittany, you’re too big-hearted,” “Some things are just impossible to prove.” I stared at the screen, my fingers hovering over the keyboard. I typed a few words, then deleted them. Not the time. I opened a private chat with Sarah, an older colleague in Admin. Sarah, got a minute to chat? Sarah was close to Brittany, but she hadn’t said anything in the group chat yesterday. And this morning, the way she looked at me… it wasn’t scrutiny; it was like she was trying to tell me something. Sarah replied quickly: After work. Break room. After work, I met her in the quiet break room. She was holding a mug of coffee. “Eliza,” she glanced around, lowering her voice. “That whole thing… did you really send the money?” “I did,” I said. “$1,000, Venmo, September 15th.” She was silent for a moment. “Do you have the record?” “Yes.” Another stretch of silence. I watched her expression and asked abruptly, “Sarah, do you know something I don’t?” The coffee mug in her hand shook slightly. “I…” “Tell me,” I pressed. She looked down, as if making a difficult decision. Finally, she looked up and whispered, “Eliza, I don’t know all the details, but… Brittany owes me money, too.” My heart skipped a beat. “When?” “Last month, just before your wedding. She said she was dealing with a temporary cash flow problem. She borrowed $400.” “Did she pay it back?” She offered a wry smile. “No. I mentioned it once, and she said, ‘I’m a little tight right now, maybe next month.’ I didn’t feel comfortable pushing her again.” It clicked. That was the reason for the hesitation in her eyes. “Sarah,” I looked at her directly. “If I need you to back me up, would you say something?” She hesitated, then nodded slightly. “I’ll see how things develop.” I didn’t push her. I understood her position. In the office hierarchy, no one wanted to make enemies. But now I knew one crucial thing. Brittany didn’t just owe me. 3. The Slack chat was quiet for the next few days. But the office atmosphere remained tense. I could feel the faint, invisible currents of people whispering about me. It was an isolating, uncomfortable feeling, like being watched by unseen eyes. Friday afternoon, Brittany sent a group Venmo request. “Happy Weekend, grab yourself a coffee on me~” It was a small amount, perhaps fifty cents each. The chat filled with replies: “Thanks, Brittany!” “You’re the best!” “So generous!” I didn’t accept the money. It wasn’t about the fifty cents. It was the sight of her name, the false magnanimity, that made me sick. That weekend, Owen and I went to the mall. In the elevator, I bumped into another colleague, Veronica, from the Finance department. We didn’t usually interact much. She saw me, paused, and then gave me a forced smile. “Eliza, shopping?” “Hi, Veronica. You, too?” She nodded, glancing at Owen standing next to me. “This must be your husband. The one who got married last month?” “Yes.” “Oh, congratulations.” She leaned in, lowering her voice. “Eliza, about… the Brittany thing. I heard.” My heart sank. “Veronica, that whole mess…” “I know, I know,” she waved a hand dismissively. “I’m not here to judge you. It’s just… well, take it from me, don’t take Brittany too seriously.” “What do you mean?” She checked around the elevator, then moved closer. “She borrowed money from me, too. Five hundred dollars. Still hasn’t paid it back. I mentioned it once, and she said, ‘Are you in desperate need of it? If not, I’ll pay you back next month.’ What could I say? I told her no, I wasn’t desperate.” I just stared at her, absorbing this new information. “And that time we had the department dinner,” Veronica continued. “It was supposed to be AA. She claimed an emergency and left early, promising to send the money later. Never did.” “How much was her share?” “Sixty dollars.” I did the mental calculation quickly. Sarah: $400. Veronica: $250 + $60 = $310. Plus my $1,000. Total I know of: $1,710. I will hold the last person’s debt for the later chapter to mirror the original plot structure. This was only what I knew. How many other people had she “borrowed” from and were too embarrassed to speak up? “Veronica,” I said, looking at her. “If I needed your help…” “What are you planning?” she asked, suddenly alert. “To tell the truth.” I said. “I sent $1,000. She received it and confirmed it. Now she’s denying it.” Veronica was silent for a moment. “Do you have proof?” “I do.” “Then why haven’t you posted it?” “The timing wasn’t right.” She looked at me, her expression complex. “Eliza, think this through. Blowing this up won’t be good for you, either.” “I know.” “In the office, sometimes it’s better to just take the loss and move on.” “I know,” I said. “But this isn’t about the money anymore.” She sighed. “It’s your call.” On Monday, I noticed a distinct change in Brittany’s behavior. She stopped seeking me out for her faux-sympathetic talks. She stopped posting passive-aggressive messages in the main chat. Instead, she started spreading gossip behind my back. I heard it from Sarah. “Brittany is telling people you’re too ‘petty’ and ‘high-maintenance’ for blowing a thousand dollars into a huge scene,” Sarah whispered to me. “She also said you’ve always been antisocial and never participate in team activities.” I let out a cold laugh. Petty? Antisocial? She received the money and denied it, and now I was the problem? “What else did she say?” Sarah hesitated. “She said… she said you’re manipulative and two-faced. That you pretend to be quiet and reserved, but you’re secretly calculating.” I tightened my grip on my pen. Calculating. Good. I was about to respond when my phone buzzed. A message from Brittany. I opened it. It was a screenshot. It was a message she had posted in another group chat—one I wasn’t a part of. “Eliza is seriously strange. She won’t let go of this thousand-dollar thing. I told her it must be a system error, but she refuses to believe me. Some people are just like this: they look innocent, but they’re incredibly sneaky and hold a serious grudge.” Someone replied beneath: “Yeah, you can’t trust the quiet ones.” Another: “Brittany, don’t let her get to you.” I stared at the screenshot, my hand trembling. Not from anger. From a deep, chilling clarity. Was this a power play? A warning? I didn’t reply. I opened my photo album and looked at the two screenshots I’d saved. The transfer record. Her confirmation. Was it enough? No. I wanted her defeat to be absolute.

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When I filed for divorce, Damon Maxwell was playing with a scrap of lace his latest fling had sent him, a cheap, brazen gesture of affection. He typed out the hotel room number, sent it, and then glanced at the paperwork. “Making a big production out of it this time, aren’t we, Your Majesty?” I spoke calmly: “I haven’t touched the accounts you set up. I’m waiving claim to the house and the cars. I’ve already sent the paperwork to your lawyer.” He froze for a beat or two, still operating under the assumption that this was another tantrum. “Waiving everything?” “Then what do you want, Serena? My fidelity?” “Sweetheart, I’ve always been clear. You’re the main event, the love of my life. But exclusivity? That’s just… boring.” He held out a tissue, assuming I would dissolve into tears, the way I always had. My heart would break, and the waterworks would begin. But I just shook my head. I had stopped wanting Damon’s fidelity a long time ago. Now, I just wanted a clean slate. 1 Damon raised an eyebrow, the look of surprise quickly fading. “Right. Seven years, I guess you’re past the age of getting hysterical over a few passing interests.” “Let me guess. This is about me missing your prenatal appointment yesterday, isn’t it?” He chuckled softly, reaching to stroke my small bump. “Wife, you’re blaming the wrong man. You won’t believe the firecracker I’ve been dealing with this week. Hot temper, totally fearless. I had flown down to Miami to pick up your custom jewelry, and she started demanding it. Took me the better part of the day to get her back in line.” My lips went white for a fleeting second. Get her back in line? How exactly had he “gotten her back in line”? He’d spent the day passionately rolling around with someone else, yet he was still using me as the cover story. No wonder that jewelry box had contained a damp pair of underwear mixed in with the tissue paper. “It was just a prenatal check-up. You had four nannies and security. What am I supposed to do, join the waiting room with a bouquet? I’m not a prop.” Seeing my expression remain unchanged, he started to speak again, but a flurry of notification sounds interrupted him. He opened the video message. A breathy, coquettish voice drifted from the phone. “Damon, you’re so slow.” “If you don’t hurry up, I’ll get tired of waiting, and then you’ll have to beg me to come back.” Damon subtly glanced at my face, gauging my reaction. This had happened too many times to count. I was far calmer than I had any right to be. I took a deep breath and lifted my hand, stopping him. A relieved smile spread across Damon’s face. “See? My baby still cares.” “Be good. I’ll be back soon. I promise to cook dinner for you and the little one myself tonight.” “Don’t bother. Just sign the divorce papers first.” “After that, we go our separate ways. No one will be around to police your promiscuity anymore.” Damon’s arm froze mid-air. After a long moment, he cupped my face. He finally saw the cold detachment in my eyes. When he spoke again, his voice was unintentionally husky: “Serena, there’s a limit to how far you can take a joke.” When I remained silent, he finally began to flip through the divorce agreement. “No house, no car?” “You’re even waiving the money from the funds I set up for you.” He let out a dry, nervous laugh. “You plan to get divorced and go live in some rundown studio apartment, completely broke?” “Serena, you might be willing to suffer, but is the baby willing to suffer with you?” “I’ve obviously protected you too well. You’re still so adorably naive.” I didn’t reply. I wasn’t taking the house or the cars because I had no intention of staying here. The baby? He didn’t know. That little life had already stopped beating on a cold surgical table. “Given the chronic stress and trauma, the loss was a natural selection,” the doctor had said. At that very moment, Damon had been on fire in bed with a mistress. Damon continued, unaware: “Serena, put everything else aside, are you really going to abandon Grandma?” “She has cancer. How many years does she have left? Do you want her to spend her last days worrying about your messy divorce?” It turned out he didn’t know that either. Grandma had already passed. His phone buzzed relentlessly. His mistress was impatient. He scoffed, signing his name with an irritable flourish. “Serena, I don’t believe you’ll actually divorce me.” “I’ll humor you. Consider this part of a weird role-play.” “But tomorrow, you’ll have to visit Grandma alone.” The door slammed shut. I smoothed the papers he’d ruffled and called Mrs. Maxwell. “He signed the divorce agreement.” “Please expedite my transfer application to the Berlin branch.”

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The diagnosis had a name—Cerebral Small Vessel Disease—but to me, it was just the timer on my life. The selective cognitive impairment had done its damage during my teaching assignment, wiping out everything about the person I’d loved the most. Then one day, the past barreled into the present. Beckett Thorne—the ex-boyfriend I’d cruelly walked out on—roared up to the muddy, makeshift schoolhouse in a gleaming, mud-splattered Range Rover. He looked at my chapped, wind-burned face, my rough hands, and let out a laugh that was pure, triumphant venom. “Living out here in the middle of nowhere, smelling of kerosene and dirt. Is this what they call karma, Willow? Payback for chasing money and dumping the guy who couldn’t afford a decent meal?” His eyes narrowed, burning with five years of stored-up malice. “Judging by the look of you, you’re regretting that decision right about now. Come on, beg me to take you back.” I just stared at him, bewildered, my hand still gripping a stack of smeared student papers. “I’m sorry, who are you?” “Faking it? Go on, Willow. Keep the performance going. Five years, and your talent for acting has only gotten sharper.” He kicked a nearby cinder block, sending it skittering into a pile of coal dust. His jaw was so tight I could hear his teeth grind. 1 A spark of understanding lit up my confusion. “Oh! I know…” I rubbed my hands together awkwardly, a little light dawning in my eyes. “Dressed like that, you must be a kind benefactor, here for a donation!” I fumbled away, heading back into the shed we called an office, to grab the ceremonial “Thank You” scroll—made from cheap, faded red construction paper. I carefully shuffled back out, holding the rolled paper like it was solid gold. “Sir,” I said, offering it to him. “This is a certificate of appreciation. Thank you so much for the supplies for the kids.” He stared at the wobbly, handwritten calligraphy on the red paper. “Willow, five years ago, your handwriting didn’t look like chicken scratch. You used to cry in my library because you couldn’t get the lines straight.” The words meant nothing to me. I just shifted the scroll forward again. “Sir? My arm is getting tired.” He let out a harsh, cutting laugh, snatched the paper, and ripped it down the middle with a vicious tear. “You’re playing games, Willow. You had plenty of spine when you told me you were leaving me for the money. Remember that?” Before I could try to explain my confusion, the passenger door of the Range Rover opened. A pair of stiletto heels—gleaming crimson leather—stepped down, crushing the fragments of the ‘Thank You’ scroll. Sienna emerged, pinching her perfect nose with one manicured hand as she surveyed the mud and dilapidation. “This is the place you were talking about, Beckett? Honestly, it smells like a farmyard.” Beckett pulled her against him, resting his hand possessively on her hip, his gaze challenging me. “Look closely, Willow. This is my fiancée, Sienna. Younger. Prettier. Take a good look at yourself. What exactly do you have left to compare to this?” I watched the beautiful woman they called Sienna, then glanced back at Beckett. It made no sense. It had nothing to do with me. I turned away, found a stiff straw broom, and started sweeping up the paper fragments, too busy to deal with this bizarre pair. The paper had soaked into the mud. I had to scrape at it with my fingernail. I whispered a small, familiar mantra to myself: The red paper is lucky. Pieces bring peace. “I can dry it out,” I mumbled. “We can still use the scraps to make art projects for the windows.” Beckett’s breath hitched, loud and ragged. He stormed over and deliberately planted his expensive leather boot right on the paper I was reaching for. “Willow! Do you find this amusing? I am talking to you! Stop playing deaf!” I looked up at his gleaming boots, then back at the ruined paper. What a waste. Sienna saw the storm building in him and fanned her nose exaggeratedly. “It’s a mess, Beckett. I can’t even find a clean spot to stand.” She pointed to a small, worn cloth backpack lying in the road. “Look at this trash. Is this what passes for cleanliness around here?” He barely glanced at it before kicking it violently. “Get this junk out of the road! Is this the quality of your school?” The little bag flew through the air, scattering pencils and tattered notebooks across the mud. “My bookbag!” Little Lily, one of my third graders, burst into tears as she ran up and saw the mess. Right then, Finn charged. He might have the mind of a child, but he’s fiercely protective. “Bad man! Don’t hurt Lily!” Sienna, already wobbly in her stilettos, was knocked off balance by Finn’s desperate shove and pitched headlong into the muck. “My suit!” Sienna shrieked, scrambling to her feet, her face speckled with mud. Beckett completely lost it. He grabbed Finn by the collar, his knuckles cracking as he clenched his fist. “How dare you! A simpleton like you touches my fiancée?” Finn didn’t understand the words, but he understood the malice. His face contorted, and the small hand-axe he used for kindling shot up above his head. If Finn hurt anyone, he’d be locked up for life. I didn’t think. I threw myself forward, wrapping my arms around Finn’s uplifted, axe-gripping arm. “Finn! Stop! Put it down! Listen to me!” The fury in Finn’s eyes slowly dissolved into a wounded whimper. I sagged with relief, then spun back toward Beckett, bowing over and over. “Please, sir, don’t be angry! He’s developmentally disabled—he doesn’t understand! Please, don’t hold it against him, punish me instead!” Beckett’s fury burned hotter seeing me so desperate. “Fine, Willow. You really are something.” He spat the words out. “You’ll throw away your dignity—risk your neck—for a fool, but you wouldn’t do it for me? You were so proud a minute ago, so dismissive.” He laughed, a cold, dangerous sound. Then he turned to his assistant. “Get the convoy on the horn. Lock down the supply truck. Not one pound of grain, not one piece of coal, gets unloaded!” “Since this dump is so ‘noble,’ they can figure out how to survive the winter on moral high ground!” To save the winter supplies, I cleared out the small, single-room barracks I called home. Beckett sat on my rickety cot, layering several old newspapers beneath him in disgust. Sienna fussed with her makeup, complaining constantly. “This place is awful, Beckett. Not even hot water. Let’s just go, I can’t stay another minute.” Beckett ignored Sienna, his eyes locked on me. “You wanted to atone? Go cook.” He pointed to the corner kitchen setup. “It better be edible. Or the supplies stay locked up.” I nodded, turning toward the makeshift kitchen crammed into the corner. All I had was a bag of sprouting potatoes and a half-jar of dried beans. I struggled to get the woodstove going; the smoke burned my eyes and throat, but I kept going. I couldn’t risk a delay. Thirty minutes later, I brought two plates in. Just roasted potatoes. I hadn’t controlled the heat well, and the skins were charred black, like lumps of coal. I placed the plates on the three-legged table, my hands trembling. “Sir, this is all I have… please, just try to eat something.” Sienna gasped, clutching her mouth dramatically. “Oh my God. Is that even human food?” “Willow, are you doing this on purpose? Trying to gross us out with this pig slop?” With a dramatic flourish, she slapped the table, shattering the plates. The charred potatoes tumbled to the muddy floor, picking up dirt and stray straw. “Sir, it’s not pig slop! It’s still good, you can’t waste food!” I crouched down to retrieve a potato. “You think it’s not wasted? If you think it’s so good, you eat it,” Sienna challenged. “Pick it up and eat it right now, and I’ll believe you!” I opened my mouth, lifting the dirty potato toward my lips. A hand shot out, striking my wrist hard, knocking the potato away. It hit the wall and broke apart. Beckett stood over me, his chest heaving. “Are you that pathetic, Willow? Are you really that desperate for those few supplies? You’d eat dirt for money, wouldn’t you?” His shouting made my ears ring. I didn’t understand. He told me to eat it. Why was he angry now that I tried? Moneyed people were impossible to figure out. He took a deep, ragged breath, regaining control. Then he pointed to his boot. “Clean my shoes.” He extended his foot. “If they aren’t spotless, I’m pulling the funds right now.” A tiny smear of potato mud was on his expensive black leather boot. I knelt down, trying to wipe the boot. My hands began to shake uncontrollably. The tremors grew worse. He noticed, but his expression was still cruel. “Willow, when you walked away from me, did you ever imagine this moment? This is your penance.” I pressed my quivering wrists together, trying to stop the tremors. Don’t shake, don’t shake. Please, just hold still. Clean the shoes. The children need the heat. Beckett’s foot suddenly pulled back. “Enough!” He bent down, gripping my chin, forcing me to look up. “Do you remember these boots, Willow?” His voice was thick with repressed emotion. “You told me you’d marry me the day I could afford a pair like this. I knelt in front of you then, swearing I’d make it. Are you thinking about that now, kneeling here?” I desperately tried to focus my eyes, to connect this handsome, angry man with any kind stranger I might have known. The harder I looked, the more foreign his face became. I was terrified of him getting angry and leaving without the supplies. I whispered, “Big Boss… If they’re not clean enough, I’ll start over.” “Big Boss?” His laugh was a choked gasp of disbelief. “We were together for five years. You slept in my bed for five years. And now I’m ‘Big Boss’?” He believed I was using this feigned ignorance to inflict a final, deep wound. He’d have preferred hatred or rage. He grabbed my collar, pulling tight until I choked. “I’m sorry, sir… I truly don’t know you… I just need the coal… please, give us the coal…” I shoved at his chest, desperate to escape. The door slammed open. Finn rushed in. He saw Beckett holding me, saw my pain. “Let go of Ms. Willow!” Finn’s strength was terrifying. His fist connected with Beckett’s face, hard. Beckett stumbled back, a line of blood instantly appearing at his mouth. But Beckett was trained. He recovered instantly, striking Finn with a brutal counter-punch to the stomach. Finn doubled over, collapsing. The bodyguards rushed in, pinning Finn to the ground. Beckett wiped the blood from his lip, his eyes lethal. “You hit me? Perfect. Tie the idiot up! Call the local sheriff! Assault with a deadly weapon—that’s a few years he can spend in a cell!” I didn’t hesitate. I slammed my head against the concrete floor. Hard. “Sir! Please! Don’t arrest him! He’s not responsible! It’s my fault, I should have watched him!” “Please, just let him go! Punish me however you want!” A searing pain shot through my skull. A warm, viscous liquid—blood—traced a line down my forehead, blurring my vision. I didn’t dare wipe it away; I just kept knocking my head. Beckett froze, watching the blood stream down my pale face. His rage didn’t diminish; it became a white-hot fury fueled by my self-sacrifice. “Willow, you are incredible… I knelt in the pouring rain, begging you not to leave, trampling my dignity just for one glance back. And you walked away easily! Now, for this imbecile, you’ll split your head open?” … “You win, Willow… You want to save him?” Beckett’s eyes were raw. “Fine. I’ll give you a chance.” The rain intensified. Beckett stood at the doorway, pointing to the flatbed truck outside, loaded high with coal. Rain hit the black tarp, creating a misty haze. “That’s about three tons of coal.” He looked me straight in the eye. “You. Alone. Move every bag of it into that warehouse.” “If it’s not done before sunrise, the idiot goes to jail, and the supplies are gone.” Finn, gagged and tied, was crying and shaking his head, his tears washing clean tracks in the dirt on his face. I climbed onto the truck, hoisted a heavy sack of coal to my shoulder, and began to move. One bag. Two bags. Three bags… Every step was a fight against gravity and my own failing body. My breath came in short, painful gasps, but I couldn’t stop. If I stop, I won’t get up again. If I stop, Finn goes to jail. If I stop, the children freeze. Beckett stood under the eaves, chain-smoking, his eyes glued to my figure in the downpour. A cigarette burned down to his fingers before he even noticed. Sienna, standing next to him, was starting to look genuinely frightened. “Beckett… maybe that’s enough.” She whispered. “She looks like she’s going to collapse. She could really die out here.” “Shut up. This is an act! She’s trying to manipulate me! She wants me to soften! I won’t!” … I told myself: Just a little further. You can do this, Willow. Almost halfway. Almost… The back of my mind felt like it was being drilled. My limbs grew heavy, numb. I bit the inside of my cheek until I tasted blood, trying to use the pain to stay present. I tried to stand, but my legs wouldn’t obey. My consciousness receded into a dizzying blackness. I crashed, the coal sack landing on top of me, into the mud. The last thing I heard was Finn’s agonizing, muffled scream. … “Willow! Get up! Stop playing dead!” Beckett threw his cigarette and sprinted toward me, cursing under his breath. He saw my ashen face and blue lips and his hands started to tremble. “Willow! Willow!” He scooped me up. As he lifted me, several small, white, unlabeled pill bottles tumbled out of my soaking-wet shirt pocket. They hit the stone path with a sharp, chilling clink.

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The latest episode of The Docket, a legal true-crime series, featured an interview with a hospice worker specializing in psychological counseling for death row inmates. At the end of the segment, the reporter asked him if there was ever a prisoner he couldn’t reach. “I’ve met many who hold onto hope for an appeal, or who deeply regret their choices and wish for a different next life,” he said, his voice measured. “But there was only one inmate who chose immediate execution without hesitation.” “She was an eighteen-year-old girl, and she was once my student. She only said one thing to me.” “‘I never knew that turning love into hate could be so terrifying.’” He showed the reporter the girl’s belongings. “Every inmate leaves a video message for their family, but hers has remained with me. If her family sees this program, I urge them to contact me immediately.” The episode aired, and the online buzz immediately skyrocketed. Some questioned how an eighteen-year-old could so readily embrace death; others condemned the sympathy for a criminal, calling it a secondary injury to the victims’ families. My three older brothers, however, only offered a look of cold disdain before one of them casually muted the television. “Sienna Westlake. Couldn’t even learn to behave in prison. Now she’s colluding with a teacher to put on a show.” “She’s the reason Phoebe is in a wheelchair. I personally handled the defense to secure the death penalty. But I have the plea for leniency drafted. All she has to do is admit her mistake, and she’ll be fine.” “Since she still hasn’t learned her lesson, this month’s visitation is, as usual, denied.” 1 My eldest brother, Carter, was peeling grapes for Phoebe when the interview came on. A man like the CEO of the Westlake Group, who practically operates on a different plane of existence, was meticulously preparing a special, custom-made dish for her. I used to have one, too. Now, it’s sitting on the floor, serving as a dog bowl for Phoebe’s lapdog. My second brother, Rhys, and my third brother, Dean, walked in carrying a selection of gourmet pastries just as the teacher, Dr. Elias Stern, looked into the camera with profound regret. “Perhaps she truly lost the will to live. By the last time I saw her, she was skeletal.” “She was only eighteen, but every time I visited, her eyes were more hollow than the last.” “Initially, she was desperate, constantly applying for family visits. After the seventeenth denial, she simply went silent.” “I only found out later that she had always denied harming anyone since her incarceration. I don’t know why she suddenly chose immediate execution.” “I want to help her. I want to clear her name.” Since the interview was streamed live online, that last statement caused an instant uproar among viewers. Some argued that a death row inmate was just afraid of dying, and that this was more manipulation. The negative comments piled up. The counselor ignored the comments and instead showed the girl’s meager possessions. A solitary butterfly hair clip rested on top of a bloodstained prison uniform. His voice caught slightly. “She was placed in the cell at the end of the corridor, filled with the most hardened criminals.” “Every time I passed by, I heard them holding her head in the toilet, or breaking her shin.” “Her food was routinely laced with scraps of metal; her bedding was thrown into a bucket of slop. She was left to kneel on the floor, night after night.” “I tried to intervene through the glass, but the inmates just said she was being ‘specially taken care of’ and that I should mind my own business.” “I know I have little authority, even though she wasn’t my formal student.” “But I can’t let her last wish go unanswered. I need her family to contact me as soon as possible.” Hearing the details from the hospice worker, the tide of comments began to shift. Some still saw it as a criminal’s just desserts. But others began to dig into the case details: the eighteen-year-old adopted daughter of the Westlake family, in a fit of jealousy, pushed the recently-found true daughter down a flight of stairs, resulting in permanent disability. Then came the questions. Many found the death penalty for intentional injury to be excessively harsh. The amateur investigators dug deeper. They quickly uncovered that the defense attorney who had handled the case was the city’s top, undefeated lawyer—Rhys Westlake, the Westlake family’s second son. Rhys stared at the butterfly hair clip on the screen, his eyebrow twitching. He had bought that for me when he won his very first case. “Carter, what if Sienna really is in trouble?” Dean abruptly shut off the live stream. His voice was dismissive. “Have you forgotten about that whole situation between Sienna and that counselor? She really hasn’t learned her lesson. Maybe I should tell those inmates to be even stricter.” The mention of that incident darkened all three of their faces. Rhys’s brief surge of worry vanished. “You’re right. If she hadn’t been so jealous, I wouldn’t have stepped in to defend the case myself just to punish her. That death sentence is a lesson. I have the plea ready. The second she admits she was wrong, I’ll file it.” Carter wiped his hands and told his assistant to calm the public outrage. “We spoiled her too much over the years. If she wants to put on a show, let her. This month’s visit remains denied.” “She won’t set foot back in the Westlake house until she owns up to what she did.” I knew they believed I was deliberately colluding with Dr. Stern, hoping to gain sympathy and be brought home. But what they didn’t know was that I couldn’t go back. And I never wanted to again. 2 Phoebe heard the voices in the living room and wheeled herself out of the bedroom. “I saw the interview. Why is Sienna still involving herself with that teacher? She must think you all want to kill her, not understanding your good intentions.” Carter stood up and placed the peeled grapes in her palm. “If she hadn’t been targeting you all this time, we wouldn’t have sent her to prison.” “Don’t worry, she’ll learn her lesson in there soon enough. She won’t bother you again.” Rhys knelt down, gently wiping her fingers. “This time, she’ll get the message. She’ll know who the real Westlake daughter is.” Phoebe maintained her innocent, ethereal demeanor. “What if she still refuses to admit she was wrong when the execution date comes?” Dean, whose million-dollar hands usually held a scalpel, stroked Phoebe’s hair. “Sienna is terrified of pain. She won’t last through this punishment without admitting it.” His tone was absolute, but he had forgotten the severe kidney disease he developed the year he was accepted into medical school. I donated one of my kidneys to him. Back then, they clustered around me, just as they do Phoebe now, lavishing me with care. “Sienna, we will spend our whole lives making you happy.” I, too, thought my happiness would last forever. Until the day they brought Phoebe home. The Westlake parents had died in a car accident, and their only younger sister had been lost years earlier due to their negligence. That same year, they found me, begging on the street, and adopted me. I was grateful that the three Westlake brothers had given me a home, and I knew their affection was just a way to channel their guilt over losing their sister. So, the day Phoebe was returned, I gave up my bedroom and moved into the storage room. My brothers were consumed by the joy of finding their lost sister. At the dinner table, I sat quietly in the corner, eating the food in my bowl. I understood: all that love was stolen. Now, it was time to give it back. Carter, always the most reserved, looked over at me in the corner. “Phoebe has been gone for many years; we owe her a great deal. You are still our sister, but you must remember that she is the true Westlake daughter.” I nodded. Phoebe had been raised by a family in a rural area and suffered many hardships. I showed her around the house and filled her closet with my brand-new dresses. But the next afternoon, Phoebe burst into tears and threw my clothes out of her wardrobe. “She put a pin in the dress! I was bleeding!” Rhys heard the commotion and rushed in. Seeing the faint scratch on Phoebe’s neck, he immediately spun to face me. “What happened?” Phoebe’s tears fell harder. She threw herself into Rhys’s arms, sobbing. “I shouldn’t have come back. I’m just ruining your lives.” “I didn’t put one there. Maybe it was mixed in by accident…” Rhys cut me off sharply. “Is it just because Carter said Phoebe is the true daughter that you would do something like this?” Dean entered the room and immediately started disinfecting Phoebe’s scratch. “Sienna, don’t let jealousy take hold. Our love was always meant to be hers.” I opened my mouth, but no words came out. The truth felt irrelevant. What mattered was that they were all vying to prove Phoebe’s importance. That night, I was locked out on the balcony for the entire night. Phoebe seemed to sense her power and became more brazen with me. Her backpack was ripped? I did it. Her finger was cut? I caused it. My brothers’ gazes became increasingly colder. The same hands that had lifted me from the gutter were now pushing me into the abyss. My mental state deteriorated. I was often dazed, even in class. I started to notice cuts appearing on my own wrists. After school one day, I didn’t leave. I walked toward the school pond. Just as I hesitated at the edge, Dr. Stern pulled me back from behind. He saw right through me, but he simply handed me a cup of hot cocoa. We talked about many things that day—dreams, interests. The only thing we didn’t touch on was my pain. I confessed that I also loved psychology. He smiled, said I had a gift for it, and suggested that if I wanted, I could apply to his university and become his actual student. Before we parted, I couldn’t stop a single tear from falling. Dr. Stern didn’t ask anything. He just slipped a business card into my pocket. “If you have things you need to talk about, call me. I want to help.” The next day, I found a note on my desk. It was a message from him asking me to come to the counseling office after class. But as soon as I stepped inside the room, a sharp pain in my neck made me lose consciousness. 3 When I woke up, the room was a mess. I looked up and met Carter’s eyes, filled with disgust. I looked down at myself, barely clothed, lying on the couch in Dr. Stern’s lounge. Students swarmed the doorway, immediately pulling out their phones to film me. “How trashy is she? So many girls like Dr. Stern, but no one has ever stooped this low.” “This is disgusting! I heard she chased him yesterday and tried to give him a love letter!” “Right? He rejected her, so she stripped in his office! Is she trying to ruin his career?” They used their half-truths and manufactured lies as weapons, determined to tear me to shreds. Carter took off his expensive suit jacket and draped it over me. “Get out, all of you!” I was utterly distraught, my lips trembling. “It’s not what you think, Carter…” “Then what is it? Are you going to say you were framed? Your clothes are folded neatly on the chair! What possible excuse could you have?” Tears streamed down my face, and I could only shake my head. “I was knocked out right after I walked in! I don’t know what happened!” Carter pulled out a photo—a shot of me and Dr. Stern sitting by the pond last night—and threw it in my face. “Phoebe said you had a crush yesterday, and I thought, at least you’re sensible. I never imagined you’d do something so shameful! You’ve embarrassed the entire Westlake name!” It had to be Phoebe. She must have seen us after school and orchestrated this entire scene. I was about to speak when Dr. Stern, who had just returned from giving a campus lecture, walked in. The shock on his face made me want to vanish. Carter bundled me in his jacket and lifted me to carry me out. “There must be a misunderstanding! Sienna is not like that. I’ll check the hallway cameras.” Dr. Stern’s interjection turned Carter’s face several shades darker. “Check the cameras? So everyone can see exactly how my sister was taking off her clothes in your office? I already had someone delete the footage, Doctor. Mind your own business.” I was expelled. And I was once again locked out on the balcony. Dean, who had always been the kindest to me, looked at me with open revulsion. They wouldn’t even touch me, as if I were the most morally bankrupt woman on earth. 4 Phoebe stood by the balcony door, holding a bowl of food, and sneered at me. “Do you really think someone like Dr. Stern would talk to you? You go against me, and this is the only outcome you’ll get.” I truly couldn’t understand why she targeted me so relentlessly. “Their love was only supposed to be mine! You, a beggar from the streets, stole my love!” Phoebe suddenly lunged, grabbing my head and slamming it down into the food tray on the floor. “They’re still worried you haven’t eaten enough. Go on, eat your fill!” The broth choked me. I struggled violently and managed to push Phoebe away, sending her tumbling to the ground. The brothers, hearing her cry out in pain, rushed in instantly. “Sienna is still mad at me because I told Carter about her photos. I only wanted to help.” Tears streamed down her face like rain. The three brothers didn’t spare me a glance, shouting at me harshly. “Sienna Westlake, apologize.” “We gave you a good life only for you to abuse Phoebe like this?” “Have you forgotten who you were before us?” Water dripped from my face. The long accumulation of emotional abuse became unbearable. “The cameras are right there! Why won’t you check them? You gave me a good life, but did I not give back?” Carter, the workaholic, ate irregularly, so I cooked him fresh meals daily. Rhys, the top lawyer, was attacked by a vengeful client, and I took the knife wound for him. Dean was desperately ill before college, and I volunteered my kidney. I considered myself a part of this family. Yet, in the end, my decade of sacrifice was worth less than a single word from their real sister. Carter slapped me hard across the face. “We’re family! Are you going to tally up every single thing now? How could we have raised such a wretched ingrate?” I stared at each of their faces. I felt ridiculous. This kind of home… I was better off without it. “From this day forward, I want nothing to do with any of you.” I shoved past them and ran upstairs to pack my things. They looked at each other. Dean hesitated. “Maybe I should just check the cameras. Sienna has never been this upset before.” Phoebe picked at her fingernails, speaking up first. “It’s my fault. Let me try to talk to her.” She hurried up the stairs, just as I was about to leave. “Trying the old reverse psychology trick, are we? Hoping they’ll feel bad for you?” “Sienna Westlake, I underestimated you. I will make sure you vanish from the Westlake family for good.” Phoebe suddenly leaned backward and tumbled down the stairs. A scream interrupted Dean, who had been heading out to check the surveillance footage. Phoebe was paralyzed. When she fell, she shattered a large decorative vase, and a shard severed the tendons in her ankle. Carter stood outside the hospital room and kicked me down the steps. “Since you’re not a Westlake anymore, you can pay for her legs with your life.” I was in agony, the world a haze of crimson. Phoebe, seated in her wheelchair, looked down at me on the ground like a victor. She wiggled her foot slightly. “Phoebe! You’re faking it!” But they had long since stopped believing me. They had me locked away in a high-security facility. I applied for family visits repeatedly, only to be met with constant denials. Not only was there no way to appeal, but I was also routinely beaten and abused by several of the other inmates. Lying on the floor, coughing up blood again, I knew I was beyond saving. I didn’t want to hate them. I just wanted to completely forget everything. The Westlake Group managed to get the trending topics removed, but the discussion around the interview only intensified. The three brothers were preparing to wheel Phoebe back to her room when the house phone rang. “Sienna Westlake has been executed. Family members should claim the body as soon as possible.” Carter shot to his feet. “What did you say?” Before he could ask for details, all their cell phones buzzed simultaneously. A new trending topic immediately topped the charts. #SiennaWestlakeFinalVideoExposed

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It was Christmas, and I was giving my boyfriend a pair of designer cufflinks—the ten-thousand-dollar kind. In return, he handed me a crumpled, bruised apple. Just as I was about to unleash the fury I felt welling up inside, a stream of floating text flashed across my vision: [Don’t look down on it. That’s a Golden Apple; it weighs nearly half a pound.] [The supporting female character is so tacky, measuring everything by money. She’s nothing like our darling female lead, who is so easygoing and just loves to treat the men around her like her personal pets.] [Doesn’t anyone else think this little test is lame? That’s the side character’s boyfriend. Why does the female lead get to egg the supporting male character into doing this?] Reading that, I slowly pulled the cufflinks back into my purse. If he was so eager to be someone else’s lapdog, I’d simply find a new man. 1 When I hesitated, making no move to take the apple from his hand, the disdain in Blake’s eyes deepened. Beside him, his female ‘bro,’ Tatum, roared with laughter, slapping him hard on the back. “See? I told you she wouldn’t take it, but you never believe me. Is this the kind of woman you were willing to break with your family over? You’re losing your touch, bro. Next time you go looking for a woman, run it past your Daddy first.” Blake didn’t flinch from her physical contact. Instead, he pinched her cheek, smiling. “You’re the smart one, alright? But Daddy? I’m three years older than you. If anyone’s calling anyone ‘Daddy,’ it should be you calling me that.” Tatum wrapped her hand around his arm and pretended to bite down, asking with mock ferocity, “Who’s Daddy?” Blake’s smile was painfully indulgent. “Fine, fine. You’re Daddy. Now, let go. I don’t want to get your germs on me. Gross.” Tatum looked genuinely upset. She let out a heavy huff. “You’re grossed out by my spit? We used to share ice cream cones, one bite for you, one for me. You used to steal the part of the apple I’d already bitten! Now you have a girlfriend, and you’re drawing a line? You are such a disloyal dog of a man.” The word “girlfriend” seemed to snap Blake back to reality. He looked up at me. Seeing my expressionless face, he frowned and said, “Don’t overthink this. Tatum and I go way back. We’ve always just been friends.” Tatum glanced at me, then interjected, “More than just friends. We almost got engaged back in the day, but I was young and foolish. I didn’t want to be tied down to marriage, so I ran away. I hid out overseas for seven or eight years. I only came back when I heard he finally had a girlfriend.” The words dripped with calculated venom. Even Blake, for all his indulgence, had to push back. “Don’t say things that will make her misunderstand. We were never engaged. That was strictly a joke between our grandfathers.” Tatum’s face instantly darkened. She was clearly trying to cement her image as the mythic ex, the ‘one that got away,’ combined with the casual ‘bro’ persona, and her lapdog had just debunked it, leaving her scrambling. I couldn’t bear to watch their little dance any longer. I stood up, ready to leave. Blake grabbed my hand, offering the apple again. “I shouldn’t have played that trick on you. This was supposed to be a surprise. Just take it. Feel how heavy it is.” The floating comments reappeared. [Why did the supporting male character suddenly use his words? The female lead’s plan was for her to end up with the golden apple. Did she just speak too much and ruin it?] [The female lead has to step on other people to be the group’s darling. Does anyone actually like this personality?] [That engagement thing was a total lie spread by the female lead. It never happened. She actually fled the country because she lost a massive amount of money gambling.] [It was during that gambling incident that the female lead lost herself to the male lead, kicking off their tormented, dramatic romance.] My gaze fell from the commentary feed to Blake’s face. His light smile still suggested the man who loved me, but his pathetic “test” was a needle, piercing bone and flesh, an ever-present, agonizing sting. The fact that he let the words of a woman who had previously duped him make him question my feelings meant he cared deeply for Tatum and trusted her implicitly. I didn’t need a man who ate from my bowl while thinking about the treats in his pocket. “Keep this kind of surprise for someone else.” I yanked my hand away, turned, and walked out. Blake stared after me, stunned. He instinctively moved to follow and explain, but Tatum blocked him. “Don’t indulge her. This is how women get spoiled.” Her voice was not lowered in the slightest. It was clearly meant for me. 2 I took a deep breath, stopped, and walked back. My hand snapped out, the sound of the slap echoing off her cheek. “Stop with the basic, manipulative, mean-girl BS! You egged Blake on to give me a bruised apple to test if I was a gold-digger, and when I got mad, he was supposed to produce a golden one to confirm that I am greedy. Well, I’m not playing your game. A man is just a man. If he’s rotten, you toss him and get a new one.” Blake, who had been enraged by my hitting Tatum, instantly softened when he heard my words. He scrambled to explain, “That’s not it, Sienna. Tatum was just being playful. She just wanted to see your face when you got the apple…” Smack. I slapped him across the face with my backhand. “I only hit this bitch, I forgot to slap the idiot who was helping her! Are you just a mindless fool who only knows how to drool? This woman destroyed three years of our relationship with a few words, and you’re still trying to roll over and fetch for your master! Get lost. I’m sick just looking at you.” I was shaking with rage. Three years of my life, fed to a dog. Anyone would be furious. A group of people stood nearby, watching the spectacle. They were all mutual acquaintances. Every single face was a mask of shock. It turned out Tatum hadn’t just encouraged Blake to give me unequal gifts; she had invited people from our shared social circle to witness my “gold-digger” moment firsthand, hoping to alienate me from everyone. She was truly vicious. It had taken me three years to fully integrate into Blake’s circle, and she wanted to destroy all that effort with a few sentences. I could walk away from Blake, but the network I had built? I wouldn’t give that up. With that thought, I stopped shouting and turned to leave for good. As I walked out the door, my friend Kylie called. “Babe, are you okay? Someone in the group chat sent a video. They said Blake and his ex, Tatum—the one he still measures everyone else against—ganged up on you. They tried to play a trick, using a cheap apple as a gift, and then tried to stop you from being angry, otherwise, they’d call you a gold-digger.” I felt the sting of betrayal all over again. “I guess people really do change on a dime. Blake used to kneel outside his parents’ house for a day and a night so they wouldn’t give me a hard time about us. That was only three years ago. Now, he’ll treat me like a clown just to make his mythic ex happy. Which version of him was the real one?” Listening to me sob, Kylie fell silent. After a long moment, she finally spoke. “He loved you, that’s true. But that love cannot withstand meeting Tatum. It shatters too easily.” The implication was clear: between me and Tatum, Blake would always choose the latter. I raised my head, forcing the tears back. Crying over that man wasn’t worth the effort. To distract me, Kylie invited me to her family’s party that evening. There was a gift exchange planned. I repackaged the high-end cufflinks I hadn’t given Blake, planning to give them to a more deserving soul. That night. The party was in full swing in the villa’s garden. Kylie had set up a large fire pit, and people were already dancing and mingling. The atmosphere was lively. When I arrived, Kylie grabbed me, pulling me mysteriously into a secluded corner. I started to ask what was going on, but she clapped a hand over my mouth, signaling me to watch the unfolding drama. Not far away, two socialites were bullying a young woman. That was my first impression. The woman was crying, saying, “I’ll pay back what I owe you, I promise. Just give me a little more time.” The taller socialite slapped her across the face and sneered, “You lying tramp! You think we don’t know…” Suddenly, a man appeared, gripping the socialite’s wrist so hard that her face twisted in pain. “Bullying someone back here? I’m recording this. If you don’t want a scene, get lost.” The man threatened them. The socialites instinctively wanted to fight back, but this wasn’t their house. A public incident wouldn’t be good for their reputation. They gritted their teeth and backed down. Before leaving, they glared fiercely at the woman on the ground. The scene played out like a classic trope: the wicked side characters harassing the heroine, and the hero rushing in for the rescue. And, in fact, it was. The woman was Tatum. 3 The comments section lit up again. [Is this Male Lead Number Three? He knows the female lead owes a huge debt to others, yet he shields her. He ends up getting run over by a car for his troubles.] [The female lead deliberately provoked those two side characters, waiting for the male lead to come and save the day, but it was Male Lead Number Three who showed up. The real male lead saw this and walked right past, and the female lead probably hates him now.] [Next, watch the female lead train her new dog. I love this ‘sweet on the outside, dark on the inside’ persona.] Once the bullies were gone, Tatum quickly wiped her tears. Her eyes were full of contempt for the man who had interfered, but that didn’t stop her from standing on her tiptoes and pressing her lips against his. The man was clearly taken aback by the kiss, his body freezing up. Tatum seemed even more delighted by his reaction, and she lingered, refusing to let go. I noticed Kylie quickly typing a text message and sending it. Less than thirty seconds later, a beautiful girl rushed over. Seeing the kiss, the girl shrieked, darted forward, grabbed a handful of Tatum’s hair, and dragged her out into the open. “You filthy slut! Earlier today you tried to sabotage my brother and his girlfriend, getting him laughed at by everyone in our circle, and now you’re trying to hook up with my boyfriend! Any man you see, you have to get your hands on! Don’t think I don’t know about your mother trying to seduce my father—you two are a pair of low-class trash!” The girl was Charlotte, Blake’s biological sister. Tatum was not some secret heiress. She was the daughter of the nanny/housekeeper. Her mother had once saved Blake’s father, and the favor had been passed down to Tatum, giving her the chance to attend the same schools as the Blake siblings, from elementary school right up to college and even her time abroad, all financed by Blake’s father. Strangely, the outside world was always led to believe she was a mysterious young heiress staying with the family. The Blake family never corrected the rumors, partly because Blake was so devoted to her, and partly because of the life-saving favor her mother had done for their father. Charlotte’s scream drew everyone’s attention. The music abruptly cut out. Charlotte was not one to be intimidated. She raised her hand and slapped Tatum across the face. The next second, her arms were seized and held tight by two men. One was her fiancé, Grant. The other was her own brother, Blake. Blake had arrived, too. Seeing the two people closest to her restraining her, Charlotte’s composure snapped. She struggled fiercely to break free, yelling in disbelief, “You’re protecting a promiscuous tramp? What am I to you people?” She had always been composed. When the family’s shady secrets were exposed and reporters hounded her, she had maintained her dignity even in the worst circumstances. But now, she was being driven to madness by the two people she loved and trusted most. Grant frowned, his face a picture of annoyance at her loss of control. “Can you stop this? You look like a lunatic. It’s embarrassing.” Blake looked completely displeased. “We’re at someone else’s house. Can you stop humiliating the family, Charlotte?” Charlotte trembled with rage. The onlookers were staring at her like she was a circus sideshow, making her feel utterly mortified. Splash! A cascade of red wine was poured all over Charlotte. Tatum had done it. Banking on her two new bodyguards, Tatum’s arrogance was on full display. After pouring the wine, she sneered, “If you hate me so much, why don’t you just go kill yourself?” Charlotte was wearing a strapless chiffon dress. The red wine soaked her top half, making her practically exposed. 4 I had only intended to be a spectator, but at this point, I could no longer stand it. I strode forward, swift and precise, and delivered another stinging slap to Tatum’s face. As the sharp sound echoed across the silent garden, I ripped off my jacket and covered Charlotte, whispering, “Don’t cry. Crying in front of people who don’t deserve your tears only makes them laugh harder.” Charlotte and I weren’t close friends, but we had always been cordial, so she was willing to listen to me. She clutched the jacket, violently wiping the tears from her face. When she looked up again, her eyes were resolute. She grabbed the nearest bottle of red wine and poured the entire thing over Tatum’s head. Tatum shrieked, trying to attack us. Kylie signaled to a nearby server, and immediately, two staff members rushed over to hold Tatum down, allowing Charlotte to drench her without hindrance. The bottle was emptied quickly. Blake hadn’t even had time to intervene. Seeing Tatum completely soaked, he took off his jacket and wrapped it around her. Then, he spun around and glared at us. “You two ganging up on Tatum like this is absolutely beyond the pale.” Charlotte ignored him. She turned to her fiancé, Grant, and said, “We’re done. Don’t bother with the engagement party next month.” Grant frowned. “What are you trying to pull now?” Charlotte had been the one to pursue him, so he didn’t believe for a second that she would really let him go. Charlotte pulled out her phone and made a call. “Mom, Dad, I’m calling off the engagement. Send the notification to our friends and family right now. I’ll handle the media myself. Also, I know I said I wouldn’t get involved in the fight for the family inheritance, but I’m joining the competition now. I’d rather fight for control than leave the family to a blockhead who can’t tell right from wrong.” Charlotte was no delicate flower. She was an intelligent, capable woman who had simply been blinded by the illusion of family and love. A small smile touched my lips. I was genuinely pleased to witness Charlotte’s transformation. Grant instantly panicked and started desperately trying to talk to Charlotte. She didn’t even look at him, turning and walking away. Grant chased after her. Left standing there, Blake finally processed what had happened and rounded on me. “Did you encourage Charlotte? She was never this spiteful. Now she’s dumping the man she loved for seven or eight years and trying to grab power—she’s completely changed. Just because we had a disagreement, you’re turning your spite on my family and trying to drive a wedge between us! Tatum was right, I never saw your true colors.” I rolled my eyes. The sarcasm was thick. “T-a-t-u-m w-a-s r-i-g-h-t. If you listen to her so much, why didn’t you go kill yourself? That’s what she just told your sister to do.” Blake froze. At that moment, the music started up again. The atmosphere became even livelier than before. Having watched a magnificent drama unfold, the crowd was now singing, dancing, and trading gossip contentedly. Feeling tired, I headed toward the buffet for a snack. When I looked up, the comments section was back in full force. [The side character is hogging the screen time! The female lead planned all of this just to get the male lead’s attention, and now the male lead is completely focused on the side character.] [Who is the male lead, anyway? Such a mystery. Is he some high-society big shot?] [Haha, you’ll never guess. The male lead is a dealer—a croupier—who is also a small-time enforcer for a dark operation.] [So, this is a Nanny’s Daughter * Black Market Dealer romance?] [The climax is coming soon. The female lead is about to do something shocking to get the male lead’s attention, and he’ll even cover for her.] 5 Reading that, my guard instantly went up. To avoid being vulnerable, I deliberately walked closer to the main fire pit. As my steps quickened, I sensed a shadow behind me. Before I could turn, that person slammed into me. The massive fire pit, three or four meters high, was directly ahead. In the firelight, I saw the motion of the attacker’s shoulder. In a split second, I crouched down low. The attacker, using all her momentum, hurled herself right into the fire pit. The fire pit, due to the collision, tumbled over with a crash. The whole thing happened too fast. People only had time to dodge; no one realized there was a person inside the flames. I stared at the human figure engulfed in the roaring fire. Her hair quickly burned off, and a heavy log had landed across her thigh, pinning her down. Even calling for help was difficult. My scalp prickled with pure horror. If I hadn’t seen the comments, if I hadn’t been vigilant, the person trapped in that inferno would have been me. “H-help… help me…” Finally, someone realized Tatum was in the fire. It took only three minutes, but Tatum was pulled out. Even so, her scalp was severely burned and pitted. Her clothes had melted and stuck to her skin, making it impossible to distinguish which was her skin and which was the charred fabric. Kylie cursed the bad luck and immediately had people rush Tatum to the hospital. Before being taken away, Tatum pointed at me and weakly fabricated her lie: “It… it was her… she pushed me… into the fire…” I opened my mouth to protest, but she passed out. The party ended abruptly, and I became the center of all the suspicion. Blake, who had left earlier to go home and pacify Charlotte, returned after getting a call that I had pushed Tatum into the fire. I ran right into him at the main gate. He stormed out of his car, his face consumed by fire, grabbed my arm, and roared, “Are you crazy? Why would you do that to Tatum? Just because she provoked you, you had to ruin her life? You are truly malicious!” Too much had happened tonight. Having to deal with a man behaving like a rabid dog was the last straw, and I erupted. “You know what? If your damn eyes are useless, donate them! She came looking for trouble, trying to push me in! I dodged, she couldn’t stop her momentum, and she slammed herself into the fire pit! She got what she deserved!” Blake suddenly became frighteningly calm. He stared straight into my eyes and asked, “It really wasn’t you?” His gaze was deadly serious, as if to say, It better not be you, or I won’t spare you, even if you are my girlfriend. In that moment, I felt profound sorrow for the past version of myself who had loved him so deeply. When I met Blake, he was suffering from severe Bipolar Disorder and depression. Even his parents were close to giving up on him. I was a senior in college, working as a caregiver at a treatment center to save money for grad school. Blake was my patient. When I first met him, I felt sorry for him—so young, confined to a facility for two years, rarely visited by his family. As time went on, I felt sorry for myself—having to deal with a person who threw violent tantrums and was constantly suicidal. Our relationship changed during a severe rainstorm. I was mugged on my way home from work. After taking my money, the thugs turned predatory. As I fought for my life, Blake appeared and saved me. He took my phone and repeatedly smashed it onto the thugs’ heads. The men were left unconscious and barely breathing. I wasn’t afraid of that violent side of Blake. It was the first time he hadn’t seen fear in another person’s eyes, and it greatly relieved his psychological burden. After that, he proactively engaged in treatment, and his condition slowly stabilized. He once told me that he was lucky to have met me; otherwise, he would never have been able to live in the light. He said I was his salvation. Yet now, he was looking at me with cold, sinister eyes. I knew he was struggling to restrain himself from hitting me. I forced a bitter smile and decided to draw a line under our relationship. “We’re breaking up.”

🌟 Continue the story here 👉🏻 📲 Download the “MotoNovel” app 🔍 search for “388780”, and watch the full series ✨! #MotoNovel

August fifteenth. The thick, humid air hung heavy, the kind that promised a storm but delivered only heat. It was then, in the suffocating quiet of the small hours, that my drunken brother-in-law, Cody Albright, staggered into the west bedroom and assaulted my sleeping sister. When I burst in, Holly lay on the rough cotton sheets, her face slick with tears. She looked at me—just one final, hollow gaze—then she scrambled up and slammed her head against the wall, collapsing in a heap. Cody, reeking of cheap whiskey, zipped up his jeans and swayed, a smug, triumphant grin plastered across his face. I lunged for him, ready to drag him to the Sheriff’s Department, but my in-laws swarmed me, blocking the door. My mother-in-law, Mrs. Albright, pointed a shaking finger at Holly’s corpse. “She’s the one who lured him on! She killed herself because she failed to snag him!” My husband, Marcus, shoved me back. “Stop making a scene! Cody’s still got to find a wife!” I tried to escape, to run to the nearest phone and call the police, but they locked me in the tool shed for three days and three nights. I eventually died there, coughing up blood until my lungs failed. When I opened my eyes again, Holly was standing before me, vibrant and whole, turning around to admire the new, floral-print hoodie I’d just bought her. The nightmare of the past life flashed behind my eyes. I snatched the hoodie off her, threw it onto the bed, and dragged her out the door. I put her on a bus back to our parents’ farm, miles away. I had just managed to lie down, exhausted but believing the worst had been averted, when a woman’s scream ripped through the dark house. 1 I scrambled off the bed, pulling on a shirt, and rushed out the door. The west bedroom door creaked open. Cody Albright, so drunk he could barely stand, staggered out zipping up his jeans, a familiar, triumphant smirk on his face. I ran to him, grabbing his arm. “It was you! Who was it? Who is in there?” Cody just reeked of cheap booze, his mouth stretching into a lazy, drunken smile. “In the dark? Who can tell?” Mr. and Mrs. Albright, my father- and mother-in-law, came rushing out, pulling me away from him. “Why are you harassing Cody? It must have been some girl who was asking for it!” The sight of their shameless faces, the cold memory of Holly’s last look—it sent a tremor of pure, blinding rage through me. “Cody Albright, you think that’s funny? This is rape!” Marcus, my husband, was the last to arrive. He grabbed my shoulder. “Willow, calm down. It was just a slip-up, they slept together, that’s all.” My eyes narrowed with a hatred that felt centuries old. It was the same line. Last time, when my sister was dead, he said the same thing. Just a slip-up. Mrs. Albright tried to smooth the corners of her mouth into a frown, failing. “It was two consenting adults, Willow. Just let it go.” Then she added, practically giddy with greed, “And Holly is sixteen now. But since she’s been so careless with her reputation, she’ll need to bring $5,000 cash and promise to cover the whole wedding for Cody to take her.” I froze. A second passed before the fog of anger cleared. They think the girl in there is Holly. But Holly was safe, miles away, asleep in our parents’ house! She couldn’t possibly be here. A cold dread crawled up my spine. My mind went blank with a horrifying realization: I had prevented Holly’s tragedy, but in this filthy pit of a family, I hadn’t stopped the crime. I had only changed the victim. All I could think of was the girl crying softly behind that closed door. Who was she? I spun around and slapped Cody as hard as I could. For the lost Holly of the previous life, and for the innocent girl in the bedroom now. Cody stumbled backward, clutching his face, his eyes wide with disbelief. “You… you actually hit me?” “You bet your life I did!” I grabbed the broom from the corner and started beating him with it, the coarse bristles and hard wood landing with dull thuds. “Cody, who is in that room? You animal! Are you even human?” Cody scrambled away. “Help! Mom, Dad, Sharon, the lunatic is attacking me!” Mrs. Albright rushed forward to block me, but I shoved her aside with the broom handle. When Mr. Albright tried to step in, I glared at him, my eyes burning. “Dad! If you touch me, I swear, I’ll be at the Sheriff’s Department first thing tomorrow! I’ll make sure everyone in this county knows your son is a monster!” Mr. Albright froze. Marcus wrestled the broom out of my hand. “Willow, stop! He gets it!” “Gets it?” I stopped, gripping Cody’s collar. “Cody Albright, I am asking you one last time,” I leaned in, drilling him with my stare, “who is the person in that room?” Cody was bleeding from the lip and had a bruise forming over his eye. He looked at me, his eyes darted away, and then, a slow, ugly grin spread across his face. “Who do you think?” He spat a mouthful of blood and smirked, a total piece of scum. “It’s just your sister, Holly.” He wiped the blood from his mouth. “Holly was happy to be with me, she knows how to play her cards right. Don’t worry, I’ll take care of her…” “You’re a lying sack of trash!” I raised my hand again. Marcus gripped me tightly. “Willow! Enough!” Mrs. Albright, seeing her chance, seized it. Her voice was a hysterical shriek. “It was Holly! I saw her earlier! She led Cody on!” Mr. Albright chimed in, nodding fiercely. “That’s right! It was Holly! Both of us saw them!” I looked at their choreographed lies, their monstrous unity, and I started to laugh. 2 I laughed until the laughter twisted into sobs. “Fine. Fine. Fine,” I nodded, my voice shaking. “You people are a spectacular show.” I turned toward the west bedroom and screamed toward the silent door. “The girl inside, did you hear that? They all say you seduced a man!” The west room remained dead silent. Sharon, my elder sister-in-law, finished chewing her last sunflower seed, clapped the husks off her hands, and strolled over, her movements slow and deliberate. “Well, Willow, what is all this? Making a scene in the middle of the night? Who can sleep through this racket?” She walked up to Cody, looked him up and down, and sighed. “Cody, you really drank too much. But still…” She shifted her focus to me, smiling thinly. “Willow, I hate to say it, but a girl’s business—if it’s mutual, what are you, her sister, making such a fuss about?” I stared at the seed fragments sticking to her lips. “Say that again, Sharon.” “I said,” Sharon drew out the words, “if the girl didn’t want it, could Cody force her? She must have been up for it herself.” She leaned in, dropping her voice low enough to sound confidential, but loud enough for everyone to hear. “Your sister, Holly, she’s sixteen. Time for her to get married. Cody drinks a bit, but he’s family. Marry him, and she’ll be set.” Smack! I raised my hand and slapped her. Sharon froze, holding her cheek, a high-pitched sound of disbelief escaping her. “You hit me?” “That’s for your filthy mouth!” My eyes were bloodshot. “My sister’s reputation is not for you to chew on like trash!” Dean, the eldest brother, came out of the main house, rubbing his eyes, wearing a jacket over his pajamas. “What’s the screaming about? Can a man get some sleep?” He saw Sharon clutching her cheek and frowned. “What happened?” Sharon immediately burst into dramatic tears, throwing herself at him. “Marcus’s wife hit me! Just because I told her not to interfere with Holly and Cody!” Dean’s face hardened as he looked at me. “Sister-in-law, what are you doing? Disrupting the peace in the middle of the night?” “Me disrupting the peace?” I pointed at the west room. “Your brother assaulted someone, and instead of doing anything, you blame me for making noise?” Dean glanced at Cody, then at the west room. He waved a dismissive hand. “Cody was drunk. Stupid mistake. If the girl didn’t want it, he couldn’t have pulled it off. Just let it go, Willow. It’ll look bad for everyone if you push it.” “Let it go?” I was shaking with fury. “A girl’s life, her reputation—you say just let it go?” Dean tightened his coat around him. “Reputation? So what? They did the deed. If it was consensual, so what? No one died.” No one died. That same monstrous phrase. Last time, my sister died, and they said, “She couldn’t handle it, whose fault is that?” I clenched my fists until my nails dug into my palms. Marcus came over again, trying to pull me away. “Willow, Dean’s right, this will look bad. Let’s just make Cody marry Holly. After all…” “After all what?” I twisted my head to glare at him. “After all, my sister was assaulted, so she has to marry the man who did it? Marcus, are you even a person?” Marcus dropped his head, shamed, but still mumbled, “Well, what else can we do?” Mrs. Albright, seeing her side winning, straightened up. “Exactly! If Cody marries Holly, it’s all smoothed over! Willow, stop being ungrateful!” Mr. Albright nodded along. “Yes. Since Holly lost her purity before the wedding, have your parents bring the $5,000 and the wedding expenses, and Cody will marry her.” Sharon, still nursing her cheek, added fuel to the fire. “Honestly, Holly should be thanking Cody. It’s a good family. Marrying into the Albrights is her lucky day!” I stared at their calculating, shameless faces, and a wave of nausea so powerful it was physical washed over me. 3 My stomach churned. I bent over, dry-heaving, nothing coming up but acid and tears. “Oh, what’s this?” Sharon mocked, her voice dripping with insincerity. “Putting on a show for us? You weren’t the one who got taken.” I straightened up, wiping the tears from my face, and looked at Marcus. “Marcus, I’m telling you this now. Before sunrise, Cody Albright goes to the Sheriff’s Department and turns himself in. If not, I go instead.” “You wouldn’t dare!” Mrs. Albright shrieked. “If you go, I’ll tell Marcus to divorce you!” “Divorce me!” I roared back, my voice raw. “You think I want to be an Albright? I am telling you, this is far from over!” My voice was loud enough to carry through the quiet night. The creak of a door opening came from the neighboring yard, followed by footsteps. “What’s all the noise?” Mrs. Gable, a neighbor, peered over the fence, pulling a robe tight around her. “Middle of the night, what’s the yelling about?” Mrs. Albright’s face instantly changed. She flashed a strained, phony smile. “Nothing, Mrs. Gable, nothing! Just a bit of a commotion, a rat in the house. We were chasing a rat.” “Chasing a rat?” Mrs. Gable looked suspiciously at the tense group in the yard. “Doesn’t sound like it to me…” Sharon reacted instantly. She grabbed Mrs. Gable’s arm, acting overly familiar and sweet. “Really, Mrs. Gable, it’s nothing! It’s just Willow’s sister… oh, you know, young girls. A little misunderstanding with Cody, and Willow saw it and is throwing a fit.” She shot a warning glare at me. “Isn’t that right, Willow?” I didn’t answer. Mrs. Gable looked from Sharon to me. “Holly? But didn’t Holly go back home this afternoon? I saw her get on the truck myself.” “She… she came back!” Sharon lied without a flicker of hesitation. “She got mad at her sister and turned around halfway. Young people, you know.” She even covered her mouth and chuckled, feigning embarrassment. Mrs. Gable looked unconvinced and turned her eyes toward the west room. “And in that room…” “That’s Holly!” Mrs. Albright cut in quickly. “She’s shy, too embarrassed to come out. Mrs. Gable, please go back to bed. You have work tomorrow.” Mrs. Gable finally shook her head and walked away. “Young people, honestly.” As soon as she was gone, Mrs. Albright slammed the yard gate shut, her face twisting back into a mask of fury. “Willow Albright!” She stabbed a finger at my chest. “You go to the police, and I will make your life a misery!” Sharon’s expression hardened. “Exactly! Willow, I’m telling you as your sister-in-law. The girl has already gone and done the deed with Cody. Why are you fighting it? It’ll ruin her for good if this gets out. Where will she ever find a husband?” She then had a strange look in her eye, and she turned and headed toward the west room. 4 “Sharon, what are you doing?” I blocked her path. “What do you think?” Sharon pushed past me. “I’m going to talk to the girl. She must be scared right now. I’ll go calm her down, tell her to accept it.” She reached the west room door, cleared her throat, and addressed the person inside. “Honey, it’s your sister-in-law. Don’t be afraid. This whole thing? It’s a good thing.” “Cody drinks, but he’s solid. You’ll be family now. Just have your dad bring the $5,000 and the wedding money, and we’ll accept you.” “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of you. When the sun comes up, we’ll go to your house and get the money, and then we’ll have a wedding. You’ll be welcomed.” She got louder and louder, as if she wanted the whole neighborhood to hear her sick offer. “Just make sure you take care of Cody, and give the Albrights a big baby boy as soon as possible. That’s all that matters!” I stood behind her, listening to those words, a coldness spreading through my body. In the past life, after Holly died, Sharon had said something similar. “Such a waste. What if she was already carrying an Albright baby? She should be thankful she got with Cody.” Now, she was saying the same vicious words to the girl—whoever she was—behind the door. Cody stood under the moonlight, listening to his sister-in-law, and his smug look returned, even stronger than before. He even winked at me, as if to say, See? Everyone is on my side. Mr. and Mrs. Albright nodded in full agreement. Marcus looked down, unable to meet my eyes. Dean yawned, ready to go back to sleep. It was as if this was all just a little, consensual late-night fling. As if the girl in that room truly should be grateful to marry the animal who assaulted her. I bit down hard, tasting blood. Then, I turned and sprinted for the yard gate. “Where are you going?” Marcus grabbed me. “The Sheriff’s Department.” I yanked my arm away. “I’m going now.” “Willow Albright!” Mrs. Albright shrieked, lunging at me. “You wouldn’t dare!” “Just watch me.” I shoved her aside and tore open the yard gate. Outside, the moonlight was cool and clean. Inside, stood a den of monsters. And I would no longer be the silent, dying victim.

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I knew the moment I pushed the door open: Rhys Kingston’s junior assistant was beneath his desk. The girl was deliberately provocative, and for a fleeting second, I saw the composure crack on his face. He nearly laughed. I placed the file on his mahogany surface without looking at him. “The Westside Expansion budget request. Sign here.” Suppressing his intense satisfaction, he didn’t check the details. He just picked up the pen and scribbled his name across several pages. Only then did he lift his gaze, his eyes still hazy with lingering pleasure. “I thought you were… flying out tomorrow? Why the sudden return?” I retrieved the file. “Emergency business.” Before I turned away, I glanced at the space beneath his desk. “She can come out now.” Rhys paused, momentarily stunned. He probably expected the usual theatrics—a furious wife asserting dominance, a public scene, maybe even a video to prove who was still in charge. But I simply added, “She’ll get a cramp if she stays down there too long.” Feeling caught out, he shifted the topic. “What ‘emergency’ did you have to handle?” I didn’t answer. I just closed the door and, very deliberately, flipped the small [REST AND DO NOT DISTURB] sign on the handle. He didn’t realize that my emergency business had just been completed. 1 From inside the office, I heard the assistant, Willow Scott, purr softly. “Rhys, you scared me to death just now.” Rhys let out a low chuckle, his voice thick with a seductive rasp. “Scared of what? She’s not going to eat you.” “But she’s your wife…” “The wife is the one who understands the rules! See? She walked right out, didn’t she?” I stood in the hallway, the afternoon light slanting diagonally onto the carpet at my feet. Willow’s voice turned syrupy. “So are you coming home tonight?” “Work is work,” Rhys said, the answer sounding disturbingly casual, “but I still have to go home.” Willow tittered. “Mr. Kingston, are you so used to being pampered that you can’t manage a single night alone?” “She can do it, but so can I! Was I not satisfying you just now?” “You and she are different,” his lazy voice followed. “She’s tenacious, like a tiger in the boardroom, but she’s got nowhere to land without me!” “You know how badly she broke with her family just to marry me back then.” “If I stop going home, where would that leave all you little darlings on the outside?” He spoke of our heavy past as if it were a playful line in a cheap romance. Willow’s voice was cloyingly sweet. “Do you… like that about her? That she acts all high and mighty but is secretly pathetic?” The air stilled for two seconds. Then I heard Rhys laugh quietly, a sound devoid of mirth, and he posed a counter-question: “You tell me.” “I’d say—” Willow didn’t finish her sentence. Because I opened the door again. Both people in the office froze instantly. Willow was half-sitting on Rhys’s large executive desk. Rhys was leaning back in his chair, his shirt collar open. Seeing me, he only paused for a moment before an eyebrow arched in challenge. “Did you forget something?” I didn’t speak. I walked straight toward the coffee table. My car keys were, in fact, still sitting there. I picked them up and turned to leave. “Anya.” Rhys stood up, rounded the desk, and smoothly slipped his arms around my waist. He always did this at the office. Affection, especially in public, was a tool he was never shy about using. I gently broke free. After his entanglement with the assistant, a faint, sweet lady’s perfume clung to him. It was the exact scent of the bottle on my vanity. Last month, when he gave it to me, he’d called it a “limited-edition blend, perfectly capturing my rare spirit.” Now I realized he must have bought it by the case. “I’ll be home for dinner,” his voice was the familiar, gentle tone he used when apologizing. “What do you want? I can cook, hmm?” Willow made a small, contemptuous huff beside us. “Don’t bother,” I said. “I have plans tonight.” His smile faded a fraction, though the corner of his mouth was still hooked up. “What’s this? Are you mad?” He leaned closer. “Is this about Willow? I told you, she’s just a—” “I know,” I cut him off softly. “She’s an intern. She needs your hands-on guidance.” What kind of guidance was entirely up to his current needs. He looked momentarily baffled. He hadn’t expected the lack of a fight, or even a good, sharp insult. He lifted a hand to touch my cheek, but I took a step forward. “Fine,” he shrugged, then grabbed my arm. “No matter how big the plans are, be home before nine.” Willow let out a small, satisfied giggle next to us. I looked at her, and she looked back. Compared to the women I’d dealt with before, she was too protected. Her eyes held undisguised triumph and provocation. Youth was a beautiful thing. Looking at that vibrant face, I was thrown back to the summer I was twenty, when I ran away from the clinic and Rhys held me in his arms. 2 It was the third day my father had sent me away for ‘treatment.’ Treatment for my ‘irrational obsession,’ my ‘illness’ of wanting to be with a poor boy. Rhys had spent the night waiting in a maintenance shaft. When the morning shift changed, he pried open the window of my room. “Jump!” he’d called up, holding out his arms. I closed my eyes and jumped. He caught me, falling hard onto the ground himself. His elbow cracked, but he never let go. We fled to a safe distance. He sat against a wall, his linen shirt soaked with sweat. He grabbed my hand and pressed it against his chest. His heart was hammering, fast and heavy. “Anya,” his eyes were frighteningly red. “Listen to me. If I can get you out of here today, nothing will ever be able to separate us again.” He fumbled in his pocket and pulled something out. A thin, simple silver band, bought from a street vendor. Inside, he’d scratched the initial ‘A’ for Anya. His fingers were trembling as he slipped it onto my finger. “When I finally have money, I promise I’ll replace this with the biggest diamond ring you can imagine.” His voice was choked, convinced he’d wronged me. The sun that day was just as bright, illuminating his young face and the intense, burning light in his eyes. I thought that was forever. … Back in my own office, my assistant, Tasha, knocked and came in. “Ms. Wells, here is the expense summary for the week you were traveling.” She placed the tablet in front of me. “The breakdown… for Ms. Scott’s expenditures requires your review.” I scrolled the screen. Custom Italian lingerie, a royal-level Hamptons retreat spa package, a weekend at The St. Regis Penthouse… My finger paused on the last entry: Elite Women’s Health Clinic, Consultation Fee… Tasha carefully added, “Finance said… all these charges were filed under ‘Employee Wellness Benefits,’ with Mr. Kingston’s express authorization.” I set down my coffee cup. “Willow Scott. How long has she been with us?” “Three months.” I nodded, asking no further questions. “Mr. Kingston signed off, so the payment goes through.” Tasha remained standing, twisting the hem of her blazer. “Ms. Wells… I don’t know if I should say this.” “Go on.” “The first day you were gone, she… she took Mr. Kingston into your office and…” Tasha took a sharp breath, her expression grim. “I walked by and heard them. She was laughing and said she wanted to ‘take the thrill all the way.’” I instinctively looked at my executive chair. It was a custom piece Rhys had ordered from New York when we first started the company. He’d said, “You always have back pain. This one is engineered for spinal support.” I already knew about Tasha’s story. Willow was barely twenty. Unlike the women before her, she wasn’t afraid of angering Rhys or losing her job. She was loud, brazen, and couldn’t wait to turn every love bite into a close-up photo. Why wouldn’t she flaunt a victory like that? Last Wednesday, two in the morning. I was pulling an all-nighter on a proposal in my hotel room. My phone screen lit up. An unknown number sent a photo. For a moment, I didn’t recognize the scene. Until I realized—it was my office. The girl, whose face was blocked, was sitting in my chair while Rhys leaned over to kiss her. The accompanying text read: [The view from this chair is particularly comfortable!] I didn’t need to see her face to know who it was. I didn’t reply. But in that moment, the chest-high wall I’d been keeping up suddenly collapsed. That was when I decided I needed to return for my emergency business: the divorce. And he, utterly oblivious, had signed the divorce settlement hidden beneath the ‘Westside Expansion budget request.’ 3 “The Friday you left, she wore your high heels to work,” Tasha continued, her voice catching. “I asked her why she was wearing your shoes, and she said…” Tasha choked up. “She said Mr. Kingston told her they suited her, and that you wouldn’t care, Ms. Wells.” She looked up, her eyes red. “Ms. Wells, do you really not care?” I looked at the girl who was so clearly pained on my behalf. I smiled, completely detached. “The shoes didn’t fit me well. If she likes them, she can keep them.” Before I left, I had no idea the two of them were involved. The company was focused on new market development; my mind wasn’t on babysitting Rhys. Besides, he still had a separate, steady paramour living in a condo nearby. Given Willow’s audacity, I figured that one must have been retired. “Wipe your eyes,” I handed her a tissue. “I’ll be out of the office for the next week. Keep an eye on things.” She looked confused. “Where are you going?” I didn’t answer. I just looked out the window. The sun was bright, just like the afternoon seven years ago when we registered our marriage. Rhys went back to my family estate alone. He knelt on the slate floor of my father’s study for three hours, begging for his approval. “Sir, I know you despise me. But Anya believes in me, and I won’t let her down.” He was eventually kicked out. But my father stood by the window for a long time that day. Later, he revised Rhys’s laughably flawed business plan in his study and secretly mailed it to me. Bringing up these dusty details now felt like demanding payment, tainting the sincerity of the past with calculation. But if I never brought them up… He would truly believe he was a self-made genius who had conjured those connections, funds, and data through his own merit. Shortly after Tasha left, Rhys called me from his car. “The little one was shaken up by your surprise visit today,” his voice was low and playful. “Gotta spend some time soothing her. I’ll be back late. Make sure to leave the door unlocked for me.” I was silent for three seconds before speaking. “Didn’t we agree: no one plays outside and risks a baby?” There was a pause on his end. “What baby?” His voice was controlled, steady. “Willow Scott’s visit to the Elite Women’s Health Clinic wasn’t for an annual physical, was it?” After two seconds, he laughed, a sudden, sharp sound. “You’re tracking her?” “It was on the company ledger,” I replied calmly. “A fifty-thousand-dollar prenatal package, filed under Employee Wellness. You’re quite generous, Mr. Kingston.” He seemed genuinely unaware. He must have approved the expense without reading the line item. He immediately softened his tone, trying to placate me. “Anya, it was an accident! She’s young, naive, thought a baby could be leverage.” “And?” “I’ll handle it,” he said quickly. “Don’t worry, no one will ever threaten your position.” “Rhys,” I used his name. “Hm?” “Do you remember,” I said slowly, “how we lost our first child?” His breathing caught on the other end. “Enough, Anya. That was years ago. Bringing it up again and again is pointless.” “You’re right,” I smiled to myself, a bitter realization. “It’s all in the past.” Including the child who never had a chance to be born. Including the promises he made while kneeling. Including the dark incident he held over my head all these years… “Get some rest,” he said. “I’ll be home once I’m done with her.” He hung up. I raised my hand and, for the first time—and the last—I pulled up his contact and hit Block. Then, I replied to a text message that had been waiting for a week: [The matter is settled. I will be there for the wedding.] 4 By the time I left the office, all my personal belongings had been quietly packed and removed. The elevator descended, a gentle, familiar pressure around my body. There was a time, in this very elevator, when he had pressed me against the mirrored wall, kissing me passionately, whispering: “Anya, how much good fortune did I have to save up in this life and the last just to marry you?” His eyes were so bright then. Bright enough that he seemed to believe the lies he was telling himself. I had arranged to meet a friend to say goodbye. The restaurant was downtown, with a view of the waterfront. I’d barely sat down when Rhys walked in, his arm looped tightly around Willow’s waist. He leaned his head toward her, listening, a lazy, contented smile on his face. Rhys saw me first. He stopped for a beat, then his smile widened. Instead of avoiding me, he walked straight over. “Your ‘plans’ were to eat alone?” He pulled out the chair opposite me and sat down without asking. “The steak here is decent,” Rhys picked up the wine bottle on my table and examined it. “But this vintage you ordered is too weak. I’ll have the server bring a better one.” The server delivered his selection. Rhys poured two glasses himself, pushing one toward me and handing the other to Willow, who naturally didn’t drink it. He asked me, “How’s the taste?” “It’s fine.” “Just fine?” His smile deepened. “I remember this used to be your favorite. You always said it had… that beautiful almond bitterness.” “People’s tastes change,” I set my glass down. “Things you once thought were exquisite, you realize, are just mediocre now.” Rhys’s eyes darkened slightly. But he quickly recovered, smiling again as he wrapped his arm around Willow’s shoulder. “Hear that?” He chuckled, his tone openly indulgent toward Willow. “Your sister is teaching you a lesson: never make a man too important.” Willow sweetly punched his chest. “What about you? Can I make you important?” “Me?” Rhys looked up, his gaze meeting mine, but his words were for her. “Someone like me? Have your fun, but never, ever take it seriously.” 5 He said it flippantly, likely assuming I would stand up coldly, just as I had countless times before, leaving them their space. But I was not so accommodating. I simply picked up my wine glass and took another sip. I finally stood up when I received a text that my friend had to cancel. “My company had an emergency,” I announced. “Please excuse me.” I turned to walk away. Willow suddenly spoke up. “Anya, darling, it’s Rhys’s birthday next week. We’re throwing a yacht party. You should come.” I paused. “You have to come,” Willow insisted, her voice dripping with artificial sweetness. “Rhys said the only birthday gift he really wants is…” She stopped deliberately and looked up at Rhys. He reached out and pinched her cheek, chiding her with a laugh. “You talk too much.” I nodded slowly. “If you’re not afraid of me crashing the party, I’d be delighted.” I didn’t look back at them as I walked out of the restaurant. Their laughter was muted by the glass window, fading away completely. I arrived at the villa at seven. Maria, our housekeeper, was in the kitchen, simmering stock. “Madam, you’re back?” “Mr. Kingston just called to say he’ll be late. Should I keep the broth warm for him?” “No,” I put down my bag. “He won’t be coming back.” Maria looked hesitant. “Are you… sleeping here tonight?” My hand paused on the buttons of my coat. “What do you mean?” “The past few nights you were away,” Maria’s voice dropped to a whisper, “Ms. Scott… she moved in.” Silence hung in the air for two seconds. I continued unbuttoning my coat. One button, two buttons. “Which room is she in?” “The master bedroom… She’s been in there for four consecutive nights. Mr. Kingston… was there too.” I nodded. “Madam,” Maria hesitated. “I didn’t want to tell you, but Mr. Kingston said you’d be upset, and he told me to…” “It’s alright. I don’t blame you.” I looked up, surveying the living room. I had chosen every piece of furniture, hung every painting. He had always been pleased. He always said, “Anya, this house isn’t a home without you in it.” Now, the house was no better than a hotel. Anyone could come in and stay a few nights. “Madam, please don’t bottle it up. You should yell, cry, anything is better than this… this quiet.” Cry? I saw my eyes in the reflection of a glass cabinet. They were empty. How could a well that had been dry for years suddenly find water? “Maria, you can go home now.” Then, I walked upstairs. I opened the door to the master suite, and a strange, cloying floral scent washed over me. The sheets had been changed. My skincare products on the vanity were pushed into a corner. I opened the window, letting the night wind rush in. It needed to cleanse the room of that unsettling odor. I pulled open the innermost drawer of the dressing room cabinet. Seven journals, organized by year. They were still there. The cover of the first one was a childish pink, the color I liked as a young woman. In the first year of our marriage, I recorded every meal I cooked for him. On the last page, there was a faint pencil line: [Seven-Year Plan, Completion: 1/7] The second journal’s focus had abruptly changed—it was filled with notes from courses I took to ‘improve my allure.’ From the third one onward, the pages were increasingly sparse. Not because there was nothing to record, but because I had no time. I thought recording seven years of beauty would be enough to withstand the seven-year itch. But I hadn’t updated it in four years. That time had been spent on far more practical things—checking his phone statements for hotel charges, tracking which apartment his assistant delivered flowers to… In those four years, when I was too smart and yet still so naive, I’d lost count of the number of Willows I’d had to eliminate. I quietly tossed the journals into the waste bin. Seven years. My plan had only achieved one-seventh of its goal. I was the only one in the marriage who believed in the work. He had long since opened his doors to the rest of the world. My phone chimed with a flight notification: [Ms. Wells, your emergency flight coordination is finalized. Departure at midnight.] I replied, “Thank you.” As I checked my suitcase one last time, my fingers brushed against a hard object in the bottom corner. It was the silver band Rhys had proposed with. I tossed it aside without a second thought, picked up my suitcase, and left.

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Barely a week after my return from the trip, the live-in help, Skylar Reed, dragged my husband and me to court. In the courtroom, her voice, thick with manufactured misery, resonated as she clutched her visibly pregnant belly. “Genevieve and Marcus Sharpe are monsters! They hired me under false pretenses, only to hold me captive and abuse me!” She let out a choked sob. “The baby in my womb is the wicked child of Marcus Sharpe!” Her mother, Brenda, wailed hysterically beside her. “These demons ruined my daughter! They deserve the death penalty!” The gallery erupted. Every face in the packed courtroom was contorted with disgust and rage directed at us. “The bastard is too arrogant—he won’t even show up for the hearing! Lock him up!” “Look at his wife, though! She’s actually smiling! She has no soul! They should both rot!” In the next second, I presented my evidence, and the collective gasp from the room was the only thing that cut through the noise. 1 I was barely back in the penthouse, still jet-lagged from two weeks in Tuscany, when I instinctively grabbed my phone to scroll through my local social apps. A help request on a neighborhood forum instantly snagged my attention. I tapped on it. The title made my finger freeze: My Employer’s Husband Assaulted Me – What Do I Do? The description that followed made me frown, a cold knot forming in my stomach. I was hired a short while ago, and the wife immediately told me she was leaving on a vacation and that I was to stay alone in the house. But the second she left, the husband came back… The word “vacation” hit me like a physical shove. I had just returned from a trip, and yes, I employed Skylar. I scrolled down. He dragged me into the bedroom. I was terrified, I couldn’t fight back. Afterward, he threatened me, said if I told anyone he’d destroy me. I’m so scared. Now I know I’m three months pregnant. The wife is back, and I don’t know what to do. Oh, and he told me the wife knew about everything and was perfectly fine with it. The comments section was already a dumpster fire of outrage: Call the cops, sister! Don’t let those two perverts get away with this! A husband and wife conspiracy? That’s sick! It’s been too long to be clean. Don’t go to the police yet—talk to them privately first. See if you can get a payout. I scrolled to the last comment. The original poster had hit the “Like” button. And then replied: Thank you for the advice. I’m going to try to talk to them first. Just then, Skylar, who had been quietly wiping down the marble countertops, spoke. “Mrs. Sharpe, there’s something I need to tell you.” My heart sank, the thread from the forum posting still fresh in my mind. I kept my face smooth, betraying nothing. “Go on.” Her voice was hushed, almost a whisper. “I’m pregnant. Three months.” “It’s… it’s Mr. Sharpe’s.” I felt a sudden, dizzying lurch. The word absurd flashed in my mind. The Mr. Sharpe she was referring to was Marcus, my husband. I asked the question almost on instinct. “Do you have any idea what you’re saying right now?” Skylar nodded, tears welling in her eyes. “Mrs. Sharpe, please, don’t worry. I have no intention of breaking up your marriage.” “All I need is five million dollars for the child’s future and another two million as compensation for my personal pain and suffering.” “After that, I promise I will never bother you or Mr. Sharpe again.” It sounded courteous, an offer of a quiet, clean exit. In reality, it was a brazen demand for an obscene amount of money. Looking at her earnest, tear-streaked face, I felt a surge of cold amusement. I knew, with absolute certainty, that Marcus was incapable of what she was claiming. I steadied myself, met her eyes, and spoke slowly, deliberately. “This is extortion, Skylar. You will not get a single dime from me.” Skylar’s brow furrowed slightly. She tilted her head. “As a woman, you should know that no one risks this kind of scandal for a lie.” “Besides, this is pocket change for you. I don’t want to make things ugly.” I scoffed. “I don’t lack the money. But I absolutely refuse to be a mark.” Seeing my resolve, Skylar’s voice rose sharply, her eyes narrowing. “Are you sure about that? Fine. Then I’ll go public! The forums, social media, your husband’s company—I’ll hit every target.” I met her stare. “Be my guest. I welcome it.” Skylar glared at me. “All right. Let’s see if you’re still so brave when we stand in front of a judge!” She spun around, slamming the door behind her so hard the expensive glass rattled in its frame. Skylar posted a heavily edited clip of that conversation online, instantly causing a viral sensation. The thread was shared millions of times. The comment sections were full of venomous insults directed at me: vipers, human trash, accomplice. Less than a week later, the subpoena arrived. I arrived on time for the hearing. As I stepped into the courtroom, I saw Skylar and her mother sitting at the plaintiff’s table. When I walked past, Skylar quickly lowered her head, shrinking her shoulders in a pathetic display of fragility. Her mother, Brenda, immediately wrapped an arm around her, glaring at me with raw hatred. “Don’t worry, darling, Mommy is here.” “With all these people watching, those heartless devils will finally get what’s coming to them!” I stopped in front of them and nodded slowly in agreement. “You’re right. The wicked shall reap their due.” Skylar’s eyes fluttered open for a split second. I didn’t say another word, walking straight to the defense table. The judge’s gavel slammed, and the court was called to order. The plaintiff’s attorney rose first. “We will begin with the victim’s account of the incident.” Skylar sniffled, her voice catching as she began. “Mrs.—no, Genevieve tricked me into coming to her house under the guise of an employment ad. At first, she said she lived alone and just needed me for meals and cleaning.” “After about a month, she told me she was going on vacation and that I was to stay behind. Before she left, she gave me a drink. After I finished it, I felt dizzy. Then, her husband came back… and dragged me into the bedroom.” Tears streamed down her face as she spoke. “That man held me down on the bed and… and assaulted me.” Skylar’s testimony instantly set the courtroom ablaze. The gallery hissed with moral outrage. “He’s an animal!” “This is a blatant conspiracy between a husband and wife!” Ignoring the deluge of curses, I stood up and spoke in a cold, clear voice. “My husband is absolutely incapable of such an act!” I looked directly at Skylar. “If this happened, why didn’t you immediately call the police?” Skylar answered, her voice trembling with emotion. “He told me if I dared to say anything, he would make sure my family and I would never have a day of peace again.” “I’m just domestic help. How could I ever fight against people like you? It wasn’t until I realized I was pregnant that I found the courage to finally seek justice…” A wave of hushed, angry whispers rippled through the gallery. Curses drifted my way. “He’s worse than a beast!” “The wife is just as guilty—a wicked accomplice, covering up a rapist!” Skylar’s mother seized the opportunity, dissolving into theatrical sobs. “My daughter’s life is completely ruined!” Through her tears, she shot a quick, fleeting glance of triumph at me. I narrowed my eyes and raised my voice. “You are lying. My husband did not assault you.” The plaintiff’s attorney immediately interjected. “Your Honor, we have key evidence.” Under the glare of the entire court, he took a USB drive and plugged it into a laptop. A moment later, a recording played over the courtroom speakers: First, a quick cry: “Mrs. Sharpe! Help me!” Then, a man’s deep, mocking chuckle: “You’re asking Genevieve for help?” “It looks like you haven’t caught up yet. Her leaving was just clearing the house for us. Just do as you’re told, and money, work, anything you want is yours… Be a good girl.” This was followed by Skylar’s broken sobs and the sound of a struggle: “No! Please, stop! I promise I won’t say anything! Please!” The recording cut off abruptly with Skylar’s sharp, terrified wail. Skylar was already covering her face, her whole body shaking violently as she wept. Her mother leapt to her feet, pointing a trembling finger at the defense table. “You hear that! These devils planned this together! They lured my daughter into their home just to force themselves on her!” The gallery was in an uproar. Some people were red-faced with fury. “Those poor women! Stuck with this garbage couple!” “Arrest the wife too! The accomplice is just as despicable!” As the abuse washed over me, I clenched my fists. “How can you prove that voice belongs to my husband?” The plaintiff’s attorney looked at me smugly. “The evidence is here. After technical analysis, the probability that this voice belongs to Marcus Sharpe is over 95%!” Even facing this evidence, I rebutted forcefully. “Impossible. That is not my husband’s voice.” I knew, with absolute certainty, that Skylar could not have encountered my husband. The plaintiff’s attorney’s brow furrowed. “Defense, this evidence has been professionally authenticated. It can’t be dismissed by a simple denial!” Skylar wiped her tears. “That was… that was the recording I desperately managed to start on my phone when he had me pinned down… Every word, every sob is real! How can you still sit there and lie through your teeth?!” By the end, she was utterly hysterical, her fragile shoulders heaving with wretched sobs, appearing utterly pitiful. I gave a cold smile. “There are many people in this world with similar voices. Why are you so certain it’s my husband?” The plaintiff’s attorney sneered. “Since the defendant finds the evidence unconvincing, I have a second piece of evidence.” He leaned down to continue working the computer. A moment later, the large screen at the front of the courtroom lit up, beginning to play a video. It was footage from my living room surveillance camera, time-stamped the night I had left for Italy. The light in the living room was dim, but a man could be seen opening the door and walking in. He went straight toward Skylar, who was standing in the living room. “You must be Skylar? Hm. Genevieve wasn’t lying. You’re certainly… fetching.” Before the sentence was finished, he had reached out and gripped Skylar’s wrist. The bottle in Skylar’s hand dropped to the floor as she struggled weakly, her voice laced with terror: “What are you doing! Let go! Help me—” The man easily overpowered her. After a few rough tugs, he hefted her up over his shoulder and strode into the bedroom. The door was slammed shut with a thud. Faint cries and sounds of struggle seeped from under the door, a terrifying match for the audio recording played moments earlier. The video ended there. The plaintiff’s attorney turned to the entire room, his voice heavy with sorrow. “This is surveillance footage taken from the defendant’s own home cameras!” “Professional analysis confirms that the man in this video has a build and clothing that are highly consistent with Marcus Sharpe!” He turned to me. “Defendant, are you still going to claim that this isn’t Marcus Sharpe?” The gallery murmured with disgust. “Open-and-shut! The footage is crystal clear!” “She was so mouthy earlier—let’s see what lie she comes up with now!” Someone was so enraged they jumped up and yelled: “What more is there to say to a conscience-less accomplice! Judge, rule now! Lock them up for life!” Under the scorching, scornful, and furious gaze of every person present, I slowly stood up, my eyes locked on Skylar. “You insist that man is my husband. So, I must ask you: Before that night, had you ever actually met Marcus Sharpe?” Skylar stood, clutching her belly. “I worked in your house for three months! How could I not have met your husband?!” “And he opened your front door like it was his, and his appearance and clothes all match! Who else could it be but your husband?” The crowd roared their disapproval at me. “The audio and video evidence are right there! She’s still denying it!” “Vicious! Helping a rapist bully a vulnerable girl—it’s repulsive!” “Look at her. You can tell she’s rotten to the core. A pair of vile creatures, both of them!” The obscene insults were unbearable, but I took a deep breath, scanning the faces in the room. “I repeat, my husband did not assault her!” I addressed the judge. “The opposing counsel’s identification is based solely on physical build and clothing, which is insufficient!” “I maintain a reasonable suspicion that the man in the video is not my husband!” The plaintiff’s attorney gave another sneer. “I see the defendant is determined to deny the undeniable!” He pulled a document from his folder. He projected the document onto the large screen. Then, he announced loudly: “This is the DNA paternity test report between the plaintiff’s unborn child and Marcus Sharpe!” “The report confirms an indisputable biological parental relationship between the fetus and Marcus Sharpe.” The document was a thunderclap. Compared to the video, which could still be disputed, this DNA report was ironclad. Skylar slowly rose to her feet, her eyes red. “The evidence is complete. What more can you possibly say?!” I pointed at the report, my tone utterly unwavering. “This report is fabricated. Skylar could never have obtained a DNA sample from my husband.” Skylar lunged forward, eyes blazing. “You! How long are you going to keep making excuses?!” “The hair sent for testing was pulled from his head myself, when he was assaulting me!”

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“My cousin asked for it. Were you really going to tell her no?” Tiffany’s voice came through the phone, dripping with a familiar, entitled arrogance. I gripped my phone, silent. “It’s only twenty thousand dollars. You make seven grand a month, you can’t swing that?” “Tiff, I’m saving for a down payment—” “Down payment, down payment, that’s all you ever talk about!” she snapped, cutting me off. “I can’t look poor at my networking event. Front me the money, and I’ll pay you back.” I took a slow, deep breath. “I can’t lend it to you.” A three-second silence stretched across the line. “Fine. Sierra. You remember what you said today.” The day after I hung up, my social media feed exploded. Tiffany had posted a long screed: My cousin makes seven thousand a month, but she won’t even lend me twenty grand to help out. Honestly, embarrassing for her parents. Forty-seven likes. The following morning, the bank called. “Ms. Sierra Clarke, we’re calling about a consumer loan under your name that is three months overdue. Please resolve this immediately.” I had never taken out a loan in my life. I pulled up my credit report and stared at the line item for a forty-thousand-dollar personal loan. I didn’t laugh. It was a cold, brittle feeling that shattered in my chest. Interesting. That was one word for it. 1 Three days earlier. “Sweetheart, did your cousin call?” My mother’s voice was tentative, floating in from the kitchen. I put down my fork. “She did.” “About that… business party…” “I didn’t lend her anything.” Mom’s hand paused over the dishes. “But your cousin, she…” “Mom, I don’t have twenty thousand dollars to spare.” I looked at her. “I’m on the cusp of a down payment. I should be ready by the end of the year.” “I know, but she’s still your cousin…” “Why does her business networking gala have to be paid for by me?” Mom opened her mouth, but the words didn’t come out. The TV in the living room was still on, broadcasting some daytime family drama. “Your Aunt Carol called me earlier, too,” Mom’s voice dropped. “She said Tiffany’s business is struggling, money’s tight, and she needs your help…” “If her business is struggling, why is she throwing a thirty-person party at The Metropolitan?” “Well…” “I looked up the venue. It’s six hundred dollars a plate.” I stood up. “Thirty people, that’s eighteen thousand. With other expenses, her asking for twenty thousand makes sense. But she really asked for twenty thousand for a party she’ll charge to network?” Mom’s expression shifted. “Sweetheart, your cousin isn’t like that…” “Mom.” I faced her. “I make seven thousand a month. I’ve saved for two and a half years. I have $140,000. I’m six months away from my down payment. If I lend her twenty grand now, and she doesn’t pay it back?” “She said she would…” “She’s said a lot of things.” I remembered five years ago. Tiffany borrowed two thousand dollars, promising to pay it back the next month. The next month, she said to wait. A year later, when I finally asked, she scoffed, “It’s only two thousand dollars, are you seriously asking for it back?” In the end, Aunt Carol ‘mediated,’ saying the $2,000 should just be considered my wedding gift to Tiffany. “Mom, I’m not lending it.” Mom sighed, saying nothing more. I went back to my room and opened my phone. Tiffany’s chat window was lit up. “Sierra, give me a straight answer. Yes or no?” I typed: “No.” Send. “Hmph.” She replied instantly. “Sierra Clarke, you remember what you said today.” “I will,” I replied. She didn’t respond again. I thought that was the end of it. The next night, scrolling through Instagram, I saw the long post. “Some people, making seven figures a year, won’t lend a little twenty grand to help family. Unbelievable.” “Haha. The cousin I practically raised, such an ungrateful brat. Honestly, so embarrassing for her mother and father.” “It’s not like I’m going to run off with it. I, Tiffany Evans, have been in business for years. As if I’d welch on twenty thousand!” “Some people just can’t stand to see others succeed. They’re so cheap, and they hate being called out for it.” Below it, forty-seven likes. Aunt Carol liked it. Brendan, Tiffany’s husband, liked it. Seven or eight people I didn’t know liked it, too. In the comments, Aunt Carol wrote: “Tiff, don’t worry, we don’t pay attention to people like that.” Brendan added: “Some family really isn’t worth the trouble.” I stared at the screen, my finger hovering over the comment section. Finally, I said nothing. I took a screenshot. I closed the app, locked my phone, and went to bed. At seven the next morning, the phone woke me. An unfamiliar number. “Hello, is this Ms. Sierra Clarke?” “Yes.” “I’m calling from Allied Bank’s Credit Center. We’re reaching out regarding a consumer loan under your name that is three months overdue. The principal is forty thousand dollars. The current overdue balance is twelve thousand. Please resolve this as soon as possible.” I froze for three seconds. “What loan?” “You executed a forty-thousand-dollar personal line of credit three months ago. The funds were disbursed into your linked account. It has been delinquent for three consecutive periods and has already been reported to the credit bureaus.” “I have never taken out a loan.” The line was silent for a moment. “Ms. Clarke, I recommend you check your personal credit report immediately. If you have further questions, you can verify this at one of our branches.” I hung up. I opened my laptop and logged into the Central Credit Registry. The page took thirty seconds to load. Under the Loan History section, a record stood out: Consumer Loan, $40,000, Disbursed April 3, 2024, Currently Delinquent. I stared at the date for a long time. April 3, 2024. That was the weekend of the Spring Break holiday. That day, I was back in my hometown. That day, I lent my driver’s license to Tiffany so she could pick up a package for me in the neighboring town. I smiled a grim, tight smile. So that was it.

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